hiii same anon who requested patrick bateman x neurodivergent s/o!! do u think u can try sum headcanons for patrick (yet again) with an asexual (specifically sex repulsed) s/o?? u dont have to if you want this totally isnt self indulgent wdym /j
thank you sm for this request, i had way too much fun with it honestly 🫣 the dynamic got a bit dark, a bit tender, a bit confusing (just like patrick's brain) — but it was such an interesting angle to explore. hope you enjoy these!! 🖤
also — self-indulgent?? babe that’s the point. keep them coming /pos
Summary: Patrick starts dating you for the aesthetic — beautiful, composed, easy to show off. But your quiet defiance of his expectations, your disinterest in sex, and the way you actually listen to him begin to unravel something deeper (and much more dangerous) in him. It's not just about control anymore.
Tags: Patrick Bateman x Reader, Fem!Reader, Asexual!Reader, Patrick Bateman headcanons
Warnings: Mentions of sex (non-explicit), Sexual frustration, Asexuality (sex-repulsed reader), Internalized anger, Emotional repression, Mentions of masturbation, Mentions of murder, Psychological manipulation, Romanticization of obsessive behavior (fictional only)
This is fictional. Don't romanticize this stuff in real life. Viewer discretion advised.
A/N: btw, i wrote this as patrick x fem!reader since it felt more fitting considering the movie + how he behaves in canon — but feel free to read it however you want, the dynamic stays the same 💅
“Perfect girlfriend” material — but something he can’t pin down:
Patrick starts dating you because you’re ideal: Clean. Attractive. Polished enough to walk into any restaurant on his arm without making him look ridiculous.
You’re quiet. Composed. Predictable. You fit. You’re safe.
But it doesn’t take long for something to feel... off.
You don’t smile at the right moments. You don’t try to charm his friends. You ask strange questions — precise, thoughtful, out of place at rooftop cocktail parties. You listen more than you speak.
Most women perform. You observe. And worse — you observe him. Sometimes you tilt your head when he talks, like you're dissecting his sentences. Like you’re cataloguing something. Testing him.
He tells himself he doesn't care. But he finds himself replaying conversations with you. Watching you more closely than he should.
You were supposed to be an accessory. Now you’re starting to feel like a variable. And Patrick Bateman hates variables.
The “perfect” night — with a goal in mind:
Patrick doesn’t believe in romance. But he knows how to perform it.
Dinner at an exclusive place. Wine he barely tastes. A perfectly calculated smile across the table. Everything choreographed.
He holds the door open. Pays the bill. Laughs at your jokes. The whole “boyfriend of the year” act — all just steps toward the bedroom.
You look incredible. You’re quiet. Composed. Beautiful. Why wouldn’t he want to fuck you?
He gets you back to the penthouse. Lighting set low. Music playing at the right volume. He hands you a drink and kisses your neck, already imagining what you’ll look like stripped down.
And then: “I’m really tired. Can we not?” You say it softly. Calmly. Like you’re asking to skip dessert. Like this wasn’t the moment.
You don’t flinch. You don’t explain. You just set a boundary — clean, quiet, absolute.
He freezes. Only for a second.
Then the smile returns. Soft. Charming. Mechanical.
He kisses your temple like it doesn’t bother him. Like he’s fine. Like he’s not raging underneath.
He doesn’t show it. But inside? Something cracks.
Trying to convince himself — and failing:
After that night, Patrick tells himself it wasn’t his fault. He’s flawless. If anything, she is the one who’s off.
So he brushes it aside. Blames her mood, the timing, something outside of himself.
He tries again. And again. Each time, the answer stays the same — a quiet, unyielding no. No anger. No explanations. Just a firm boundary.
It unsettles him. Gnaws at his confidence. Breaks the neat image he’s built around himself.
He becomes colder. More distant. His once effortless charm turns hollow, his smiles sharper, colder.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he wonders silently. He masks the frustration, but it simmers beneath the surface.
Some nights, he contemplates escape. Flashy parties. Women who want him without questions. Prostitutes to fill the void.
But he never goes. Instead, he locks himself in the bathroom, shuts the door tight, and relieves the tension alone. The act is mechanical. Empty. Frustrating.
He hates that. But it’s the only way he can handle the growing disconnect.
The breaking point — and the question he can’t avoid:
A month in, Patrick’s patience is gone. He wonders — every day — why he hasn’t just gone to a prostitute already. It would be easier. Cleaner. No questions. No boundaries.
But something keeps him tethered. The tension — the silent rejection — it’s not just in their relationship. It’s bleeding into everything.
His murders become more frequent. More violent. Bloodier. It’s like he’s trying to vent the frustration he can’t put into words.
He barely sleeps. He barely thinks straight. And then, one night — after weeks of silent suffering — it all collapses.
He sits across from you, eyes dark and unguarded. The mask slips. “What’s wrong with you?”
But inside, he’s asking himself, too. Am I the problem? Is it me? Why won’t she want me?
The question haunts him. The doubt eats at him. He’s lost control. And he hates it.
The explanation — and his cold compromise:
You finally tell him. You don’t want to, but you have to.
You explain it gently. Slowly. Your voice is calm, but your chest feels tight.
You tell him you’re asexual. Not just disinterested — repulsed by sex. It’s not a phase. It’s not about him.
You care about him. Deeply. You love him, even. But you’ll never want that. Not with anyone. Not even him.
He stares at you. Blank. Too quiet. Too still. So you keep going —
You say you understand if that’s not something he can live with. You say you won’t hold it against him if he decides to leave. You even say you’d get it. Your voice cracks just a little when you say that.
For a long moment, he says nothing. Just that empty, unreadable face.
Then: “I’m not leaving.” His tone is flat. Icy. Final.
You want to believe it means something. You try to. But what you don’t hear — what he doesn’t say — is louder.
Inside, Patrick’s already weighing the optics. Ditching his girlfriend after six weeks? Bad look. People talk. Paul Allen would talk. So he says, “We’ll talk more later.”
And as he reaches for his coat: “I have to return some videotapes.”
No more performance — just the raw version of him:
Something shifts after your conversation.It clicks in his head: You’re not going to sleep with him. Ever.
So why bother with the charade? No more fancy restaurants. No more flowers. No more effort.
The “boyfriend” mask peels back, piece by piece. He stops trying to impress you. He doesn’t have to.
At first, it means long silences. A lot of mutual ignoring. He works out. You read. He listens to music. You scroll through weird forums.
But somehow, you start finding little overlaps. Horror movies. Old records. The finer points of murder weaponry (in fiction — mostly). You don’t flinch when Leatherface shows up on screen. You don’t ask him to tone down his rants about business cards or Huey Lewis. You just let him be.
And that… unnerves him. He doesn’t feel the need to seduce or manipulate you. You’re just there. Quiet. Calm. Odd.
He tells himself you’re just a background noise. A hobby. A strange little companion. But something about that starts to feel dangerous. Because for once, he’s not pretending. And he’s not sure what that means.
Real connection — and the night it gets too quiet in his head:
You listen to him. Not just nod and smile — you actually listen. You ask about his job, and mean it. You let him ramble about mergers, the market, the lies he tells people. You don’t interrupt. You don’t perform interest. You just are interested.
It’s… unsettling. No one does that. Not did Evelyn. Not Paul. Not even Courtney when she’s drugged into a fake smile.
At first, he files you under: hot friend. Weirdly perceptive. Good taste in movies. Doesn’t care about labels or image.
You’re not like the others. But not in a cliché way — you’re just there, and you see him. Worse: you understand parts of him no one else even notices.
Some nights, he doesn’t bother going back to his own apartment. He sleeps in your bed. Fully clothed. Facing the ceiling.
You both talk until 2 a.m. Sometimes about music. Sometimes about death. Sometimes about nothing.
And then — one night — something happens. He wakes up next to you. No dreams. No urges. He didn’t spend the night picturing your blood on his hands. Or your mouth on him. Or your breath choking out under his grip.
Just… quiet. It startles him. It bothers him. He lays there in the dark, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Trying to figure out when you stopped being something to consume and became something else entirely.
And he hates not knowing what that “something else” is.
The shift: when outside stops mattering
He used to thrive on events. Dinners. Openings. Award nights. Not for the experience — for the audience.
His girlfriends were props. Well-dressed trophies to prove he was better. Hotter girlfriend = higher status.
But with you? The shine wears off faster. He still brings you around at first. Watches people stare, listens to them whisper. It should be satisfying. But all he feels is boredom.
He cuts nights short. Starts skipping events altogether. No big declarations — he just doesn’t want to go. He tells himself it’s the venue. The crowd. The food.
But the truth? He’s started to like being inside more. At home. With you.
In sweats. With bad lighting. Watching disturbing films and dissecting them like weirdos. With no pressure to impress or be "Patrick Bateman".
For once, he doesn’t feel like a mask. And that should scare him — but instead, it calms him.
The thought he can’t get rid of:
It comes to him in the middle of a completely ordinary night. You’re both on the couch. You’ve got your legs draped over his lap, you’re eating some awful snack food and talking about dreams.
He doesn’t want to fuck you right now. He doesn’t want to kill you. He doesn’t want to leave.
He just wants to be here.
It doesn’t feel normal. He’s not used to stillness. No goal, no endgame. Just... this strange, clean hunger to stay close.
So his brain — his sick, rotting, calculating brain — tries to label it. Tries to dissect it.
Is this dependency? Is it obsession? Is it emotional rot?
Or — God forbid — Is this love?
He doesn’t say it. He can’t. The word alone feels filthy.
But something in him clicks, uncomfortably. Like a machine realigning.
And that night, when he goes to sleep next to you — he doesn’t fantasize about your blood. He doesn’t get hard. He doesn’t want anything from you.
He just wants you to still be there when he wakes up.
