Lexi/Kira ● RU ● She/Her ● Occasional Writer ● 30 y.o. ● MDNI ● Patrick Bateman is my CEO 🪓
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My header was drawn by the amazing @iron-flavored-lipgloss! My PFP was drawn by fantastic @dooubts!
Lexi/Kira ✦ 30 y.o. ✦ She/Her ✦ Russian ✦ Software Quality Engineering Lead ✦ Aspiring YouTube and Twitch content creator ✦ Patrick Bateman's wife ✦ 🖤🤍💜🩶
── Asks are temporarily closed! I’m really sorry, but I need to step back for a while. Life has been a lot lately, and between my very time-demanding job and trying to be there for my granny as her health gets worse, I barely have any energy or time left.
I’ve seen your requests and I appreciate every single one of them so much, but right now I don’t have the capacity to reply or work on commissions the way I want to. When I do have a little free time to write, I need to focus on my own stories for a bit.
Thank you for being patient with me.
I’ll come back with full force as soon as life calms down a little. 💕
✦ Random silly HCs about P.B.
✦ You always suspected Patrick was afraid of being tickled, even though he'd never admit it.
✦ I Wanna Do Bad Things to You (P.B. x Fem!Reader)
✦ Patrick Bateman doesn't need you. He just can't stop.
✦ So, you’re stuck with a psychopath.
✦ Imagine calling Patrick Bateman out to his face and telling him the only thing he’s ever truly done is get born into a wealthy family.
Patrick Bateman never stutters. But he shudders when he realizes how deeply he's fallen for you.
His voice drops lower, loses its usual steadiness, whenever he says things like: "Did you get my message?" "Did you like the flowers?" "Did you enjoy dinner?"
He's at a loss. And he hates it.
He has always spoken clearly, almost mechanically—every word chosen and placed with precision. But he can't control it around you, even when he rehearses what he's going to say beforehand. The words come out wrong anyway. Softer than intended.
He can't control the blush either.
His cheeks go red when you praise him—not generic compliments, but the real kind. The kind that means you were actually listening. That you see him. That his endless monologues about finance, music, fashion, or whatever yuppie bullshit he's fixated on this week didn't disappear into polite silence.
Someone is finally listening.
And eventually, he realizes—it feels better than sex.
To be heard. To exist as something real beyond designer labels and the mindless performance of luxury.
To matter to someone who wasn't supposed to matter to him at all.
You have a summer flu and Patrick won't leave. Make that make sense.
Patrick woke in the middle of the night—already restless the moment he registered your absence. He blinked several times, eyes adjusting to the darkness as he rolled onto his back, arms reaching for you and finding nothing. Your spot was empty, sheets cold. Panic washed over him, and he didn't like how much he cared about something so small. Patrick never cared about women leaving in the middle of the night.
You had changed something in him he couldn't quite comprehend yet.
Slowly he sat up, blankets pooled around his waist, his Rolex catching the moonlight filtering through the blinds. He'd forgotten to take it off again. Then he heard it—a faint sound from the bathroom, barely there. Running water and something like coughing. The panic returned with full force, like a bucket of cold water.
He didn't hesitate. His legs carried him to the bathroom before he'd made a conscious decision, and he pushed the unlocked door open—and found you bent over the sink, shaking. The tap was running endlessly, drowning out the sounds, and you didn't notice him until you caught a pair of dark eyes watching you in the mirror.
"Oh—I—I thought I was quiet enough," you rasped, throat sore and swollen.
"You weren't."
You nodded apologetically. "Sorry. I couldn't sleep. My throat is killing me… feels like I swallowed a ton of sand."
He crossed and uncrossed his arms over his chest, brows drawing together as if his face couldn't decide which expression to settle on.
"I told you that eating ice cream in hot weather was a bad idea," he commented, stepping up behind you—almost naked except for his white briefs. "You never listen, Cupcake. That bothers me, somehow."
"Bothers?"
Patrick went still right behind you. "Are you in pain?"
His arms looped around your waist on autopilot. The height difference made it easy for him to rest his chin on top of your head. He didn't put his full weight on you, balancing himself against the counter as he reached past you to turn off the tap.
"My head hurts really bad and… as I said, I think I have a mild flu. And a sore throat."
You watched him frown, caught in the middle of some internal debate. You leaned back against his chest—his cologne still sharp even though you could barely breathe through your nose. Somehow his scent was imprinted in your brain regardless.
"Go back to bed," he murmured against your ear, nose brushing your temple. "I'll call the best doctor I can get in the morning if it comes to that."
"No, thank you," you protested, shifting in his arms until your faces were close. "You don't have to do that. I still have issues with my medical insurance—"
He didn't bother arguing. He simply lifted you with arrogant ease and you wrapped your arms and legs around him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Patrick carried you back to the bedroom, set you down on the bed, and held the blanket open until you lay down properly before tucking it around you. Then he crossed the room to check the windows for drafts.
"Will you lie down with me?" you asked, wrapped in the blanket like a little pastry.
He stood beside the bed for a moment, smirking, eyeing you like he was seeing something real for the first time. Raw and honest. Disarmed and so genuinely you that it hit somewhere behind his ribs—not quite his heart. Something even more elusive than that.
"No. I'll sleep on the couch—I can't afford to get sick. Bryce is throwing a party at his summer house in the Hamptons and I'm not missing it because I spent the night next to your runny nose."
Your eyes went glassy—not with tears, just with quiet acceptance. The small, practiced acceptance of knowing your place in his world. "Yeah… that's right," you said, rubbing your red nose. "Only losers like me get sick in summer."
A low, amused chuckle rumbled from his chest.
"You're illegally cute like this, Cupcake." He sat down on the edge of the bed, warm hand catching your face, thumb stroking your cheek. "Playing innocent and a little naive." His eyes softened into something dangerous in a completely different way. "I wouldn't leave you in this bed even if you were infected with something deadly. I'd stay right here with you and we'd spend our last night together—in this bed, skin to skin, just like in those stupid romantic novels you told me about."
"You hate them, don't you?"
"Sometimes," he muttered, eyes dark but holding a quiet warmth. "Now—you're burning up and that's not good. I'll get you some aspirin."
You nuzzled against his palm like a devoted kitten. "It's only good when I burn from wanting you?"
Patrick's breath caught—just for a fraction of a second.
"It's only good when I say it is."
You rolled your eyes and sighed when he removed his hand and disappeared into the living room, a strip of light falling through the open door. Your face genuinely burned when you pressed your fingers to your cheeks, head pounding. He returned quickly—glass of water in one hand, two small pills in the other.
Taking medicine from other people always made you uncomfortable. But Patrick wasn't just anyone. You trusted him, in some twisted way. Maybe you were sick with more than just a flu—something far more dangerous.
After you swallowed the pills Patrick set the glass on the nightstand and pinched your cheek lightly. "Good girl."
"Thank you, Doc."
He paused, eyes curious, lips curling into that hauntingly dangerous smile. "Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a surgeon?"
"N-no?"
He climbed carefully into bed beside you, giving you enough space while making it perfectly clear you were welcome to lie against his chest.
"Doesn't blood scare you at all?"
His low chuckle reverberated through his ribcage. "Not at all," he said, wrapping an arm around you and tracing lazy circles on your lower back. "In fact, I rather love the sight of blood—"
A sudden pause hung in the air.
You looked up at him, about to ask him to continue—and then you sneezed directly into his collarbone. He wordlessly produced an entire pack of napkins.
"Keep your nose covered," he said, almost scolding. "I wasn't joking about missing the party."
You sneezed again, nearly elbowing him in the face. "Sor-ry—I—maybe I should just sleep on the couch—"
"Too late for that, I think."
He watched your uncontrollable sneezing with detached skepticism, but kept handing you napkins with something that almost resembled care. Your eyes began to water, head spinning harder. You sat up and he followed.
"God, I think I'm dying," you groaned, pressing two napkins to your nose at once.
You sniffled, a wave of frustration and self-pity crashing through you. You hated being like this—helpless and pathetic and leaking from the face—and Patrick, as if he could read every thought, watched you with quiet understanding.
"My dramatic little Cupcake," he crooned, brushing stray hair off your forehead. "So dramatic she can't even keep herself together."
"It's n-not funny."
"Of course it is," he replied, and pressed a kiss to your forehead—once, twice—then left a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your neck. "Get some sleep. You really need it."
You grabbed him with both arms, pulling him as close as you could. His skin was impossibly smooth beneath your fingers as you traced long stripes across his back and shoulders, his moles scattered like small constellations you could find even in the dark.
"You'll be here when I wake up."
It wasn't a question.
"Mhm," he hummed, pressing his forehead against yours, eyes already closed. "I'll be anywhere you want me. Even in your dreams."
Clingy!Patrick Bateman who wakes up multiple times during the night just to make sure you’re still there. He doesn’t wake you—he simply turns on the bedside lamp on the lowest setting and stares. His hand rests on your waist or slides under your shirt, needing the warmth of your skin to calm the gnawing anxiety that you might vanish. Only once he’s convinced you’re real does he pull you tighter against him and try to sleep again.
Desperate!Patrick Bateman who refuses to call it love. He hates the word. He hates the concept. But he can’t deny that something inside his hollow chest shifts when you’re around. He admits it only in the dead of night, when you’re asleep in his arms—a silent, bitter confession to himself: “This thing… it’s making me weak.” He’ll never say it out loud. Not to you. Not to anyone.
Obsessed!Patrick Bateman who can’t keep his hands off you. Every inch of your body belongs to him—a fact he treats with religious devotion. His touch varies: sometimes affectionate and slow, tracing your spine like he’s memorizing every vertebra... sometimes possessive and bruising, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave marks... sometimes downright obscene—slipping under your clothes in public, in the back of a taxi, or during dinner with colleagues, daring you to stay quiet while he reminds you who you belong to.
Dark!Patrick Bateman whose eyes are voids. When you look into them too long, you feel like you’re staring into an endless black hole where empathy and humanity should be. He knows he’s empty. He’s told you so, voice cold and clinical. You insist there’s something more. He calls you delusional. You call him the same. The twisted part is… you’re both a little right.
Possessive!Patrick Bateman who tracks your every move. Not always obviously—sometimes through “coincidences,” sometimes through more invasive methods he’d never admit to. Your diary? He’s looked through it. Your schedule? Memorized. If another man even looks at you too long, Patrick’s smile becomes razor-sharp, and his hand on the small of your back turns into a silent claim.
Jealous!Patrick Bateman who doesn’t get loud or dramatic. His jealousy is ice-cold and terrifyingly calm. He’ll destroy someone’s life with a few phone calls and a chillingly polite conversation, then come home and fuck you like he’s erasing every other man who’s ever existed from your memory.
NSFW BONUS:
Filthy!Patrick Bateman:
He’s addicted to the way you sound when he ruins you. He’ll edge you for hours, fingers or cock buried deep inside you, whispering against your ear in that smooth, psychopathic voice: "Look at you… falling apart for a man who doesn’t even have a soul. Pathetic... Beautiful... Owned."
He loves making you say you’re his while he’s balls-deep, choking you lightly, forcing eye contact. The moment you start to cum, he gets dangerously tender—forehead pressed to yours, voice almost soft: "That’s it… give it to me. Everything. It’s already mine anyway."
He also has a habit of cumming inside you and then keeping you plugged with his cock afterward, fascinated by the sight of his seed leaking out of you. It satisfies something deeply primal and deranged in him—the ultimate proof of ownership.
You have a summer flu and Patrick won't leave. Make that make sense.
Patrick woke in the middle of the night—already restless the moment he registered your absence. He blinked several times, eyes adjusting to the darkness as he rolled onto his back, arms reaching for you and finding nothing. Your spot was empty, sheets cold. Panic washed over him, and he didn't like how much he cared about something so small. Patrick never cared about women leaving in the middle of the night.
You had changed something in him he couldn't quite comprehend yet.
Slowly he sat up, blankets pooled around his waist, his Rolex catching the moonlight filtering through the blinds. He'd forgotten to take it off again. Then he heard it—a faint sound from the bathroom, barely there. Running water and something like coughing. The panic returned with full force, like a bucket of cold water.
He didn't hesitate. His legs carried him to the bathroom before he'd made a conscious decision, and he pushed the unlocked door open—and found you bent over the sink, shaking. The tap was running endlessly, drowning out the sounds, and you didn't notice him until you caught a pair of dark eyes watching you in the mirror.
"Oh—I—I thought I was quiet enough," you rasped, throat sore and swollen.
"You weren't."
You nodded apologetically. "Sorry. I couldn't sleep. My throat is killing me… feels like I swallowed a ton of sand."
He crossed and uncrossed his arms over his chest, brows drawing together as if his face couldn't decide which expression to settle on.
"I told you that eating ice cream in hot weather was a bad idea," he commented, stepping up behind you—almost naked except for his white briefs. "You never listen, Cupcake. That bothers me, somehow."
"Bothers?"
Patrick went still right behind you. "Are you in pain?"
His arms looped around your waist on autopilot. The height difference made it easy for him to rest his chin on top of your head. He didn't put his full weight on you, balancing himself against the counter as he reached past you to turn off the tap.
"My head hurts really bad and… as I said, I think I have a mild flu. And a sore throat."
You watched him frown, caught in the middle of some internal debate. You leaned back against his chest—his cologne still sharp even though you could barely breathe through your nose. Somehow his scent was imprinted in your brain regardless.
"Go back to bed," he murmured against your ear, nose brushing your temple. "I'll call the best doctor I can get in the morning if it comes to that."
"No, thank you," you protested, shifting in his arms until your faces were close. "You don't have to do that. I still have issues with my medical insurance—"
He didn't bother arguing. He simply lifted you with arrogant ease and you wrapped your arms and legs around him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Patrick carried you back to the bedroom, set you down on the bed, and held the blanket open until you lay down properly before tucking it around you. Then he crossed the room to check the windows for drafts.
"Will you lie down with me?" you asked, wrapped in the blanket like a little pastry.
He stood beside the bed for a moment, smirking, eyeing you like he was seeing something real for the first time. Raw and honest. Disarmed and so genuinely you that it hit somewhere behind his ribs—not quite his heart. Something even more elusive than that.
"No. I'll sleep on the couch—I can't afford to get sick. Bryce is throwing a party at his summer house in the Hamptons and I'm not missing it because I spent the night next to your runny nose."
Your eyes went glassy—not with tears, just with quiet acceptance. The small, practiced acceptance of knowing your place in his world. "Yeah… that's right," you said, rubbing your red nose. "Only losers like me get sick in summer."
A low, amused chuckle rumbled from his chest.
"You're illegally cute like this, Cupcake." He sat down on the edge of the bed, warm hand catching your face, thumb stroking your cheek. "Playing innocent and a little naive." His eyes softened into something dangerous in a completely different way. "I wouldn't leave you in this bed even if you were infected with something deadly. I'd stay right here with you and we'd spend our last night together—in this bed, skin to skin, just like in those stupid romantic novels you told me about."
"You hate them, don't you?"
"Sometimes," he muttered, eyes dark but holding a quiet warmth. "Now—you're burning up and that's not good. I'll get you some aspirin."
You nuzzled against his palm like a devoted kitten. "It's only good when I burn from wanting you?"
Patrick's breath caught—just for a fraction of a second.
"It's only good when I say it is."
You rolled your eyes and sighed when he removed his hand and disappeared into the living room, a strip of light falling through the open door. Your face genuinely burned when you pressed your fingers to your cheeks, head pounding. He returned quickly—glass of water in one hand, two small pills in the other.
Taking medicine from other people always made you uncomfortable. But Patrick wasn't just anyone. You trusted him, in some twisted way. Maybe you were sick with more than just a flu—something far more dangerous.
After you swallowed the pills Patrick set the glass on the nightstand and pinched your cheek lightly. "Good girl."
"Thank you, Doc."
He paused, eyes curious, lips curling into that hauntingly dangerous smile. "Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a surgeon?"
"N-no?"
He climbed carefully into bed beside you, giving you enough space while making it perfectly clear you were welcome to lie against his chest.
"Doesn't blood scare you at all?"
His low chuckle reverberated through his ribcage. "Not at all," he said, wrapping an arm around you and tracing lazy circles on your lower back. "In fact, I rather love the sight of blood—"
A sudden pause hung in the air.
You looked up at him, about to ask him to continue—and then you sneezed directly into his collarbone. He wordlessly produced an entire pack of napkins.
"Keep your nose covered," he said, almost scolding. "I wasn't joking about missing the party."
You sneezed again, nearly elbowing him in the face. "Sor-ry—I—maybe I should just sleep on the couch—"
"Too late for that, I think."
He watched your uncontrollable sneezing with detached skepticism, but kept handing you napkins with something that almost resembled care. Your eyes began to water, head spinning harder. You sat up and he followed.
"God, I think I'm dying," you groaned, pressing two napkins to your nose at once.
You sniffled, a wave of frustration and self-pity crashing through you. You hated being like this—helpless and pathetic and leaking from the face—and Patrick, as if he could read every thought, watched you with quiet understanding.
"My dramatic little Cupcake," he crooned, brushing stray hair off your forehead. "So dramatic she can't even keep herself together."
"It's n-not funny."
"Of course it is," he replied, and pressed a kiss to your forehead—once, twice—then left a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your neck. "Get some sleep. You really need it."
You grabbed him with both arms, pulling him as close as you could. His skin was impossibly smooth beneath your fingers as you traced long stripes across his back and shoulders, his moles scattered like small constellations you could find even in the dark.
"You'll be here when I wake up."
It wasn't a question.
"Mhm," he hummed, pressing his forehead against yours, eyes already closed. "I'll be anywhere you want me. Even in your dreams."
I’m really sorry but I need to close my asks for a while.
I’ve been struggling a lot lately—my job is extremely time-demanding right now, and my granny just turned 89 and her health is getting worse day by day. She’s bedridden and I’m trying to be there for her as much as I can. Because of all this, I barely have any energy or time left.
I’ve seen all your requests and I genuinely appreciate every single one of them, thank you so much for trusting me with your ideas. But right now I don’t have the capacity to reply or work on commissions the way I want to.
When I do have a little free time to write, I need to focus on my own stories for a bit. I hope you can understand.
I’ll come back with full force as soon as life calms down a little. Thank you for being patient with me!💕
Clingy!Patrick Bateman who wakes up multiple times during the night just to make sure you’re still there. He doesn’t wake you—he simply turns on the bedside lamp on the lowest setting and stares. His hand rests on your waist or slides under your shirt, needing the warmth of your skin to calm the gnawing anxiety that you might vanish. Only once he’s convinced you’re real does he pull you tighter against him and try to sleep again.
Desperate!Patrick Bateman who refuses to call it love. He hates the word. He hates the concept. But he can’t deny that something inside his hollow chest shifts when you’re around. He admits it only in the dead of night, when you’re asleep in his arms—a silent, bitter confession to himself: “This thing… it’s making me weak.” He’ll never say it out loud. Not to you. Not to anyone.
Obsessed!Patrick Bateman who can’t keep his hands off you. Every inch of your body belongs to him—a fact he treats with religious devotion. His touch varies: sometimes affectionate and slow, tracing your spine like he’s memorizing every vertebra... sometimes possessive and bruising, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave marks... sometimes downright obscene—slipping under your clothes in public, in the back of a taxi, or during dinner with colleagues, daring you to stay quiet while he reminds you who you belong to.
Dark!Patrick Bateman whose eyes are voids. When you look into them too long, you feel like you’re staring into an endless black hole where empathy and humanity should be. He knows he’s empty. He’s told you so, voice cold and clinical. You insist there’s something more. He calls you delusional. You call him the same. The twisted part is… you’re both a little right.
Possessive!Patrick Bateman who tracks your every move. Not always obviously—sometimes through “coincidences,” sometimes through more invasive methods he’d never admit to. Your diary? He’s looked through it. Your schedule? Memorized. If another man even looks at you too long, Patrick’s smile becomes razor-sharp, and his hand on the small of your back turns into a silent claim.
Jealous!Patrick Bateman who doesn’t get loud or dramatic. His jealousy is ice-cold and terrifyingly calm. He’ll destroy someone’s life with a few phone calls and a chillingly polite conversation, then come home and fuck you like he’s erasing every other man who’s ever existed from your memory.
NSFW BONUS:
Filthy!Patrick Bateman:
He’s addicted to the way you sound when he ruins you. He’ll edge you for hours, fingers or cock buried deep inside you, whispering against your ear in that smooth, psychopathic voice: "Look at you… falling apart for a man who doesn’t even have a soul. Pathetic... Beautiful... Owned."
He loves making you say you’re his while he’s balls-deep, choking you lightly, forcing eye contact. The moment you start to cum, he gets dangerously tender—forehead pressed to yours, voice almost soft: "That’s it… give it to me. Everything. It’s already mine anyway."
He also has a habit of cumming inside you and then keeping you plugged with his cock afterward, fascinated by the sight of his seed leaking out of you. It satisfies something deeply primal and deranged in him—the ultimate proof of ownership.
You always suspected Patrick was afraid of being tickled, even though he'd never admit it. He was so relaxed—lying on his stomach while you worked your hands along his back, tracing the lines of his muscles. Then your fingers accidentally slid against his side.
He wasn't really ticklish at first. But he was already wired up. He went still and said nothing, so you did it again—more deliberately this time, dragging your fingers slowly along his ribs.
He jolted.
"Hey." His voice was still controlled, but something underneath it wasn't. "Stop it."
You could hear it—the faint note of real distress, and underneath that, something almost like amusement. Like he was daring you to push further.
You pinched his back muscles gently. He pouted and tried to roll over, so you sat on top of him before he could. He went grumpy and rigid beneath you, almost childish in his indignation—and then, helplessly, he giggled.
You kept going. He thrashed beneath you, laughing properly now, that low resonant laugh that did something embarrassing to your concentration. You wanted more of it, so you slipped one hand beneath him and found his stomach. His muscles tensed and spasmed under your fingers as he laughed hard enough that you had to grip his sides to keep from sliding off entirely.
"Ha!" You leaned down close to his ear. "I knew you were scared of tickles. And I haven't even gotten to your feet yet."
He stopped giggling immediately. "Not the feet," he groaned, twisting to give you the most genuinely pleading look you'd ever seen on his face. "Jesus Christ. You're pure evil."
You pressed a soft kiss to his neck. "More evil than you?"
You felt him shiver slightly as you brushed your lips over his earlobe—and then you pinched him again.
You always suspected Patrick was afraid of being tickled, even though he'd never admit it. He was so relaxed—lying on his stomach while you worked your hands along his back, tracing the lines of his muscles. Then your fingers accidentally slid against his side.
He wasn't really ticklish at first. But he was already wired up. He went still and said nothing, so you did it again—more deliberately this time, dragging your fingers slowly along his ribs.
He jolted.
"Hey." His voice was still controlled, but something underneath it wasn't. "Stop it."
You could hear it—the faint note of real distress, and underneath that, something almost like amusement. Like he was daring you to push further.
You pinched his back muscles gently. He pouted and tried to roll over, so you sat on top of him before he could. He went grumpy and rigid beneath you, almost childish in his indignation—and then, helplessly, he giggled.
You kept going. He thrashed beneath you, laughing properly now, that low resonant laugh that did something embarrassing to your concentration. You wanted more of it, so you slipped one hand beneath him and found his stomach. His muscles tensed and spasmed under your fingers as he laughed hard enough that you had to grip his sides to keep from sliding off entirely.
"Ha!" You leaned down close to his ear. "I knew you were scared of tickles. And I haven't even gotten to your feet yet."
He stopped giggling immediately. "Not the feet," he groaned, twisting to give you the most genuinely pleading look you'd ever seen on his face. "Jesus Christ. You're pure evil."
You pressed a soft kiss to his neck. "More evil than you?"
You felt him shiver slightly as you brushed your lips over his earlobe—and then you pinched him again.
Trying to learn digital art slowly... I’ve spent almost two days on this :C
Used tracing/study references for practice and added my own details/colors while learning. I’ve always wanted to draw my baby Becca when she was younger with her Orthodox cross ♡
(and no, it’s not a hickey from Patrick—I tried to make a birthmark lmao)
The idea behind this little drawing is that it was a picture Becca gave Patrick before they parted ways and he left for Harvard.
I also tried drawing Patrick to finish what I've started a year ago...
I hope maybe one day I’ll be able to draw them together properly 🥺
Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader
NSFW, angst & smut, no daddy kink for this one (lmao).
This is another filler for my Cupcake series. I've had it in my drafts for a long time and finally decided to post it. Also, this song is amazing, I swear!
The bed felt colder than it used to—his bed, inside his hyper-sterile bedroom. Cold even after the rough sex you'd had. Your body ached from the way he showed his love—his cum still leaking inside you with every small movement. You let him have his way with you again. As if it could change anything.
As if it could give him some rest.
His void had been overtaking him more often since you two started seeing each other. You weren't dating—not really. It was more like a mutually beneficial arrangement. He was a good provider and he liked to be one. You gave him physical pleasure and, sometimes, emotional support.
Only when he needed it.
Only on his terms.
Patrick could easily switch you off.
Like he did a moment ago.
You fucked, he finished inside you, he withdrew—in both senses—physically and emotionally. No aftercare, but you never really expected any. But…
Every time he pressed you a little closer while you were pinned beneath him, lying flat on your belly as he ground into you slowly at first, then losing control—you thought: that was it.
You tried to cling to that small hope that Patrick needed you. That you had managed to make his mask slip. That you were special.
Thank God he couldn't read your mind—he would be so fucking agitated, so disgusted by your weakness. Being emotional wasn't a perk these days. You wanted to dissociate, to be as detached as him. That way everything would be so much easier.
Patrick shifted carefully onto his side, pulling you out of your thoughts. His arms found their way around your waist too quickly, nose burying into your neck, breath hot and teasing. You made a sound—something between a gasp, a cry, and a sob.
He was awake; you could tell. And he took that sound as one of joy. Amusing. Almost innocent.
"And how long have you been lying like this?" he asked, voice gruff from sleep.
He stayed silent for a moment, then pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your neck, letting his nose skim over your sensitive skin before he wrapped both arms around you, blanketing you in the warmth of his body.
"Did I upset you somehow in my sleep?"
That wasn't funny—not at all—but you chuckled anyway.
Asshole.
Even in moments like this, when you were about to burst into tears and yell at him how much you wanted him dead, not existing, erased from your memory completely—he always managed to reach right into your heart.
"Cupcake?"
His hard length pressed against your hip when he rolled up slightly to look over your shoulder, as if he could see everything even in the darkness. You didn't reply—barely holding yourself back from the mess of emotions: rage, hatred, need… desperation. Everything mixed together and somehow found its way out through this twisted connection with this man.
Patrick was too eager and stubborn to go without a reaction—he hated being ignored. You knew it, but you lay silent anyway. He read it as a game: you wanted him to pull it out of you, to coax you open, and he was more than willing to do exactly that. With his lips, his mouth, his cock.
Slowly, he pressed his palm against your lower belly, sliding it down until he cupped your still-wet pussy. A low, husky groan escaped his broad chest faster than he could stop it. You finally opened your eyes and turned to look at him—dim moonlight filtering through the blinds casting soft shadows across the bedroom.
As if everything was staged.
As if the two of you were playing roles in some dark romance film.
Patrick manhandled you too easily, pressing your legs together and bending them exactly where he wanted them—everything arranged for his own comfort. Then he got to his knees, placing them on either side of you so your ass was perfectly presented.
"You don't get to be silent when I didn't ask you to," he rasped, stroking himself lazily. "I want to hear you—how much you need me."
"No."
"No?"
He chuckled. The fat tip of his cock prodded at your entrance once, then brushed along your ass cheek before he slipped it back between your folds, coating himself in your juices and the remnants of his cum. His low panting echoed off the walls as his hand moved more feverishly over his cock, leaving slick, filthy sounds behind. He looked down once, then got a handful of your hip, fingers digging mercilessly into your flesh.
"This is almost amusing," he commented, slapping the throbbing length against your hipbone. "Almost."
You thought—hoped—that if you kept lying there passive, giving him nothing, he would lose interest. In reality you were so fucking wrong. It didn't work that way.
You should have known already.
Patrick straddled you, pressing you harder into the mattress, his body heavy and so hot it could burn. You stifled a whimper but it escaped anyway as he pushed himself inside you—only the tip, but enough to make you bite your lip, his girth stretching you open as if he hadn't already fucked you like it was the last time.
"Again," he urged, leaning close to your face. "Make that sound again."
Your hands clawed at the white wall above the bed, eyes squeezed shut. His teeth grazed your earlobe—almost painfully—before he actually bit down. You cried out and he buried himself to the hilt, roughly, all the way. You didn't just flinch—you jolted—but he kept you trapped beneath him, now fully lying over you, his hips grinding slow, deep circles against your ass.
"Mmh." Half-moan, half-groan as he licked the tears from your cheek. "Fuck, you taste obscene… so fucking sweet like this."
Each thrust came with his full weight behind it, using his body to make you feel every stroke, burying himself as deep as he could go. You could barely breathe beneath the press of his muscles. You didn't even notice your mouth had fallen open, saliva gathering at the corners, until he pressed two fingers against your lips and pushed until you almost choked.
"Bad Cupcake," Patrick hissed, lost in his own cruelty. "I want you to feel it… what you do to me."
You almost bit his fingers. He ignored it completely, sneaking his other hand beneath you to feel his cock pressing through the wall of your lower belly. He reveled in the way you shivered, whimpered, hands thrashing, trying to grab hold of him—all of it only fueling him to fuck you harder. The filthy sounds of your bodies were enough to leave you deaf. You could swear you heard him laughing inside his head even though he wasn't laughing—he was groaning, loud, animal, like there was no tomorrow, like he needed to fuck the life out of you. His fingers slipped to your clit, rubbing hard, messy circles while you sucked on his thumb and took his cock like you were made for it.
Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader
NSFW, angst & smut, no daddy kink for this one (lmao).
This is another filler for my Cupcake series. I've had it in my drafts for a long time and finally decided to post it. Also, this song is amazing, I swear!
The bed felt colder than it used to—his bed, inside his hyper-sterile bedroom. Cold even after the rough sex you'd had. Your body ached from the way he showed his love—his cum still leaking inside you with every small movement. You let him have his way with you again. As if it could change anything.
As if it could give him some rest.
His void had been overtaking him more often since you two started seeing each other. You weren't dating—not really. It was more like a mutually beneficial arrangement. He was a good provider and he liked to be one. You gave him physical pleasure and, sometimes, emotional support.
Only when he needed it.
Only on his terms.
Patrick could easily switch you off.
Like he did a moment ago.
You fucked, he finished inside you, he withdrew—in both senses—physically and emotionally. No aftercare, but you never really expected any. But…
Every time he pressed you a little closer while you were pinned beneath him, lying flat on your belly as he ground into you slowly at first, then losing control—you thought: that was it.
You tried to cling to that small hope that Patrick needed you. That you had managed to make his mask slip. That you were special.
Thank God he couldn't read your mind—he would be so fucking agitated, so disgusted by your weakness. Being emotional wasn't a perk these days. You wanted to dissociate, to be as detached as him. That way everything would be so much easier.
Patrick shifted carefully onto his side, pulling you out of your thoughts. His arms found their way around your waist too quickly, nose burying into your neck, breath hot and teasing. You made a sound—something between a gasp, a cry, and a sob.
He was awake; you could tell. And he took that sound as one of joy. Amusing. Almost innocent.
"And how long have you been lying like this?" he asked, voice gruff from sleep.
He stayed silent for a moment, then pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your neck, letting his nose skim over your sensitive skin before he wrapped both arms around you, blanketing you in the warmth of his body.
"Did I upset you somehow in my sleep?"
That wasn't funny—not at all—but you chuckled anyway.
Asshole.
Even in moments like this, when you were about to burst into tears and yell at him how much you wanted him dead, not existing, erased from your memory completely—he always managed to reach right into your heart.
"Cupcake?"
His hard length pressed against your hip when he rolled up slightly to look over your shoulder, as if he could see everything even in the darkness. You didn't reply—barely holding yourself back from the mess of emotions: rage, hatred, need… desperation. Everything mixed together and somehow found its way out through this twisted connection with this man.
Patrick was too eager and stubborn to go without a reaction—he hated being ignored. You knew it, but you lay silent anyway. He read it as a game: you wanted him to pull it out of you, to coax you open, and he was more than willing to do exactly that. With his lips, his mouth, his cock.
Slowly, he pressed his palm against your lower belly, sliding it down until he cupped your still-wet pussy. A low, husky groan escaped his broad chest faster than he could stop it. You finally opened your eyes and turned to look at him—dim moonlight filtering through the blinds casting soft shadows across the bedroom.
As if everything was staged.
As if the two of you were playing roles in some dark romance film.
Patrick manhandled you too easily, pressing your legs together and bending them exactly where he wanted them—everything arranged for his own comfort. Then he got to his knees, placing them on either side of you so your ass was perfectly presented.
"You don't get to be silent when I didn't ask you to," he rasped, stroking himself lazily. "I want to hear you—how much you need me."
"No."
"No?"
He chuckled. The fat tip of his cock prodded at your entrance once, then brushed along your ass cheek before he slipped it back between your folds, coating himself in your juices and the remnants of his cum. His low panting echoed off the walls as his hand moved more feverishly over his cock, leaving slick, filthy sounds behind. He looked down once, then got a handful of your hip, fingers digging mercilessly into your flesh.
"This is almost amusing," he commented, slapping the throbbing length against your hipbone. "Almost."
You thought—hoped—that if you kept lying there passive, giving him nothing, he would lose interest. In reality you were so fucking wrong. It didn't work that way.
You should have known already.
Patrick straddled you, pressing you harder into the mattress, his body heavy and so hot it could burn. You stifled a whimper but it escaped anyway as he pushed himself inside you—only the tip, but enough to make you bite your lip, his girth stretching you open as if he hadn't already fucked you like it was the last time.
"Again," he urged, leaning close to your face. "Make that sound again."
Your hands clawed at the white wall above the bed, eyes squeezed shut. His teeth grazed your earlobe—almost painfully—before he actually bit down. You cried out and he buried himself to the hilt, roughly, all the way. You didn't just flinch—you jolted—but he kept you trapped beneath him, now fully lying over you, his hips grinding slow, deep circles against your ass.
"Mmh." Half-moan, half-groan as he licked the tears from your cheek. "Fuck, you taste obscene… so fucking sweet like this."
Each thrust came with his full weight behind it, using his body to make you feel every stroke, burying himself as deep as he could go. You could barely breathe beneath the press of his muscles. You didn't even notice your mouth had fallen open, saliva gathering at the corners, until he pressed two fingers against your lips and pushed until you almost choked.
"Bad Cupcake," Patrick hissed, lost in his own cruelty. "I want you to feel it… what you do to me."
You almost bit his fingers. He ignored it completely, sneaking his other hand beneath you to feel his cock pressing through the wall of your lower belly. He reveled in the way you shivered, whimpered, hands thrashing, trying to grab hold of him—all of it only fueling him to fuck you harder. The filthy sounds of your bodies were enough to leave you deaf. You could swear you heard him laughing inside his head even though he wasn't laughing—he was groaning, loud, animal, like there was no tomorrow, like he needed to fuck the life out of you. His fingers slipped to your clit, rubbing hard, messy circles while you sucked on his thumb and took his cock like you were made for it.
