Had to get this brainrot out. I love my terrifying, deranged man. No, I won’t be fixing him. Yes, I will be kissing him on the mouth.
Being Married to Patrick Bateman Means…
Listening to his gym rants every time he sees a guy with more defined muscles.
(“He’s probably on steroids, babe. I could get that cut if I really wanted to.”)
Being woken up with his crotch in your face because he doesn't care that you're asleep—he wants head now, and he’s not shy about it.
Calming him down at restaurants when someone shows up wearing the same suit.
(“Yes, Patrick, it looks better on you. No, you're not being copied. Please sit down.”)
Nodding along (again) as he launches into his 100th monologue about Phil Collins, pretending you're absolutely blown away by his perfect, sophisticated musical taste.
Keeping your mouth shut when he buys duct tape, zip ties, or very sharp cutlery and says it’s "for something practical."
(He’s your husband. You… trust him. Mostly.)
Not blinking at his collection of ultra-hardcore porn, because somehow this man finds the weirdest, most aggressive stuff—and he wants you to watch it with him. Bonus: He sometimes films your sessions like you're his personal porn star.
Resisting the urge to roll your eyes when he flexes during sex—and not laughing when he says he wants a mirror on the ceiling "for another perspective."
Cooking for him because the man can’t even slice a salad.
(Though that doesn’t stop him from offering "expert advice" since he once tried cooking… something he probably shouldn't have. You don’t ask.)
Ordering his McDonald’s milkshakes while he waits outside, because the staff recognize him, and he insists it’s “too crowded with common people” inside.
Finding him crying into the phone, leaving voicemails for his lawyer at 2 a.m. Or discovering strange DIY dildos in the apartment that he definitely denies belong to him.
Apologizing to homeless people—or people he thought were homeless—because he tossed money into their drinks thinking they were panhandling.
(“I was being generous, okay?”)
SYNOPSIS: You belong to me. Hate what's underneath. I'm everything you need. You know I'll never leave.
PAIRING: Sugar!Daddy!Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader
TAGS: NSFW, smut, difference in social status, angst, family drama, depression, unhealthy dynamics, slow burn, love/hate trope, emotional manipulations, obsession, pretty toxic mutual pinning (lmao), making out, sexual tension, invasive touching, mutual masturbation (idk how to tag it right but, yeah), pet names, dirty thoughts.
WORD COUNT: 7k
A/N: Hello, dear readers! This chapter turned out to be quite long, but I hope you enjoy it! Thank you so much for your support!
AO3💞
SERIES M-LIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER | SONG REC | PLAYLIST
Thank God it was Saturday.
At least he could rest—if you could call it that. It wasn’t as if he’d been breaking his back at work, but the game he was playing with you—no longer small, no longer harmless—had drained him. He needed to recover. He needed something to feed on.
After a stripped-down morning routine, he poured himself an ultra-black coffee. He hadn’t even liked coffee before you. Now, the smell alone reminded him of you. Freshly brewed.
He sat at the kitchen bar, flipping through the profile your therapist had given him—again. He knew it almost by heart now. There was only one piece of information he hadn’t touched yet: your phone number. Brooklyn. Probably a cramped apartment costing more than it should.
What if he called? Would you hang up as soon as you heard his voice, or would he get the chance to slip something in before you could?
His hand was already on the phone before he thought about the consequences. He smoothed his hair back, adjusted his robe—ridiculous, since you couldn’t see him—but the image mattered. He wanted you to picture him flawless. He allowed himself a short smile, cleared his throat, and started dialing.
"What’s the opener?" he muttered under his breath, receiver wedged between ear and shoulder. "Good morning, baby. How are your lungs? Not dead from pneumonia yet?"
He chuckled at his own joke.
Then came the beeping. Connecting. His fingers tightened.
What if you weren’t home?
And then—your voice in his ear. "Hello?"
The bravado drained out of him, replaced by a quick, sharp hit of anxiety.
Your "Hello?" wasn’t polite—it was guarded, edged with irritation. No secretary polish. Just the straight, what-do-you-want.
"Cupcake." His voice was low, steady. "It’s me."
A pause. Just long enough for you to weigh whether hanging up was worth the effort.
"…How did you get my number?"
He could hear the acid in your question through the hissy Manhattan phone line. Lying would have been easy—blame Jean, say it was in some internal doc, hell, claim he guessed. None of it would’ve erased the suspicion threading into his tone like rust through chrome.
"Does it matter?" His voice carried a lazy weight, like he was leaning against a counter somewhere.
"Yeah. It matters. Unless there’s some reasonable explanation for why you’re calling me on my day off while I’m in my apartment."
Your eyes stayed on the coffee cup in front of you, but your mind was already pacing Brooklyn sidewalks without leaving the kitchen.
"It’s Saturday. You don’t sound busy."
You drew in a quick breath. "You don’t sound like you care whether I am or not."
You could almost see the grin on his end, even if it wasn’t visible through the line. "Brooklyn rent’s not worth it for someone who’s always inside."
Silence. You let it stretch, considering whether to hang up or keep playing.
When you finally spoke, it was flat:
"You looked up where I live?"
"Nothing public’s public anymore. The question is why you sound surprised."
You shifted back against the wall by the narrow kitchenette, the damp towel from your half-finished shower looped around your neck. He tossed out those answers like they were banter between friends, not borderline stalking.
"Surprised? No." Your thumb curled tighter into the phone cord. "Disgusted? Little bit."
"Disgust is passion with its tie loosened."
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Christ. That line actually work on anyone?"
"It’s not about working. It’s about paying attention. Which I do."
Meaning he watched things he had no business watching. Your heartbeat ticked higher.
"Why are you calling, Patrick?"
"To hear your Saturday morning greeting. And to see if you’re coughing. Or feverish. After that rain."
"You called because you were curious about my lungs?"
The soft clink of ceramic on his side. "Among other things."
You bit back anything that might give away more than you wanted. "Well, I’m fine. And busy. You can hang up now. Go play golf. Make cocktails. Whisper sociopathic crap to your friends about their girlfriends."
"Golf’s for men pretending they care about sport. I don’t."
"Great. Keep it that way."
"You sound awake now."
"Goodbye, Patrick."
The line went dead.
You didn’t realize you’d crossed to the small table until you were sitting there, hair damp against your back. The phone sat face-down. Every time he breached some line you thought was permanent, you had to remind yourself he wasn’t some erratic creep calling from phone booths at 2 a.m. He was put-together. Expensive. That was the problem—control dressed up as charm made him… effective.
You got up, poured coffee into the chipped mug by the sink. The towel slid from your neck. A little knot tightened in your stomach—how did he know where I live?—but caffeine pushed it down. Rent was due in ten days and half the money you’d saved for it was already wired home. That was what mattered.
Later that afternoon, your plans were small: laundry in the coin-op basement, seeing if you could stretch the fridge contents two more days. The call kept looping back, tangling with the quiet. He’d said he wanted to hear your greeting. No one said things like that unless they were high or meant something—and he didn’t sound high.
Your neighbor shuffled in to switch machines.
"Takes forever to dry today," she muttered.
"Great," you murmured back.
Upstairs, the phone was exactly where you’d left it. You picked it up twice before setting it down again.
...
When he rang again Sunday evening, you didn’t make him wait through the first ring.
"What?" Your tone clipped, sharp.
"Sunday evening’s dangerous for workaholics. You forget to reset."
"God." You exhaled loud enough to snap into the receiver. "What is this now—weather tips? Time-management lessons?"
"An invitation."
"No."
"You haven’t heard it."
"Whatever it is, no."
"Aspen. Mountains. Fireplace the size of your cubicle. That coat you wore last week would actually make sense there."
Silence stretched three full seconds.
"You paying?" you asked at last.
"Absolutely."
Why did you even ask that?
"That’s generous of you," you murmured into the phone, "but I can’t waste my days off on that. I need them in case my family needs me."
"Your father’s condition isn’t improving?"
You froze for a split second. "You… remember?"
"Of course I do."
Shit.
"Listen, that’s my problem, and I—"
Patrick cut in without the slightest hesitation. "We can talk about it in Aspen. Your father, the rent, all of it."
Your grip on the phone tightened. There it was again—that gut-punch, like he’d reached through the line and jabbed exactly where it hurt.
"I’m not dragging my personal crap across states with you," you told him, your voice thinner than you wanted. "Aspen’s your thing. Go with one of your blonde sales groupies or whoever."
Dumb. The word "blonde" made it sound like you were picturing it.
He rested his heel on the rung of a barstool. That quick refusal wasn’t solid—it came too fast. People who slammed the door that early were usually holding it shut with their backs.
"It’s not my thing without the right company," he replied, the phone cord coiled in his left hand. "And my 'blonde sales groupies' couldn’t care less about rent or medical bills. You do. That’s what makes you human."
Somehow, in your apartment, it almost sounded like a compliment—worse than the Aspen bait. "Wow. You really know how to make someone feel special while treating them like they’re under a microscope."
"Perspective," Patrick stated smoothly. "It’s clarifying."
Yeah. Clarifying like acid stripping metal. "Stop trying to spin this. I’m not ditching my family responsibilities for ski lifts and overpriced wine."
"They have phones in Colorado."
"That’s not the point."
"It is. You’ve already told me your mother calls. You could step outside on the deck in Aspen, look at the mountains, and answer her the same way you would in Brooklyn. Geography isn’t the obstacle. Your state of mind is."
You unclenched your jaw before you ground your teeth into powder. "You’re insane."
"I’m rational," Bateman countered. "And I’m offering something big. When does that usually happen for you?"
"When I pay for it myself."
The comeback made him smile faintly. "And how far does that paycheck stretch when you’re bailing out your family first?"
A cold rush of anger climbed your throat. "Stop making it sound like charity."
"It’s not charity. In any other context, you’d call it reciprocating my interest."
You considered slamming the phone down. That would feel good—for about two minutes—before the silence got louder. "We’re not in any context where that line works."
"Yes we are."
"Christ, you don’t quit."
"No. I don’t."
Your breathing had grown shallow, and you knew he could hear it. He was likely deciding whether to let you claim this round just to end the call, or to draw it out and make you believe you still held the upper hand.
"Four days," he said casually. "First-class flight. Open mini-bar. Slopes outside the balcony. Say yes before I stop negotiating."
You scratched at the back of your neck. Same pressure he used in conference rooms—quick answers, no time to think. "Four days? When’s that?"
"Wednesday."
"Jesus. You think people can just drop everything midweek?"
"They can when the risk-to-reward ratio is in their favor."
"You sound like you’re selling me bonds."
"If they paid out this well, you’d buy in."
You stepped away from the counter so you wouldn’t just pace in place. He was grinding you down by flicking between bait and sore spots. It was exhausting.
"If I say no now," you asked flatly, "are you going to keep at it until you get your way?"
"Guaranteed."
You tipped your face toward the ceiling. That was the answer right there—he’d show up in some other form next week anyway.
"You don’t respect boundaries."
"I respect results."
Silence for half a second. Rain slid down his floor-to-ceiling glass. You could picture him reaching for whatever drink was cooling beside him.
"Flights are midday," he went on. "You’ll arrive in time for late afternoon. Separate rooms. I know how to be civil."
"High bar."
"It’s the truth."
"So how many people have you actually invited on this little frost-covered trip?"
"Just you."
"Bet your friends have theories."
"They always have theories. None of them are factual."
You pulled the receiver away for a second, staring at it like it might give you an answer he wouldn’t.
"I’m not saying yes today."
"Fine." Too compliant—it put you on guard. "You’ll say it soon. That’s why I’m unconcerned."
"You think you’ve got this all figured out."
"I wouldn’t have asked otherwise."
When you finally hung up, it was almost reluctant. The apartment was too damn quiet after the click. You kept your hand half-closed around the receiver until you realized how pathetic that felt. You shoved it back on the hook.
Patrick tilted his head toward the faint echo of the dial tone before following your lead and setting his receiver back in place. Truth was, four days sounded a whole lot better than next week—less time for you to rebuild that wall in your head.
Jean had already sent him the travel confirmation.
Wednesday was align-and-execute. Until then, everything stayed light. No over-playing the hand.
You dropped into the middle cushion of the couch and stared at the chipped coffee table like it had personally wronged you. Rent. Dad. Mom. Work. Patrick had forced his way onto that list whether you liked it or not. Aspen sounded nice, but with him attached, it felt… crowded. Suffocating.
Your eyes drifted to the corner where mail sat in a messy stack. Utilities. Brochures. Two envelopes you hadn’t opened because you already knew what they held.
You switched on the TV for background noise, but his last Fine kept looping in your head.
It wasn’t surrender. You knew that.
Meanwhile, in one of Seattle’s outlying neighborhoods, an elderly woman sat beside her husband’s bed. He coughed—deep, ragged fits that didn’t let up—until she pressed the inhaler into his hand and coaxed him into taking another dose.
"It’s madness, Ben. We can’t keep going like this. You need surgery, and we both know it."
He waved her off with a tired flick of his hand. "Stop talkin’. Just… stop, alright?"
She let out a shaky breath that caught halfway to a sob. "I’ve been thinkin’… about asking her to come back home."
"What?"
"Your daughter," she said, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a worn scrap of cloth. "She’s workin’ herself sick just tryin’ to cover the bills."
Ben rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. "No one asked her to do that."
"I asked."
"Where’s Selena?" he rasped, propping himself against a square pillow. "She—" Another cough tore through him. "She told me she’s goin’ camping. With her college friends."
Rain tapped against the window while silence filled the room.
"I know," she said finally. "She already asked me for money, but we don’t—"
"Give her what you can," he muttered, voice gravelly and thin. "We’re not goin’ to the hospital anymore. Screw it."
She covered her mouth, eyes wide. "I can’t—Ben, you can’t be so damn ungrateful! She’s your daughter too, and she’s doin’ everything she can to help you!"
Scarlett’s father turned away, signaling the conversation was over.
"Don’t call her," he said. "That’s it."
Even though her mother nodded, she was stubborn—you’d inherited that from her. She only needed a moment to dial your number and pour out everything she’d been holding back.
Once dusk settled over Seattle and Ben had finally fallen asleep, Selena was away, and your mother managed to take the phone. Before she knew it, her fingers were pressing the buttons.
You were doing laundry when the phone rang. You expected Patrick, but it was your mother.
"Mother? What happened?"
"Hello, darling," she said, voice already choked with tears. "I’m sorry to bother you with my calls. I know you have a busy life."
You closed your eyes for a moment and scoffed. "Can you please cut the drama and get to the point?"
Silence.
"I want you to come home."
The words hit like an electric shock. Your head spun.
"What? I can’t just leave everything here! I have a job, and who’s going to pay your bills?"
Her tone sharpened. "I think you’re so busy building your own life that you’ve forgotten how much we did for you. Especially your father."
Oh no. Not this again.
"Forgive me, Mother. Forgive me for all the crap I go through every day because I have an obligation to save my dad, who doesn’t even care about me!"
"Darling—"
"No! You listen now!" You could barely keep yourself from shouting. "You can’t just call me and tell me to leave everything behind—calling me ungrateful. I’m doing what I can to help while Selena relaxes. She’s always been like that, and I’m sick of it. Honestly."
A small pause. Then:
"I… I never expected you to be like that."
Before you could answer, the beeping tone cut through the line.
Great.
Fucking amazing.
You held back from throwing the phone or collapsing to the floor. Rage surged through you, raw and heavy. The world felt stacked against you, offering no break. You gripped the phone tighter, hoping Patrick would call back—because you were ready to say yes.
You needed an escape.
But he never called.
Not today. Not tomorrow.
Sunday vanished the same way Saturday had.
You buried yourself in chores and work, but your mother’s words wouldn’t leave you alone. Why did the thought of going back to Seattle make your skin crawl?
Because of trauma?
Because your father had called you a whore more than once?
Because your neighbor had almost raped you, and nobody believed you?
For fuck’s sake, life couldn’t get any worse.
...
Monday.
A fresh start.
A new workweek.
Patrick walked down the office hallway, his Walkman blaring Whitney Houston. He felt unstoppable. Watching porn over the weekend had helped a little—though he couldn’t say he was satisfied. On Sunday, he’d met Veronica, a woman who seemed ready to get laid the moment they met, but after dinner, he’d just gone home.
No thrill.
Not even a spark.
The moment he stepped into his cubicle, he spotted Jean at her desk—and you standing beside her. The sight stopped him cold.
"You’re late," Jean remarked casually.
"Aerobics class. Sorry," he answered without thinking.
You looked worse than you had the day you’d kissed in the rain.
How romantic. Jeez.
"Hi," you finally muttered, avoiding his gaze. "Can we talk?"
Patrick’s eyes locked on you instantly.
Well, fuck. You felt wrecked. Not the rain-flushed kind from that kiss, but the hollow, sleepless kind. Clothes neat but hanging a little looser than they should. And you were already by Jean’s desk in his space before he’d even shrugged the Walkman cord from his neck. Technically, you’d come to him this time—a fact that seemed to spark something low and ugly-satisfied in him.
Jean glanced up, half-suspicious. "Can you two… talk somewhere else? I actually have work to do." Her tone was clipped, the kind that meant she’d been watching this thing between you far too long already.
You opened your mouth to offer something close to an apology but stopped halfway, shifting your gaze to Patrick. No flinch this time, but no sharp focus either—more resigned. Your throat worked as you tried to swallow whatever had brought you to him first thing on a Monday.
He slipped the Walkman into his briefcase without looking away. "Where?"
"My cubicle."
Jean’s stare followed as you turned and walked ahead. Your steps carried that faint hesitance that came from running on empty. No posture games today—just truth written in your body. Patrick followed without hurrying, eyes on your back the whole way.
You reached your desk and perched on the corner instead of sitting—less like a cornered animal that way. Fingers worked at the edge of your file holder. Every reason screaming don’t do this clashed with your mother’s voice in your head… and with the half-memory of not fighting him for that brief kiss.
Patrick stopped close but not blocking your way out. "You look like you skipped sleep for about three months straight."
"No. Two days." The correction slipped out before you could stop it.
His eyebrow lifted. "Nice way to start the week."
"I don’t give two fucks what you think right now." You kept it low enough for no one else to hear.
He leaned a hand on your desk, studying you. That drained look might have read as armor-stripped to someone else. To him, it read as an opening.
"You came looking for me."
Your mouth tightened. "Yeah. I did. And I’m about to do something stupid."
"Good. Which one? Saying yes—or telling me something I shouldn’t know?"
"Yes to Aspen," you replied flatly. "Only because I can’t stand to look at this skyline for another week."
His chest eased, satisfaction clear. Getting what he wanted without having to pitch it again was cleaner.
"Wednesday. Hotel’s booked."
A faint curl touched your lip. "Shocking you had it arranged before I said yes."
"You know me well."
You pushed off the desk. "Separate rooms. You don’t come into mine."
"I told you—I have manners." His voice was easy, though you knew how quickly rules could bend once ice began to crack.
Patrick kept his eyes on you while you straightened the desk folders. Your hands were steadier than they’d been in the cold the other night. "Packing anything warm? Or do I have to dress you too?"
You gave him one flat look, the bite not quite back yet. "Don't worry. I’ll manage."
"Fine." He glanced down the aisle, then leaned in. "Bring whatever it takes to keep your head clear. Mountain air doesn’t fix everything."
Your stomach tightened. His voice was lower than the "Wall Street banter" he gave everyone else. You hated admitting—even to yourself—that you were reacting to something in it besides irritation.
"Leave Wednesday morning alone. Don’t drag this into the days before."
"No promises." Patrick straightened and walked away.
You exhaled, relief mixing with the tight coil still in your chest. Grabbing your coffee mug, you headed for the break room—needed movement to disguise the fact you were walking this off.
Wednesday morning came too crisp for September. You’d been yawning since stepping outside to hail a cab. Brooklyn wasn’t pretty this early—just fog-heavy buildings that looked too tired to hold themselves up. Bag on your shoulder, you waved down the second yellow cab in ten minutes.
Inside, the driver glanced at you in the mirror. "Where to?"
"LaGuardia."
...
Patrick was already in the boarding area when you arrived—early as ever, dark layers under his coat, hair and smile both in place. He closed the Wall Street Journal on his lap. "Good. On time. I half-expected we’d fly separately."
You rolled your eyes and dropped into the seat beside him. "Yeah, try your luck after I’ve already packed."
Patrick smirked and turned toward you. "Next time, we’re flying in a private jet."
You frowned. "Why are you so sure there’ll be a next time?"
"I just know."
"Pff." You crossed your arms. "Planes aren’t my thing."
His expression shifted, amused. He rested a hand on the back of your seat, fingers brushing your shoulder.
"Not a fan of flying?"
"Actually… I’m scared of it."
He tilted his head. "Really? How bad?"
"Really bad." The touch sent a chill straight through you. "I just hope I drift off."
Patrick nodded, then took your hand. "I can always ask to switch seats so I’m next to you."
"Oh?"
The air caught in your throat, but you didn’t pull away when his thumb traced your knuckles.
"It’s first class," he went on, lecturing like it was a business meeting. "I paid a lot for—"
"Wait. I get it." You cut him off, heat rising in your cheeks. "Are you trying to humiliate me with how expensive it is?"
"Nope."
"I think you are."
Your eyes dropped to his mouth—close enough to kiss. You wanted to pull back and dive in at the same time. He must have read it, because his palm came up to your cheek, warm and deliberate. The kiss happened without ceremony.
He didn’t rush it. First-class lounge wasn’t the place for a full-on make-out, but the room was almost empty. You didn’t pull back—your muscles just locked to keep from showing how jumpy you felt. His hand pressed a little more firmly against your cheek, sending a ripple down your spine. Your heart picked up. You told yourself to break it, but curiosity kept you there.
Patrick ended it after six seconds—long enough to leave a mark, short enough to pass as casual. His faint smile wasn’t friendly; it was claiming something. "See? Already off to the right start."
You leaned back, glancing toward the boarding gate to hide the heat in your face. "You kiss anyone in this lounge, or am I the special?"
"Only the ones coming with me to Aspen."
"Good to know you keep the club exclusive."
The gate call cracked overhead. The bald man across the lounge drained his coffee and headed for the line. Patrick brushed your arm with two fingers, then stood.
On the plane, he’d made sure you were at the window—less generosity than a way to box you in. The cabin smelled like every aircraft: filtered air, disinfectant, and tired upholstery. Your fingers tightened on the armrest, posture stiff despite the plush seat.
The low engine rumble started. Patrick leaned closer. "You skating fine?"
"Peachy." You kept your eyes on the seatback ahead.
"Could always hold my hand." His tone was flat, not teasing.
You snorted. "Offer that to everyone you fly with?"
"Only when metal and gravity are involved."
You stayed separate until the taxi sped up and the cabin pitched. Your grip on the armrest tightened until the leather creaked. His hand covered yours without asking. You didn’t look at him, didn’t pull away. Firm pressure. Slow movement of his thumb across your palm until the thump of landing gear fading told you they were airborne.
By cruising altitude, your pulse had steadied. His hand was gone by the time drink service rolled through. You took ginger ale, letting the sugary burn remind you you’d skipped breakfast, and asked for warm mixed nuts just to keep busy.
Patrick ordered scotch and watched you over the rim. In his mind, it was progress—saying yes to Aspen, letting the lounge kiss happen, not locking him out after takeoff. Three small cracks in the wall. Enough to work with.
The steady drone of the engines worked on you until your head tipped against his shoulder. The smooth fabric of his jacket felt good, his cologne faint in the recycled air. You didn’t notice when you shifted closer.
You were asleep.
Patrick adjusted in his seat, arm settling around you. When the flight attendant passed, she draped a blanket over you. He fought the urge to lace his fingers with yours, fought the heavier urge pressing lower.
At one point, he thought about excusing himself to the bathroom.
Then you mumbled in your sleep—soft, strained.
"No… please… don’t do this…"
Patrick froze. For a beat, he didn’t know what to do. Then he gave your shoulder a light shake. "Hey, Cupcake…"
You flinched—small, sharp.
The hell are you dreaming about?
Light from the window caught the half-twist of your face, and it wasn’t the kind of dream you woke from smiling.
Your lashes fluttered. The hum of the engines rushed back in along with the dull ache in your neck from sleeping crooked. You looked up—and instantly regretted it. His face was too close.
"…What?" Your throat felt dry.
"You were talking in your sleep."
Instinct had you pulling back an inch. "Okay? We doing this with an audience or…?"
He leaned into his own seat but kept his eyes locked on you. "Sounded like you were having one hell of a time down there in dreamland. Or hell. Hard to tell."
"I don’t remember it."
"You don’t have to. You flinched. Said ‘please’ and ‘don’t do this.’ Doesn’t take much imagination." His gaze narrowed.
You folded the blanket off your shoulders. "Or you could mind your business and drink your overpriced whiskey."
The flight attendant appeared beside you with a polite, too-bright smile. "Can I get either of you anything before we start meal service?"
Patrick lifted a hand without looking at her. "Scotch. Same as before."
"Water," you replied absent-mindly.
She nodded and moved on.
Patrick rested his cheek in his palm, elbow on the armrest, watching you sip the glass when it came back. You used it for cover, tracking the condensation down to the napkin.
"You gonna tell me what the dream was about?"
"Nope. I told you, I don't remember."
"You sure?"
You met his eyes. "Yes. I’m sure. Believe it or not, some things aren’t your business."
That bartender-quiet tone made something itch in him. Bateman could push and probably get you to talk for the wrong reasons. Or he could wait—locks sometimes opened easier when you stopped rattling them.
You turned toward the endless white tops of clouds, not really seeing them. Your gut was knotted, the words from your own mouth still echoing somewhere you didn’t want to poke. Him noticing didn’t help.
Meal trays came—neatly packaged containers you both picked at. He cut into his steak like the flavor didn’t matter. You chewed chicken, nudged peas around your plate, shoulders tightening when he glanced your way.
When the trays were cleared, you shifted in your seat, restless.
"You freak out during turbulence too," he asked, "or is this about your dream?"
"You’re obsessed with the wrong things."
Patrick smiled faintly. "The interesting things."
His arm slid along the rest between you until your elbows brushed. He left it there.
The captain’s drawl came over the intercom, announcing descent. You shoved the blanket to the floor, dug your jacket from your bag, avoiding his gaze. The cabin tilted, engines deepening. You pressed your palms flat to your thighs. He watched—the quick breath, the way you fiddled with your zipper without fastening it.
"Relax," he murmured.
"Thanks for the expert advice."
The clunk of the landing gear made you jolt. His hand slid over yours without a word. You didn’t move it.
Touchdown was smooth, rollout quick. The brakes pressed you forward, then released. Phoenix’s tarmac slid past in the low evening light.
Terminal unloading was the usual shuffle. His bag went over his shoulder in one motion, Rolex catching the light. You followed—it was easier than navigating the jet bridge alone.
Outside, Aspen’s cooling mountain air stitched through the gaps. His driver stood waiting, black placard with Patrick’s name in bold white.
Patrick dropped his bag into the trunk. "In."
You slid into the leather backseat, the faint scent of cologne under the heater’s hum.
He got in beside you. The car eased away, lights from shops and chalets sliding past the tinted glass.
You broke the silence. "What happens in Aspen, Patrick? What’s the point?"
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Point’s in the eye of the one paying for the trip." His knee edged closer to yours. "You’re along for the ride."
You leaned your head against the cold glass. "Gotta work on your pitch."
His gaze stayed forward on the dark, winding road. "Already did. You’re in the car."
You didn’t answer. Letting him keep it as some small, meaningless victory felt easier than spelling out why it wasn’t one. You’d told yourself this trip was just an escape—a change of scenery. Maybe selfish, considering your father’s state, but you were already doing everything you could. More than you should have had to.
Patrick’s gaze lingered like he could read the knots in your head.
His hand inched toward yours until your fingers touched. He threaded them together. You didn’t pull away. An uninvited thought drifted in: what if you could give him what he wanted and, in the process, get something for yourself?
"You’re somewhere else," he murmured, leaning back.
"Nothing special."
"Family again?"
You gave a short, dry laugh and leaned harder into the cold window. "Hard to detach when your parents keep their grip on you."
He nodded like he understood.
He didn’t.
"Well," he drawled, sliding a little closer, "we could talk it out. I think I can help."
His eyes didn’t leave yours. Distant, but not unreachable. Your hand sat loose in his, skin cool against his palm.
"We can set the terms ourselves," he went on. "Before anyone else decides for you."
You kept your gaze on the window, watching fake snow glitter under bulbs strung across resort rooftops. The kind of postcard town where people came to forget their real lives. The word help from his mouth sounded like something you should be bracing for.
"You sound like you’ve got plans."
"Only the kind that get you out from under people squeezing too much."
Your laugh was thin. "Right. One trick to undo years of family damage—sounds believable."
His jaw shifted. "You keep thinking I’m bluffing."
"You keep acting like you’ve earned the benefit of the doubt."
Your father's face flashed in your mind—drawn, irritable, saying your name with that stretched-out scorn that could still make you shrink. You’d wanted him, and Brooklyn, sealed off for this trip.
Patrick caught the change in your expression. "You want this to work for you? Use me." His tone didn’t waver. "Wrap whatever you’re thinking in the fact you’ve got someone here with pull."
You turned from the glass. "Use you how?"
"Any way you want." He knew exactly what you’d read into it.
Your fingers slipped from his. "The problem is I don’t trust that line from you."
The rest of the ride to the resort passed in silence. Your eyes stayed on the massive A-frame roofline ahead.
The driver popped the trunk. Patrick got out first, mountain air biting hard against your face when you followed. You stiffened instinctively, arms folding in against yourself. No performance in that.
"Mr. Bateman. Welcome." The concierge’s smile was perfectly fixed. "We have your suites ready."
Patrick didn’t glance at the keys before taking them. "Bags to 504 and 506. Dinner in two hours."
Separate rooms. You kept the thought to yourself, along with the small exhale of relief.
In the elevator, standing shoulder to shoulder, he broke the quiet. "Separate floors are awkward."
"You’ll live."
Your suite was oversized and magazine-ready: king bed, chunky knit throw, gas fireplace with its looped flame. You tossed your coat over a chair and stretched your numb muscles. The heater’s static filled the air while you sat on the bed’s edge, boots half-undone. The trip had started as an escape, but right now it felt more like you’d stepped into the fox’s den just to stop thinking about the wolves at home.
A knock came twenty minutes into unpacking. You hadn’t called room service.
You opened the door to Patrick, one hand on a trolley with covered plates still steaming.
"They know I don’t eat in the dining room the first night."
"That’s great for you," you remarked. "Shouldn’t you be eating it then?"
"Thought you might want in. Saves you haunting the lobby."
The smell—butter, thyme, meat—made your stomach answer for you.
"Fine."
He rolled it in, braked the wheels, and started plating without asking. "Eat early, you don’t end up shaking by ten."
You sank into the armchair. "Is that some form of gratification to hand-feed your investments?"
"You could call it that."
"Is that what this is?"
"It’s whatever you make it this week."
You pushed your empty plate forward and watched him roll up his sleeves past his forearms—strange seeing bare skin where the armor of his clothes usually was.
"You ski?" You suddenly asked.
"Enough."
“So what are we talking about here—black diamond runs, or you flirting with the instructor while everyone else is stuck in the lodge paying too much for hot chocolate?”
"Bit of both."
You snorted into your wine. "Figures."
He stood. "Nine-thirty. Be in the lobby. We’ll walk."
"Walk where?"
"You’ll see."
When he left, you locked the door without thinking about it.
At nine-thirty, you and Patrick ended up in the lobby at the same time, without needing to call each other. One glance at his layered thermal gear made you regret asking where he was headed. He pushed through the glass doors without offering an explanation, and you followed, the warmth of the lounge vanishing the moment the cold bit into your face.
The path away from the chalet was lit, snow crunching under your boots. From a distance came the steady hum of the ski lifts running their night shift.
"Is this some special place?" you asked.
"No. It’s a place that doesn’t care who you came with."
The lights ended at the edge of a maintenance road. He kept walking, and you trailed after him, watching your breath curl into the dark between lampposts. Finally, he stopped at a low ridge above the service slope. Below stretched a flat grid of resort employees’ cabins—quiet, unlit, no music, no bustle. The silence pressed down harder than the snow.
Patrick stared down at it all, like he belonged there. "Clearer," he murmured.
You tilted your head. "What’s this supposed to be?"
"This," he replied, "...is as close to freedom as it gets."
You let out a breath, the white cloud drifting past your face. "It must feel nice."
"It does."
He didn’t speak again. And for once, you didn’t try to fill the silence with a jab. The cold kept you both rooted to the spot, and for the first time in a long while, the empty space in your chest felt almost manageable.
The wind cut through your coat, sharp enough to sting. You folded your arms tighter but kept quiet.
Patrick’s voice came from just behind you. "Cold?"
"No," you answered too fast. "Just bracing myself. This place… it’s got a strong energy."
He smiled—real, unhurried—and stepped closer. "Told you to bring something warmer."
"I’m fine." You didn’t move when he stopped beside you, close enough to reach. "Don’t bother."
"But I do."
Before you could ask what that meant, his mouth was on yours—sudden, firm. His arms locked around you, drawing you into his chest. One hand cupped the back of your neck; the other slid lower, brushing across your chest through the fabric. A shiver ran up your spine that had nothing to do with the cold. You felt the squeeze of his palm, his breath matching yours in ragged bursts.
He was the one to pull back first. "Want to head back?"
Your lips still burned, your pulse not yet steady. "Yes," you murmured. "It’s freezing out here."
Patrick shrugged out of his winter jacket, holding it open toward you. You hesitated, then slipped your arms in.
"Thanks."
A short walk later, the hotel's warm glow wrapped around you both. Rooms 504 and 506—separate doors, separate keys. He stopped in the corridor and lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back.
"Good night. Sleep well, Cupcake."
His smile was small, almost courtly.
You couldn’t help returning it. "You too."
The moment you closed the door, Patrick’s pulse jumped. He couldn’t believe he still had any control left, but eventually he had to return to his own suite one floor below. In the elevator, his winter jacket hung under his arm. It carried your scent now, and he liked that.
Back in his room, rest wouldn’t come.
Not after he stripped down. Not after a cold shower. Even standing in front of the mirror, leaning on the marble sink, he couldn’t stop thinking.
What were you doing now?
Had you fallen asleep?
He squeezed lotion into his hand, spreading it across his chest, but a few drops slid down his stomach and onto his cock, which twitched at the touch. Alone, he hadn’t bothered with briefs or a towel.
That etching feeling of need was awful and there was nothing good about it.
Disgust. Desperation. Obsession laced with hatred.
It was too much, yet his hand had already closed around himself, thumb brushing his swollen tip, smearing the slick across his shaft.
Jerking off had always been routine.
But now it felt worse.
…
Meanwhile, you writhed restlessly in another room. Sweat soaked through your pajamas, heat spreading across your body until it burned. Every nerve ached, pulsing, begging. You gasped and rolled onto your back, unable to fight it. Your hand slipped under your top, brushing your nipples until you let out a sharp breath. Then lower—down beneath your shorts. Your clit throbbed, painfully swollen, and you wondered how much better it would feel if his fingers were the ones touching you.
...
Patrick’s hand worked faster, pumping his cock in rough strokes against his abs. Lotion squelched between his fingers, dripping onto the sink. His chest heaved, but there was no release in it—only hollowness. His reflection stared back with empty eyes, jaw clenched as his fist dragged from head to base. His cock leaked freely, hard enough to hurt, balls slapping the counter edge as he hunched too close.
Your name cut through him.
He refused to call it lust. He told himself it wasn’t about you, but the way your mouth had whimpered against his earlier, the tiny sound you’d made when his hand pressed into your chest—those memories drove his fist harder. His cock glistened with lotion as he stroked rougher, face twisted with rage.
Christ.
He wanted you bent over the hotel balcony, shorts at your knees, pussy sucking down on his cock while you moaned into the cold mountain air. The thought alone made him cum hard, spraying into the sink in thick bursts. The sight of it left him drained, panting, disgusted with himself. He sneered at his reflection, wiped the mess with tissue, and washed his hands under scalding water until his skin turned red.
...
In your room, your thighs trembled as you clutched a pillow over your face, stifling the noise. One hand tugged at your nipples through your damp top, the other buried between your legs, circling your clit. Your hips bucked at the contact.
Fuck. You were burning up—cunt dripping, body feverish—as you rubbed harder.
Sleep was gone.
You shouldn’t have kissed him back.
Your fingers worked faster, hips rocking against your palm. You imagined his hands holding your thighs wide open, his mouth latching onto your swollen bud until you could barely take it. You whimpered into the pillow, squeezing your tits together with one hand while the other slid a finger inside, stretching your wet heat.
“Fuck,” you whispered.
Every part of you clenched at the thought of his breath on your neck, his teeth scraping across your cleavage. You pumped your fingers faster, thumb grinding your clit until your back arched and the sheets grew damp beneath you.
“Mmhmm… Patrick…”
The orgasm hit hard, squeezing around your knuckles as wetness spread across your shorts. Waves tore through you, your nipple caught between your fingers as your body shook.
When it ended, you lay trembling, chest heaving with shallow breaths. You yanked your hand from between your legs and rolled onto your side against the soaked sheets. Shame crept in—heavy and sharp.
Why him?
Why now?
You pressed your face into the pillow, eyes shut tight until the scent of your shampoo drowned out everything else.
But sleep didn’t come. Your clit still pulsed hot with leftover ache.
You hated that you wanted him closer.
...
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can we have patrick bateman first date hcs, pretty please? you always deliver the best patrick content ever🙏thank you for your work!
Hello!🌻
Thank you so much for your request.
It took me some time, but I hope you like it!
Your First Date With Patrick Bateman
SFW, GN!Reader.
He calls it "dinner," but the low, precise way he says it makes it clear that this isn't just a casual outing. You’re not just meeting him; you’re entering a curated experience. The restaurant was chosen weeks ago, the seating was arranged to his preference, and the wine was pre-approved. Everything is exactly where it should be. Including you.
He's there before you, of course. His suit is pressed to perfection, and not a single strand of his hair is out of place. He doesn’t glance around or check the time. He just sits with perfect posture, occasionally glancing toward the door with a focus that feels predatory.
When you arrive, he stands. His hand meets yours—warm and firm—and lingers. His thumb brushes along your knuckles as though reading you in Braille. A faint scent of sandalwood and something metallic clings to him.
He orders for you without asking, his voice smooth and unyielding. Somehow, it’s not presumptuous; he makes it feel intimate, as though he knows what you’d enjoy better than you do.
Throughout dinner, he listens with unnerving intensity. His eyes never wander, and every flicker of your expression seems to imprint itself on him. You start to feel as if every one of your moves is a secret you’ve accidentally shared.
You excuse yourself to go to the restroom. When you return, your chair has been subtly repositioned for comfort, your wine has been topped off, and a single red rose rests beside your plate. You’re not sure how he had time. You’re not sure you want to ask.
You share dessert, your knees brushing under the table—an unbroken point of contact that grows warmer by the minute. The touch feels casual, but you know that nothing Patrick does is casual.
When it’s time to leave, he steps into the street and raises a gloved hand. A yellow cab glides to the curb almost instantly, as if it had been waiting. He opens the door for you and slides in close once you’re inside, his thigh pressing against yours in the narrow backseat.
At first, the ride is silent yet charged. The city’s glow spills through the windows and casts him in shifting gold and shadow. His gaze drifts from your face to your lips and doesn't move away.
Then, his hand is at your jaw, firm but careful, tilting your head toward him. The kiss is unhurried and deliberate—a slow burn that deepens until you’re pressed against him. His palm is at the small of your back, pulling you closer. The cab suddenly feels smaller and warmer, the air thick with his cologne and the faint taste of wine.
His mouth lingers on yours between words you barely catch—something about how you taste and how he’s been thinking about this since you walked in. You don't doubt it for a second.
When the cab stops outside your place, he doesn’t rush to let you go. His hand stays on your thigh a beat longer than necessary. He brushes his thumb over your bottom lip as if to memorize it.
"Goodnight," Patrick finally says, but it's not casual—it's a statement, a promise, and maybe a claim.
Later, lying in bed, you replay the night and wonder if you found him or if he planned it all along.
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summary: one of patrick's friends, brings his latest girl to show off.
word count: 4.2k (4231 words)
warnings: cursing, discrimination, misogyny, objectification of women, mentions of sexual intercourse, sexual jokes and remarks
a/n: I added another guy for more dialogue, Chase Prescott, imagine him to be like one of Patrick's friends, he is based on them after all. I am currently reading the book, and I tried my best to portray the behaviour of Patrick and his group. I also tried my best to make this long and detailed, for a reader to be immersed in the story, hopefully I have fulfilled that wish of mine. Also it’s intentionally a bit exaggerated.
It’s raining.
Hard. The kind of rain that smears across the massive pane of the office window like spit on glass. Madison Avenue looks like a wet ashtray. The taxis are slow, sluggish. Even the people look less human in this weather, just damp shapes wrapped in wet wool.
The clouds hang low like a hangover. Everything is gray and getting completely washed out. Umbrellas bloom and collapse in waves, the cheap ones easily flipping inside out. Some man just dropped his. Now he’s chasing it like a dog after a chew toy. Patrick watches him from his steady standing position. " It’s pathetic. " He thinks. People are weak, but in this chaos they are almost as light to squash as ants. As if the weather alone is enough to undo them.
The enjoyment this scene causes Patrick to almost smile. He is in his prestigious office, fully dry, dressed in his white Egyptian cotton shirt, navy high-waisted Turnbull & Asser, takes a sip of his mineral water, Perrier, chilled to exactly 39 degrees.
Across the room, the brushed steel clock clicks. He supposed to eave for lunch in 27 minutes. At Pastels, McDermott had to call twice to get the reservation, which undoubtedly scrapped his ego, not to mention this happened in front of Bateman and Price. And now they all will have to step out into that?
Patrick starts to stare harder, as if he can force the rain to stop. Of course it doesn't. His body leans back into Aeron chair, fingers steeple, watching droplets crawl down the glass window. His haircut, which he got freshly done yesterday, will be ruined, as will his tie and loafers and mood and...
He thinks about cancelling, he isn't too keen on drinks or chat momentarily, finding the current position comfortable enough not to be annoyed. A deep sigh grasps him by a knock on the door, he looks at his arm, at a shining Rolex, calculating 5 minutes passed. With his approval, Jean opens the door, with only her head poking.
"Patrick, your lunch at 3 PM." He notices her red stretched-silk jacket, almost whincing at the color, which in that top, doesn't suit her. His hand waves at her dismissively, standing up and walking over.
"I am aware. Cancel it." He says appuraply, about to reach the door.
"Reason?"
"I am not ruining my hair for these morons. Cancel it." He is close to push the door to close in her face as she pulled his black umbrella from the side. "Then you'll need this."
After they finished their lunch, yet not disgusted by each others presence, Patrick, Timothy Bryce, Chase Prescott and Craig McDermott went to a bar. Despite Patrick's stressing about taking an umbrella outside, thinking it would be too homo, he was relived when all the men brought their own umbrellas and he wouldn't look like a sissy.
The bar, this specific one, which they came back to for the first time in weeks, was now renovated. All brushed nickel and lacquered bamboo. McDermontt, who upon leaving the restaurant, believed the new interior is going to be trashy and ugly, proved himself wrong and even expressed his approval by complimenting it.
The rain became worse, but nobody is bothered by it.
"I swear to God, Patrick..." Bryce puts his drink down, looking to Patrick with eyes almost wide. "The guy was wearing a double-breasted polyester blend in a shiny charcoal with pinstripes. And he works for Carlyle. Can you believe that?"
"Depraved criminal. He should've been shot." McDermontt laughs.
"I would rather see him fed to the starving kids in the Bronx. It would be a fun circus performance to watch.” Tim adds, nudging Patrick who stared into his glass, neat J&B. He stops, looks to him and then to Craig, then at Chase, he looks for the fourth one and finds him missing, just now.
"Where is Van Patten?” Leaning more in his chair, but not too comfortably, face still serious. They all pause.
Timothy smirks, taking his cucumber gin, according to him " very clean " and sips it once. "Getting us a gift."
"Fingers crossed it’s something… finely powdered." Prescott rubs his hands together. He has been off all drugs for three weeks, a bet he won with a co-worker.
"Better. A model." He nods to everyone.
“Wait, like a fashion model or some girl from 57th Street with coke problems?" McDermott leans forward, getting intrigued.
"Supermodel. Came back from Europe." Timothy leans towards him. "Worked with Versace." Chase raises his eyebrows like a child hearing about a new toy.
"What's she look like?" Patrick asks, showing not even slightly the amused look of others.
"Let me guess. Blonde. Five-ten. No tits." McDermott.
"Wrong. Blunette. Five-eleven. Still no tits." Prescott says. They all laugh in approval of their remarks.
"I bet she does runway, looking like a praying mantis. Skeleton even." McDermott jokes, he fixes a look at others mindlessly, pressing his lips into a smile.
"Exactly. You could probably slice paper on her cheekbones. Legs like steel scaffolding. You'd dislocate a hip just climbing on." Bryce makes a motion at his hip, as if it hurt him, but of course, it's all for a show.
“That's what Van Patten is into. Girls who look like they hate being touched." They all laugh again, expect for Patrick, who, despite being amused and somewhat sharing their beliefs and thoughts, only observes emotionless.
"Did she actually work for Versace?" He asks, glancing at Tim.
"That's what he said. More recently for Fendi." He answers, looking at the other two.
"So what's the deal? He's just keeping her? Like a pet?” Craig, adjusts himself better, but stays casual, making no big movements.
"No, no." Timothy shakes his head. "He is doing business with her. You know." He winks, making air quotes, not resisting a grin which paints freshly across his face. "She is helping him diversify his portfolio." His voice lowers momentarily, until it breaks into a laugh.
“Should tell him when her IPO is. Make sure he does her before she tanks.“ Prescott mockingly grunts. Craig grabs his shoulder, slightly pulling him closer, however, his eyes look to the other two. “Oh, I trust there is going to be insider trading. Of fluids.“ This time, the noise they create catches the attention of a bartender. He quickly looks at their glasses and, as he sees each still has liquid in them, continues what he was previously occupied with.
In the meantime, Bateman observes the magazine a woman, two tables down, is reading. On the cover, the word FENDI is visible, as well as a model with net stockings, wrapped only in a big fur coat. She is too far for him to spot anything else, but it reminds him of the conversation being held in front of him.
“What’s her name?“ Patrick asks Timothy. “ Oh, I don’t remember. “The man answers him without hesitation. “Just know it is the type you moan with your mouth half open.” His mouth open in a said gesture, left without a sound.
The rain continues outside. The lights inside the bar flicker slightly, but no one notices. They’re too busy talking, their voices rising, drowning out the soft jazz playing through the overhead speakers.
“Okay, but seriously, how does Van Patten even know her?“ Prescott gave an interested look.
“He said they met at an art gallery. I guess a private opening. One of those not-on-the-list-you ’re-not-coming-in types. He was on a date with Melissa or Marissa…” he squints for a second. “Whatever girl he fuck then. She dragged him. And the model, she was with a gay French art dealer.“
“And she just went home with him?“ Craig held his lips next to his glass, waiting for the next words.
“That’s what he said. She liked his energy.” Timothy punctuates the last word.
“She liked his energy? What is this, Oprah?“ McDermott wasted no time to mock, settling the glass back on the table, right next to his grain leather Gucci Bi-Fold.
“Yeah, and listen to this Bateman…,“ he stares at him, even though Patrick has been listening this whole time, just not interacting. “She is staying in his apartment.” He nods as if it’s his own doing.
Prescott wolf whistles. “Jesus. So is he actually…” Tim doesn't let him finish. “He says he’s in deep.“ More information is needed for further discussion, as everybody waits to hear the rest.
“Yeah, yeah…“ Bryce waves a hand before stopping. “…like in her…“ He holds his hands up, as if he is going to show how deep. Or as if a speech is to follow. But he only opens his fist and holds it up in the air. “Five times a night. Allegedly.“ All chuckle, figuring out the exaggeration.
“Five thrusts, then sure.” McDermott says, then continuing. “So he keeps her around? Doesn’t wanna share?“ He shares a smirk with Chase, who seems keen on the idea.
“He says she is unavailable. But he is bringing her here.“
“Classic Van Patten. Show off.“ McDermott takes a cigarette and lights it up with S.T. Dupont Lighter. “Fucker gets one hot piece of Eurotrash and suddenly he’s acting like he invented sex.“ He makes eye contact with Tim, who instantly is aware he is about to ask a question. As if sending an invite, he moves his head. “You think he actually fucks her?“ They grin at each other.
Prescott finishes his vodka, quickly signaling the bartender over. “I want to see her.“ His glass is quickly filled with more liquid, he makes sure it’s just the amount he likes, slightly more than it should be before waving the man off.
“You will. They will show up.“ A pause occurs between all four men. Patrick glances towards the front door. Still no David, nor his model. He tries to picture her. Legs, like Bryce said, scaffolding. Collarbone like a blade. Voice like a cigarette ad. She is probably going to drink mineral water and stare at David the whole time, or whoever she finds most attractive out of them.
“You think he’ll let one of us take a test drive?“ Craig chirps, at which Timothy pats his shoulder, as if in comfort theatrically. “Only if you ask politely.“
“I want to see her.“ Patrick blurts out, facing his Rolex Datejust, stainless steel with Oyster bracelet and flat, three-piece links. It’s almost 6 PM.
“Don’t worry, Bateman. Your turn will come.” Prescott raises a glass to the man, still focused on his Rolex. Then, he squints at Timothy, slightly in suspicion, “Wait, why do you know all this? About the girl, and all the rest.“ Craig joins him. “Yeah, why are you all of a sudden the girl’s press agent? He didn’t tell me shit.“
Bryce holds a smug impression, deeply proud. “Because, gentleman, I listen. Unlike you morons.“ Despite waiting for it, he receives no reaction. “David and I had a talk.“
Finally, this stirs a reaction out of Bateman, who almost chuckles at it. “A talk? Did you hold hands, too?“ The other man only brushes the question off. “He trusts me.“
Suddenly, a loud storm echoes outside, the weather seeming not to have any mercy today.
“I hope he trusts his umbrella, too. It’s pouring like crazy.“ McDermott
“He doesn't have one.“ Everyone looks at Chase at once. He rolls his eyes, almost annoyed. “When we went for lunch, fucker squeeze under my umbrella. Told him it was gay. He said he forgot his umbrella. I felt like I was in a French art film.“ All remember the situation from earlier today, shaking their heads.
Craig, all of a sudden, violently leans forward, catching everyone’s attention. “Guys. Guys. What if, listen, what if he is getting her wet for us?”
Bryce chuckles in disbelief. “Because he can’t do it on his own. Needs weather assistance.“
Prescott takes off his Oliver Peoples glasses, wiping them carefully with his Hermès linen napkin. “You have to admit. It’s genius. Make her vulnerable. Let the city rough her up a little. Then walk her in here, wet and helpless.”
“Fuck, she is going to be all wet.“ Craig excitedly says.
“Moisturized.“
“Baptized.“ Bryce nearly chokes on his drink. Regaining himself, he starts to speak. “She’s gonna freak out. She’ll walk in, and her makeup will be ruined. Lipstick coming off her lip and all.”
“She’ll need a team of makeup artists to recover.“ McDermott.
“I bet Van Patten won’t even tell her. Just let her walk in here.“ Prescott.
“Then he will take her to the bathroom.” Bryce turns his voice into a whisper. “To…console her.“ Prescott nods at him. “Yeah, he’ll unzip his fly and say, ‘Here, cry into this.’“ They laugh harder, as the sound echoes around them. Some people quietly stare, but go unnoticed.
“He better bring her soon, before you animals start humping the table.“ For the comment, Patrick receives a devilish smile from all of them. In the truest sense, they are like animals, hungry for prey. That’s why they stay and wait for it to be brought to them. However, with little to do now, they wish to continue their heavily structured commentary on the woman neither has seen yet. Before either of them makes another joke, the door swings open.
First, they only see David, he is soaked, from head to toe, hair flatter than usual, but he's grinning. The cocky, overconfident one, like he just bought Manhattan wholesale.
Prescott perks his eyebrow upwards, getting nervous by his expression. “What the hell is he smiling about?“
But then you appears from behind him, taking his coat off yourself. The coat, camel brown, probably Armani, is now looking black from all the weather it endured. David immediately takes the coat into his hands as you smiles at him, not a forced smile you would need to put on for casting, no, a real one.
You are were the ankle-strap heels, matte black Gucci, that make you look taller than what you are. Legs stand like architecture, bare, perfectly shaved.
The rain, which you somewhat did endured, sculptured the fabric against your body, outlining your waist, hips, and breasts. You’re wearing a cream-colored Gianfranco Ferré silk slip dress. Straps are delicate, almost invisible, it's elegant, not desperate. No bra. None needed.
Your face is completely clean, with no smeared mascara or lipstick. No streaked foundation, you are not wearing any, or barely any at all. Cheekbones are sharp, however, not pointy. Big, heavy-lidded eyes. Lips like an Italian film actress. Your skin is glowing from the rain that managed to get to you.
A black slim Cartier Tank watch with the classic leather strap hangs on your hand. Earrings are golden Tiffany hoops, small yet shiny. You look expensive, but not flashy.
Van Patten, who has already hung his coat, links with you at the elbow as you move into the bar like you are walking on the runway. He whispers something to you, a compliment, you only laughs softly.
The guys don’t laugh. They all stare, eyes sharp, half in awe, half in disbelief. “How the fuck did David pull her?“ Bryce mutters, his eyeballs shift from your legs to your chest.
Prescott starts nudging everyone beneath the table, his face sternum gleaming with a grim shadow. “I’ll kill him. This isn’t fair.“ Craig nods, his mouth ajar.
“I’d trade half my portfolio to fuck that. Hell-two-thirds.” He announces.
As they reach the table, you smiles at them all. Charming. Not even slightly intimidated by the four strangers before you. Your hands are to your sides, which makes Van Patten slide his hand on your lower back. Patrick can’t help but follow this action in motion.
“Gentlemen. I’d like you to meet Y/n Y/l/n.” David says beamingly. He introduces each of his friends swiftly, mentioning only their first and last names and the fact that they all work at the same place. You acknowledge each one with a pleasant look.
Van Patten pulls out a chair for you, dramatically and performative. The rest of them are too stunned to move. You still hold a smile, warm, unbothered, oblivious to the acid bath you sat in.
Then, still grinning like a lunatic, Van Patten slides into the chair next to you. Close. Too close. Your knees are almost touching. You don’t mind. That bothers Patrick more than it should, just like the hand he held at your back.
“We heard you were recently in Europe.” Bryce starts. “She just flew in from Milan two weeks ago. Worked with Ferre, briefly.“ David says for you. He leans slightly in his chair, watching everyone's faces, soaking in the power he feels, cataloging their envy.
Patrick only watches you. The posture you holds is perfect, back and neck straight. Your head is turned to the bar, which you scan, as if you had seen better, undoubtedly, you have.
David’s hand rests on the back of your chair, it's a possessive mannerism, you don’t react to it, but the guys do. “Watch out, he is about to label her.“ Bryce whispers to McDermott and Bateman. The first one just shakes his head at the couple before him. He whispers back to Bryce. “No way he fucked her, already.”
“No way he didn’t.“ Prescott.
David breaks his intense watch of his date, now narrowed at his friends. “Whispering in the group and in front of a lady.“ He brings your attention back to him, by wording quietly on your neck. “Can’t believe they are being this rude, see what I have to deal with every day.” Your hand lightly pushes him, with no intention to create distance, more for dramatics.
“So modeling.“ Chase who is already growing tired of David and his tricks, tilts his head. “Ever worked with Versace or…Fendi?”
“Yes. Both. Versace couture and Fendi…“ You pause, chin tilting toward a woman seated two tables away, flipping through a thick glossy magazine. “That’s me. On the cover.“
The woman in question, a distracted Upper West Side brunette in a Burberry raincoat, is oblivious. But Van Patten isn’t. He sees the opportunity immediately, and without missing a beat, he pushes his chair back, adjusting his shirt cuffs with faux humility.
“Excuse me.” Only to you.
He strolls to the woman’s table charming and poised, leaning in politely. The woman looks up, startled. He points at the magazine, says something with a smile. She gives a confused look, looking behind him, sparring a glance at the men and the only woman with them. Then she hands it over, half annoyed. He thanks her and pivots back, presenting the magazine like he’s holding a golden trophy.
He slaps it down on the table. And there you are, an alluring muse in the black and white, wrapped in voluminous Fendi fur, legs in fishnets, very notable. The sensual grit of the soft opulence of the coat channels both raw seduction and unapologetic beauty. Powerful and untamed.
“Holy shit.” Craig voices without realising.
They pass the magazine around like it’s contraband. One whistles, second mutters and the third one says “fuck” under his breath in some reverent tone. You watch all of it with calm sitting, sipping your drink, which the bartender brought moments ago. Despite it, there is a shy smirk appearing on the corners of your mouth.
Patrick scans over the magazine, getting stuck on your legs, then to you, in front of him, like trying to spot a difference, except for the colour and outfit, you are the same. Guys around him got silent as Bryce nudged Van Patten. “So, come on. You two dating or what?”
“You lost a bet, didn’t you?” McDermott winks at you, you wave him one off, sensing David’s tension building in his jaw. Your hand touches his arm deliberately, because of it he immediately returned his face into a relaxed expression. He chuckled charmingly, putting his hands in the air. “Gentlemen. Please. I would never discuss such things.”
“Bullshit.” McDermott smirks.
“I’m not that kind of a man.” Van Patten shakes his head. You give him honeyed blinks in approval. You turn to the bartender. As your eyes move away from the table for just few seconds, David leans in, away from you and mouths, silently and steadily: “We fuck.” He makes a crude, but careful thrusting motion under the table. Prescott nearly chokes on his drink. McDermott stifles a laugh behind his fist. Patrick’s eyebrow arches heavily.
You suddenly whisper in David’s ear, Patrick sees the unnecessary touch you hold on his shoulder, staying calm at it. You stand up, excusing yourself and walk off, legs moving unhurriedly. Every eye at the table you just left followed you.
When you are out of view, Prescott half whispers, leaning forward. “Okay. Spill. Now. All of it. Does she actually stay at your place? Like, overnight?”
“Every night this week.” He smirks, folding his arms like a smug televangelist.
“So what is she like…in bed?” McDermott lowers his voice.
“Yeah. Is she quiet and classy or does she get weird?” Tim.
“She doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t ask questions. She just performs.” He says in watchful admiration of his own description.
“What, like she’s auditioning?” A laughing and confused look appears on Craig’s face.
“No, like she’s fucking starring.”
“No way you got her to do anything weird.” Bateman judiciously declares, feeling uncomfortable from hearing of David’s success.
He got a proud nod. “Everything. Shower. Balcony. On the marble floor.”
“Jesus.” Craig murmured. “How do they feel?” Motioning at his chest, puffing it upwards.
Prescott, laughing. “Yeah, are they we perfect as they look?”
“Flawless,” he says flatly. “Round and plump, can bounce like crazy.”
McDermott, mock groaning, “Jesus, I’m picturing it now. Don’t do this to me, man.”
“So, what’s your goal here? Keeping her like some kind of an accessory? Or are you planning on letting the rest of us borrow her eventually?” Despite his words, Patrick was cold, with barely a movable expression on his face.
“You gonna share? Or just make us watch you live the dream?” Bryce wiggled his eyebrows.
“Yeah, Van Patten, come on. We all want our turn. We’re fucking invested now.” Chase voices.
Van Patten raises his glass. “Gentlemen, please. I am not a pimp.” He downs his drink, then slowly sets the glass on its place, grinning like a winner. “But if I were…you couldn’t afford her.”
“Okay, seriously, you have to share.” McDermott says, more sternly, Prescott nodded at it.
“I don’t share. But maybe…if you upgrade your suits, get real haircuts and stop reeking of desperation…I’ll think about it.” He smirks, looking back to see if you were out of the restroom.
“Fuck you.”
“Alright, David. If you’re not gonna lend her out like a gentleman, how about we work in shifts? I mean come on on. One of us gets the mouth, one gets the…” Bryce grins, seeing as everyone sharpened their ears.
“Fuck it. Double up. Bateman can film.” Prescott cuts in swiftly.
“You guys wish. She wouldn’t even look at you.” Rolling his eyes at his peers, overcome with utter amusement.
“She doesn’t have to. I’ll take her from the back. Eye contact is only optional.” Prescott laughs along with the other two, getting prominent pats on the back.
“You sound desperate. It’s embarrassing.” Van Patten smugly stares.
Patrick watches all of it. The conversation is escalating in volume and stupidity, full of snarling male fantasy masquerading a mutual friendship. Their eyes are alive, animated with a kind of rabid hunger.
Patrick found David’s behaviour irritating. The endless victorious glimmer he had, looking down on them, like he is sitting on top of the food chain, held his jaw in piercing grip.
He stands up, ignoring their glances.
“Leaving already, Bateman? What, too emotional for you?” Patrick manages to snare an angry glare, looking unbothered.
“Heard enough of this bickering.” He leaves the table, heading for the door, hoping he won’t be tortured with more of David’s talk tomorrow. But before he reaches them, your voice stops him.
“You’re leaving?”
He turns. You are standing just a step away, a fine mist dusting your shoulders. This is closer than he expected you to be. Within scent range, he discreetly sniffs something clean and citrusy. Maybe Acqua di Parma.
“Too much boy talk?” you ask sharply.
“Too much idiocy.” he replies. “You’re surprisingly calm.”
You shrug, your eyes holding him in place. “I’ve been around men like that before. They don’t surprise me.”
“David doesn’t surprise you?”
“He entertains me.”
Patrick nods awkwardly, looking above you.
“Jealous?” You nudge him with the teasing question.
“No.” he says, pausing. “But I think you can do better.”
You tilt your head, curious. “And you’re volunteering?”
“I’m suggesting.”
You step even closer. He doesn’t mind. The expensive smell of your perfume now more precise. Your lips part slightly, not smiling, but enough to make it ambiguous.
“When do you plan on showing me better?”
Patrick reaches into his coat, pulls out a clean card from the inner pocket. His name embossed bone-colored. He hands it to you.
You take it with a slow drag of your fingers over his palm.
“I’ll call.” You step back. And then you’re gone. He watches as you glide back to the table, sliding effortlessly beside David again. Like nothing happened. But Patrick knows, you won’t blow it off. You are in for fun, and it’s his turn to give it to you.
SYNOPSIS: When you moved to New York City and landed a job at Pierce & Pierce, you hoped for a clean slate. But trauma doesn’t vanish with a change of scenery. You were still carrying the weight of your childhood—the fear, the shame, the twisted ideas about love and sex drilled into you from a young age. You lived small, tried to stay invisible. Until Patrick Bateman saw you. You weren’t like the others—untouchable in your silence, unimpressed by his wealth and charm. You were supposed to fall for him. When you didn’t, something in him snapped. Breaking you became his private mission, a game to feed his ego. But somewhere between the power plays and mind games, Patrick lost track of the rules—and the line between manipulation and obsession started to blur.
TAGS: NSFW, a lot of smut, love/hate trope, heavy Daddy kink (dd/lg dynamics), angst, psychological abuse, mental problems, emotional manipulations, power play, Patrick is mostly a Service!Dom, etc.
𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥𝐬:
Take me Back to the Start — 08/01/2023
Starboy — 17/01/2023
New Person, Same Old Mistakes — 02/08/2025
Flowers — 04/08/2025
Master of Illusion — 07/08/2025
Red Light — coming soon!
Puzzle Heart (in progress)
[...]😈
𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲:
Sweetest Addiction — 23/09/2022
Undercover Sneak — 27/09/22
I Crave Your Taste — 28/10/22
The Perfect Girl — 06/11/22
0% Angel — 24/11/22
After Dark — 11/12/22
Be My Daddy — 09/01/ 2023
I Wanna Feel You in My Bones — 11/02/2023
Yours to Claim — 27/02/2023
Spit In My Face — 26/03/2024
Inseparable — 22/07/2025
[...]😈
𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲:
The Pleasure Is Mine — 08/10/2022
Wreck Me Like a Hurricane — 21/01/2023
Cheek to Cheek — 07/08/2023
[...]😈
Music I use for inspiration:
Mareux — The Perfect Girl [Slowed + Reverb]
MR KITTY — AFTER DARK [Slowed + Reverb]
Crazy In Love [Slowed + Reverb]
Trevor Something — Lovesong
Mr.Kitty — 0% Angel
Lana Del Ray — Serial Killer
The Weeknd — Starboy
Lana Del Ray — Be My Daddy
ThxSoMch — SPIT IN MY FACE!
Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman in American Psycho (2000) dir. Mary Harron
(christianbalefanatic gifs)
Patrick: Listen, you're dating Lewis, he's in Arizona, you're fucking me, and we haven't made plans. What could you possibly be up to tonight? .......... Courtney: ….Waiting for Lewis to call me. ….He said he'd call tonight. Patrick: Pumpkin? …. Pumpkin, you're dating an asshole. .......... Pumpkin, you're dating the biggest dickweed in New York. Pumpkin, you're dating a tumbling, tumbling dickweed. Courtney: Patrick, stop calling me Pumpkin, okay? I have to go. Patrick: Courtney, dinner. Courtney: I can't. Patrick: I'm thinking Dorsia. Courtney: Dorsia's nice!
The way you are blessing us with so much of your incredible writing!! Best of luck at the new job 🤗
Since you write Patrick so well, I was wondering if you have any random headcanons about his childhood. Things like did he have any pets, play any sports, did he get good grades, etc.
Just a silly question I had lol
Hello! 🌻
Thank you so much for your kind words about my writing!💞😭🙏
I have a few thoughts about Patrick's childhood. I hope you like them!
Patrick Bateman's Childhood HCs
Personality Quirks as a Kid:
He collected business cards from his dad’s colleagues long before he understood what they were. He kept them in a neat little binder.
He practiced fake facial expressions in the mirror, even as a preteen, trying to perfect the “correct” smile for different situations.
He had no real close friends, only other rich kids he was around because of proximity and status.
Sports:
Played tennis at a country club level. He was technically good but lacked passion. Coaches praised his discipline but noted a strange blankness in his competitiveness.
Did crew in high school, more for the status and structure than love of the sport. He liked that it gave him a reason to punish his body and stick to a routine.
Avoided contact sports like football—not because he couldn’t handle them, but because they were “crude” and beneath his sense of elitism.
Family Life:
His father was emotionally distant and obsessed with legacy and money. His mother had periods of deep, medicated depression—sometimes absent, sometimes overbearing in a dazed, socially performative way.
Holidays were polished but hollow—expensive gifts, cold family dinners, and a heavy atmosphere of unspoken tension.
Academics:
Got excellent grades, especially in subjects that required memorization, like history or Latin. He had a photographic memory and could regurgitate information with precision—though rarely with insight.
Teachers described him as “polite, distant, and strangely mature.” He was the kind of student who excelled without being liked.
Had a subtle superiority complex even as a kid—he looked down on classmates who showed emotion or spontaneity.
Pets:
Had a purebred golden retriever named Winston that was more his father’s accessory than a real pet. Patrick was never emotionally attached—he mimicked affection because it was expected, not because he felt it.
He once had a hamster (little poor thing) as a very young child. It died mysteriously—and his parents never really questioned how.
Thank you for the reading!💓
Please follow my side-blog to know when I update!
⦿ Patrick Bateman never wanted children. He was viscerally opposed to them. Children are loud. They stain expensive Italian leather. They don't understand nuance or foie gras. The idea of a small, sticky-handed creature ruining the aesthetic of his Tribeca loft made his skin crawl. But then it happened. And it was a girl. His psyche did a full, spiraling, Hitchcockian 180 the moment he held her in that sterile, sleek hospital room. He only approved the one with gray walls and unobtrusive lighting, obviously. Something snapped. Or, more accurately, something melted. A tectonic shift occurred beneath his thousand-dollar suit. She was pink, screaming, and objectively horrifying-looking, but when she blinked those tiny eyes at him? His internal monologue short-circuited for the first time in life.
"She’s perfect," he said out loud. Out loud. To another human being.
⦿ His morning routine has adjusted to accommodate the pre-K drop-off. He still does 1,000 crunches and follows his three-step skincare routine. Now, he also packs her lunch, including organic strawberries cut into hearts. He irons her socks—he's so fucking serious about it. He buys tiny white leather Mary Janes in every size "just in case" they stop making them.
She calls him "Dada," and he nearly cries every time she does.
⦿ Not that he shows it, though. He just quickly looks away and says something like, "You're going to wrinkle your dress, sweetheart." But inside, it's the emotional equivalent of being stabbed by Cupid himself. The man who once flexed in the mirror while committing murder now gets a little breathless when she gives him a glittery sticker that says "#1 Dad." He keeps it. In his wallet. In front of his platinum AmEx. Priorities.
⦿ At night, when she’s curled up in bed with her stuffed animals, he sits in the doorway for an extra fifteen minutes. Just to listen. Just to make sure she’s breathing. Just to exist in the same world as her. For once, the voices go quiet. The rage simmers low. His brutal, fractured brain grows quiet like a storm finally spent. He kisses her forehead, whispers, "Sweet dreams," and adds, "Don't let anyone touch your juice box. If they do, you call me.” Deep down, the monster sleeps when she’s safe. In that eerie, oddly gentle way, Patrick is the most devoted, terrifying girl dad alive.
Thank you for the reading!💓
Please follow my writing community or my side-blog to know when I update!
Your married life with Patrick Bateman and you are having his child
Fem!reader x Patrick Bateman
|18+|fluff |Patrick as a girl dad |ooc I’m sry 😭
You are pregnant
It all happened so suddenly. As your belly began to curve more noticeably, you started to feel anxious. You weren’t sure if you were truly ready to take on the role of a mother. When the pregnancy was first confirmed, Bateman was even more nervous than you were.
When you told him you were carrying his child, you saw the shock and disbelief flash across his face.
“I thought we were being really careful,” he muttered.
His initial reaction left you disappointed.Sitting on the same bed where you used to spend passionate nights together, you watched him stand at the edge, head bowed, between your legs, his expression unreadable. You smiled softly, reached for his hand said
“Honey, what’s done is done. We can face this together.”
He was silent, staring at you. Minutes passed before he slowly sat beside you and pulled you into his arms.
Resting your head against his chest, you felt his racing heartbeat begin to calm. He toyed with the ends of your hair, then leaned down to inhale your scent — that familiar fragrance that always soothed him better than any pills.
“I think I can get used to this new role. After all, the Bateman family needs an heir someday.”
A small, sweet smile tugged at his lips.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said, kissing the top of your head.
You teased, “We won’t be able to indulge that insatiable libido of yours for a while now.”
He scoffed, “That’s not the only place I can use. I’ll take care of you, my little princess.”
“You devil!” you laughed, playfully swatting at him.
Mr Bateman preparation
Now, Bateman seemed even more prepared than you. He would suddenly blurt out potential baby names while watching a movie, flipping through a magazine, or during a casual walk.He even bought a Hermès leather notebook just to jot down names he thought sounded elegant or fitting.
Though you didn’t yet know the baby’s gender, he had picked out names for both a boy or a girl,bought every baby item in duplicates.He appeared to be thoroughly enjoying this process.
The empty room in your apartment was already being transformed into a nursery with the finest non-toxic paint, the most luxurious stroller and crib on the market, a Hermès wooden rocking horse, and designer puzzle toys.
Recently, he began eyeing a property in the Hamptons—a private retreat where you could recover after the baby arrives.
Gender
He took you to the best private hospital for regular check-ups. Everything progressed as expected.When the baby was six months along, it was time to find out the gender.
Patrick insisted on throwing a private gender reveal party, which made you feel even more nervous.Your body no longer looked perfect; you couldn’t fit into your beautiful dresses. You also feared that if the baby wasn’t the gender he wanted, he’d be disappointed.
Noticing your anxiety, he kissed your cheek and whispered with a smile,
“You don’t need to worry about any of that.”
At the Party
Both sets of parents and your closest friends were invited.
The party was held in your Upper East Side top floor. Candlelight filled the grand room, and the long dining table was covered in exquisite custom-made Italian lace.
A pristine white fondant cake was rolled in on a silver cart—inside, the answer awaited.
Next to the silver knife lay a card written by Patrick:“Cut me.”
You took a deep breath, knife in hand, and turned to Patrick. He was beside you, hands in his pockets, showing no intention of cutting the cake with you.
“Patrick, aren’t you going to cut it with me?”
“Sweetheart,” he said meaningfully, “this surprise is just for you.”
Your shadow flickered on the wall under the soft glow. The air felt warm and tense.You hesitated briefly before slicing into the cake.
PINK
It all happened so fast. You felt like you were dreaming.
You turned to him, eyes wide. He walked over and wrapped his strong arms around you.
“Looks like we’re having a little princess. I hope she’s just as sweet and lovely as her mother,” he whispered into your ear, kissing your temple.
Then, he turned and loudly declared, “It’s a girl.”
You tilted your head—he didn’t seem that surprised.
He smirked. “I cheated. I already knew. I just wanted to see your reaction.”
“When did you find out?”
“Right before I told you we should throw the party.”
“So… you’re happy with the result?”
“Of course. Do you like the name Blaire?”
His eyes sparkled.
“I think it fits her perfectly,” you smiled.
From that day on, whenever someone asked about the baby, Patrick would proudly say,
“It’s a girl.”
After Blaire was born
Blaire grew up fast—before you knew it, she was already three. She has her father's hair color, which is a silky, glossy chestnut brown, and eyes as big and beautiful as yours. She was cheerful and outgoing, full of energy and curiosity. Sometimes, you’d teasingly complain that Patrick spoiled her too much. She loved running around the apartment and turning everything upside down. Thankfully, with the help of a nanny, the household managed to maintain a semblance of order.
An Awkward Moment
The nanny was in the kitchen preparing lunch for you and your daughter. Patrick had gone to work that day, so you were spending the morning at home with Blaire. As you sat on the sofa flipping through the latest fashion magazine, Blaire wandered off and slipped into your bedroom.
Most things were still out of her reach—but her tiny hands could just about open the drawer of the nightstand. Curious as ever, she tugged it open… and found one of your condom wrappers.
“Mommy, what’s this?”
Her sweet, innocent voice froze you on the spot. You rushed over quickly, laughing nervously.
“Ah, that…”
You had absolutely no idea how to explain something like that to a child.
“Is it… a Band-Aid?” she asked, eyes wide and full of curiosity.
“Yes! Blaire, you’re so clever! That’s… Daddy’s Band-Aid,” you replied with an awkward smile.
The condoms were loose, unboxed, scattered in the drawer—“thanks” to Patrick, who always claimed opening the box took too long. He preferred to just dump them in.
Blaire beamed with that chubby-cheeked grin of hers.
“Mommy, there’s so many!” she giggled, pulling them out one by one. Her tiny hands couldn’t even hold them all.
“Oh, Blaire—yes, Daddy’s very clumsy. He needs to keep a lot of them, just in case. But I don’t think we need to take all of them out now, do we?”
You gently gathered the wrappers from her hands, trying to tidy up. But she turned around and grabbed more.
“Daddy needs them,” she said earnestly.“Blaire, Daddy isn’t hurt right now—so he doesn’t need any of those, okay?”
You kept your tone calm and warm, but inside, you were half-laughing, half-panicking.
Chat at night
Late at night, with Blaire fast asleep in the other room, you and Patrick lay in bed talking, laughing quietly under the dim bedroom light.“Blaire pulled out all the condoms from the nightstand today,” you chuckled, curling into his side. “She held one up and asked me what it was.”
Patrick burst into laughter, propping his head up with one hand. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her it was your Band-Aid. Because, you know, Daddy gets hurt easily,” you said with a teasing smirk.
“You’ve learned how to lie now, huh?” he grinned wickedly. “I think someone’s about to get hurt again…”
“Mommy got hurt last night,” he added in a mock-sweet tone, crawling over you and reaching toward the nightstand.
His amber eyes locked onto yours, sharp and playful. He tore open the wrapper with his teeth, sliding his pants off with practiced ease.“You look fucking gorgeous tonight, baby,” he growled under his breath. “Better have a few Band-Aids ready, because Daddy’s gonna need them.”
“Keep your voice down, Patrick! You’ll wake Blaire!” you hissed in a whisper-laugh, trying to push him back.
“And what if our little princess walks in and sees her mommy and daddy… playing?” he teased, trailing kisses along your collarbone.“She’ll think you’re bullying me,” you shot back, your tone laced with mischief.
“That’s not what it’ll look like. Mommy’s always very pleased with Daddy’s care,” he whispered darkly, biting gently at your earlobe, his warm breath sending chills down your spine.
Hiii sry for being so inactive lately, have been busy with my work 🥲this one was just a whim of mine, so I wrote it down. Btw,Professor Bateman’s au is already finished and I will edit&post it later !❤️I did idealize Patrick a bit in this one tbh, but I really like this kind of warm daddy 🤭 is a little bit ooc(hope you don’t hate it 😭).But the next au's Professor Bateman is going to be a total demon just like himself 😈
girl. GRABS YOU the way you make bruce call reader SUGAR?? it scratches my brain just right omg. it fits him so well esp when he's in his possessive sugar!daddy bf era. not to be deranged but if you ever wrote more of that??? i would simply ascend. no pressure tho ily 😭
Hello!🌻
Haha, thank you so much!
I really thought Sugar would suit someone like Bruce—but you're absolutely right about him being a sugar daddy kind of boyfriend. The kind who spoils you rotten without ever turning it into babysitting or a strict power dynamic. He just loves seeing you happy, wrapped up in his gifts—even if they aren't expensive.
Imagine telling Bruce one day that you like horses, and he takes you to a private horse farm he used to visit for riding. He even has a horse there—a black Arabian mare with a thick, glossy mane. And of course, she has the worst temperament. But Bruce is exactly the kind of man who can handle her.
If you ask him if you can feed her sugar cubes, he’d refuse at first.
"Are you really trying to get bitten? She's a total brat."
"Even brattier than me?" you'd tease, leaning against the corral, holding out a sweet treat in your palm.
Bruce would let out a slightly tired sigh—you can already see him rolling his eyes.
"If you get bitten, you're explaining it to Alfred yourself," he’d say, smiling almost boyishly as he gently takes your hand in his and presses a quick kiss to the top of it. "You hear me, Sugar?"
You don’t even have to respond—Bruce is already behind you, wrapping his arms around you tenderly. He guides your hand carefully, controlling every movement as the mare leans in, sniffs the sugar cube in your open palm, and finally takes it.
I might actually write a full version of this someday—I’ve always loved horses. Anyway, if you liked this idea or have any of your own, feel free to share! And thank you again for sending me your ask!💍
SORRY guys I have been so inactive lately 🥲And I promise I am back !!!I’ve been so busy these days that I just finished my Europe trip 🥰！I want to share some pics with you guys and the new au will be finished asap
I LOVE EUROPE
It’s my second time being in Europe! It’s painful for me to end this breathtaking trip 😭😭😭I miss these places sm🇫🇷🇮🇹🇨🇭
andulkaphoto
dailybridgerton
titsay
kaledo-art
prguitarman
germansingergirl
