Clingy Patrick Bateman Who Uses You as His Personal Pillow HCs
✦ You never expected it, but Patrick Bateman is the most ridiculously clingy man in bed.
✦ He uses your body like a personal pillow, molding around you, arms and legs locked in place. And God forbid you shift in your sleep—he’ll let out the most annoyed grumble if his hands slip off you for even a second.
✦ He needs your warmth. Needs your breathing ghosting over his skin like a lullaby. Without it, he can’t sleep.
✦ Even when you try to get up to pee, he doesn’t let go.
✦ “Mmh… don’t go… stay,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
✦ You roll your eyes. “Patrick, I need to piss.”
✦ He groans, like you’ve just shattered his world, but eventually releases you with the most dramatic sigh known to man. He’ll roll over, but he’s not falling back asleep. He’s waiting.
✦ The moment you crawl back under the covers, he wraps himself around you again—face buried in your neck, chest pressed to yours, or pulling you into his instead.
✦ In public, he’s cold, untouchable, a wall of polish and menace.
✦ But in bed?
✦ He’s just a giant cat who can’t sleep unless he’s touching you.
A/N: Sorry for spamming you with these short silly things and not posting any serious writing lately! I promise full-fledged fics are coming soon! Thanks for being patient!💖
Summary: Patrick gives up control for one night. It doesn’t exactly go the way that you want it to.
— warnings: nsfw content, sub!patrick but he still has psychological control ofc, blowjobs, teasing, restraints, choking
"Are you trying to get me to beg?" Patrick asks, his brows knitting together as he watches your naked frame kneel before him, an uncomfortable throb shooting to the tent in his briefs as your tongue darts out to wet your lips. "Because if that's what you're doing, then I can assure you that I'm not going to plead to get you to touch me."
A soft coo slips past your lips as you stroke your fingers up Patrick's thigh, the muscle tensing involuntarily as your digits teasingly edge closer to the place where he wants you to touch him the most. You can tell that he's frustrated by the ticking of his jaw and the flaring of his nostrils, and you shoot him a loving smile as he glares down at you.
"You know how much I want you to beg," you murmur, your eyes glinting with mischief as you cup Patrick's hard cock through his briefs, a low groan drawing from the depth of his throat as you do so. "Please, Patrick? I want to hear how badly you want me."
"I'm not going to beg you to touch me.” His voice is emotionless, yet his throat grows dry when he watches your tongue comes out again, this time not to wet your lips but to lick at the outline of his cock through his briefs. "I'll get what I want eventually.” He tenses as you leave a wet stripe up his briefs, before he mockingly adds, “honey.”
You pout, your fingers careful as they slip under the band of his briefs, tugging at the Italian-made cotton softly. "At least pretend like I'm the one in control here," you huff, your hand curling around his cock, your lips quirking upwards as his pink tip leaks with precum. "Humour me a little, Patrick. Beg. Please?”
Patrick tries to ignore how comedic this situation actually is. He's the one tied up right now — his wrists are bound together with rope and he's tethered to the headboard, but somehow, he has all of the control. You're literally begging him to plead with you. If he was in your position and you were denying him of such sweetness, he'd bring out one of his knives and then you'd start blubbering and pleading like it's nobody's business.
He decides to humour you.
"Please suck my cock, honey. I need it so bad. I need it more than anything," he says flatly, the tip of his cock twitching against your cupid's bow as you beam up at him, "you have no idea what you do to me."
Surprisingly, it doesn't work.
"Don't mock me, Patrick. You're a little bit frustrated. I can see how tense you are." A low groan draws from his throat as you lick a delicate stripe up his length, careful to trace along his veins, your tongue sweetly swirling around his swollen head when you reach his tip. "If you don't comply with my orders, you're not getting what you want."
"Just put it in your mouth."
"I'll put it in my mouth when you ask me properly."
There it is — the tick in his jaw, the flaring of his nostrils, the intense, downcast gaze. You're pushing his boundaries, and you grin as he huffs, your lips carefully pressing gentle kisses against his length.
Your movements are incredibly gentle as you cup his balls in the palm of your hand, your tongue flicking out to toy with the needy head of his cock. His eyes crinkle shut and his nose scrunches as you lick a slow, deliberate stripe from the head of his cock down to his balls, your tongue flattening against his length as you bring your skilful muscle back up to his tip.
It's torture. Delicious torture. His nostrils flare when you pull away, a lewd string of spit trailing from his cock to your lips. You look up at him through lidded eyes, and your heart races in your chest as you see how black and blown his pupils are, his hazel irises sheathed from the dilation of his lust.
Pride resides in the depth of Patrick's chest. He didn't think you actual had it in you to tease him, but as you pepper sultry kisses to his cock, he realises that he's actually beginning to lose patience. His hips thrust against your face involuntarily, and an embarrassing whine catches in his throat as you tease him.
"I won't ask again," he says, and there's an edge to his tone that has your heart wrenching and fear prickling at your skin, "put it in your mouth. Please."
You smile.
It's the closest you're ever going to get to Patrick pleading with you. This small act of submission is enough — his bound wrists were his idea, not yours, meaning he was still in control even when he was complying with your demands to be domineering for once.
"Only because you asked so nicely," you tease, flinching under his warning gaze, your lips wrapping around the head of his cock carefully.
Your mouth is so warm and so wet, and Patrick's jaw clenches so hard that he wonders how he hasn't broken a tooth in the process. You feel so good as you roll your head up and down his cock lazily, your tongue trailing around his length as you force your head down, your nose pressing against his crotch as you take every inch of his cock inside of your mouth.
You gag. It's like heaven — the constriction of your throat tightens the grip your mouth has on his cock, and the warm, familiar feeling of arousal pools in your belly as Patrick hisses from above you, the muscles of his thighs flexing underneath your touch. There's something so intimate about how he's giving himself to you, how he's allowing you to have control, and you flush under his heavy gaze as you choke around his length, still not quite used to the uncomfortable girth of his cock.
"I'm glad that I made you bind me to the bed with these ropes," Patrick breathes from above you, his eyes starry as your tongue flicks over his tip, rolling over his slit carefully. "I want to hurt you so badly. If I wasn't restrained I think I'd ruin you completely."
The twitching head of his cock is a good enough signal that he's close. He grunts from above you, and it feels like he's been punched as his eyes lock onto yours, your mouth set upwards into a smile, your mouth glistening with salvia and precum.
Patrick's eyelids flutter shut, and you giggle as he groans again — usually he's not so vocal — using his moans as means of encouragement, forcing your head down, taking in all of his length, until you can no longer breathe breathe.
Tears prick at the corner of your eyes and your lungs are burning by the time that he cums. You struggle against him, squeezing your eyes shut, taking in every inch of him, your tongue lewdly lapping at his balls in an attempt to shock him through his orgasm.
And it works. Patrick is so tense that you can feel every single indentation of muscle, and your fingers dart over his chiselled abs, your cunt pulsing with need as he spews incoherent insults from above you.
By the time your breathing has steadied and you've finished swallowing, Patrick is no longer tense. He's no longer twitching, but his cock is still hard and heavy, a small bead of cum dribbling down his length as he gazes at you such fire you feel like you're being set alight.
"Untie me," he says, his voice dripping with authority and warning, “now."
"Yes, Patrick." You scramble towards him, quick to loosen the knots in the rope, your heart thrashing wildly in your chest.
You realise that the only reason you were in control then is because Patrick let you be. Once the knots are untied, his hands scatter towards your throat, and your eyes are wide and frantic as he presses down on your trachea, cutting off your air supply, making you feel dumb and incredibly horny.
His eyes blaze wildly as he gazes down at you, and he smirks, his pearly white teeth glistening in the florescent lights of his bedrooms as he promises, "you're in for a long night, honey."
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?”)
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.
That’s it.
Silver spoon in his mouth from the moment he took his first breath. No real achievements, no grit, no substance—just luck dressed up as merit. He’d lose it. That cold, composed mask would crack instantly, and something almost homicidal would flash in his eyes.
“Oh, yeah? You’re so fucking smart now?” he’d sneer, voice low and venomous. “You let me fuck you raw and now you want to lecture me about morals?”
But inside, he’d be raging. Because deep down, he knows you’re right. Your words would scrape against that hollow void he spends every waking moment trying to fill with designer suits, expensive watches, and meaningless status. His ego would be bleeding.
How dare you—a nobody who doesn’t own a Rolex, who doesn’t live in the right building on the Upper East Side—point it out? He’s a Wall Street golden boy. Old money. Powerful. You’re supposed to be nothing but a toy to him.
And yet here you are, standing in front of him, completely sure of who you are… while he has no idea who he is without the money, the clothes, and the reputation.
“You’re so delusional, Patrick,” you’d say softly, almost pitying. “And I really do feel sorry for you.”
That would break him.
His face would flush red, nostrils flaring, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead. His voice would drop to a dangerous whisper:
Bruce would be going insane when he finally gets his girl bred. Seeing her trying on gala dresses that are much too small now, her hips getting fuller, tits getting bigger, and swelling with his kid? Way to end up in the gossip mags.
I dont think he'd be able to stop himself at one. You know what the elites are like, kings never just had one heir.
I think he'd want to suck on her tits so bad.
Tbh, i can see Patrick doing that too.
Carrying His Child | Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader, Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader HEADCANON
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, implied smut, lactation kink, breeding kink, body worship, pet names, some dirty talk, Pregnant!Reader, breeding kink, pregnancy-related details, established relationships, Husband!Patrick Bateman, Husband!Bruce Wayne, pregnancy sex.
𝐀/𝐍: I couldn't agree more with what anon said and I just wanted to write down some of my thoughts about these two men. Hope you enjoy it!
Patrick Bateman
The recent news of your pregnancy would be both shocking and exciting for Patrick, but he wouldn't even know how to react at first. Should he be openly happy, as all doting partners are, or should he keep it all to himself so as not to look weak and pathetic? This man may not be the best at showing emotion and affection as most people perceive it, but what Patrick is good at is being in control and inflicting it on every aspect of his life, including you and his unborn child. So it's obvious that once your pregnancy is confirmed, Patrick would turn into the most overprotective man, but the dark side of it would be that he would have a grip on everything you do, your lifestyle, what you eat and drink, and who you interact with. And of course it would annoy you sometimes, but this man will try to manipulate you into thinking that he knows what's best for you. When the two of you are out in public, he would hold you close, but not really be clingy, more like allowing you to hold onto his arm, and Patrick would definitely hate any questions related to your pregnancy, like who the two of you are expecting and what month you're at.
Patrick prefers to think of having children as building a lineage - a legacy of his own blood and flesh. And although the burden of parenthood weighs heavily on his shoulders and makes him somewhat unhappy, he can sometimes find the concept of building a dynasty with you quite appealing. But the worst thing is that he doesn't really care about your thoughts or feelings about it, because he sees you as his property—he owns you from head to toe, every little bit of your body is his to possess and ruin. So once the idea of impregnating you again was fully integrated into his twisted mind, there would be no barriers for him to make his fantasies come true. Patrick would patiently wait for you to give birth to his firstborn, maybe even give you time to recover before he'd impregnate you again, using the beautiful and flowery phrases about the love between a man and a woman and how he wants you to give him as many children as he wants because children are flowers of life. There is no obstacle for him to get what he wants. No doubt that Patrick would do everything to make you the best mother because appearances are always important and he wants nothing more than a perfect wife and perfect children—the American dream family. Nothing more, nothing less.
As mentioned, Patrick is not a fan of physical affection, but sometimes, if he's really in the mood or if he thinks it would be easier for him to just give you a hug instead of listening to you vent, he'll do it. Of course, this guy knows how fucked up women can feel during pregnancy, but he can easily be overwhelmed by your depressed mood or your complaints about being tired all the time. On the days when he can't take it anymore, he'd try to escape and lose himself in some nightclub with some other yuppie in the company of pretty blonde hardbodies, but he'd never really try to fuck anyone else because his body would oddly crave only you. It would be annoying for him, especially when he realizes that the changes in your pregnant body only make him more horny. MUCH MORE HORNY. It literally drives him crazy. Whenever he sees you wearing something skimpy, Patrick's dick gets unbearably hard and he has to drag you back into the bedroom or press you against any surface he can BUT he has to remember that the current circumstances are different. You're carrying his child and he can't be as selfish as he always chooses to be—Patrick hates to admit that the unborn child was already stirring something weird in him. But he didn't know how to deal with that strange feeling in his chest when he touches your baby bump with his hands or his lips. It's definitely something different. So different that he forgets about everything else but you—all the blank thoughts about how much money he spent on his new suit the other day, or what tie Tim Price wore yesterday, or which model Craig McDermott boffed at the last fashion show. Fuck all that. If he ever needs to be really gentle, it should be with his pregnant wife. No questions asked. As awkward as he imagined pregnancy sex to be, in reality Patrick enjoyed it even more than before, it was much more sensual and to have you so sensitive in his strong arms, reacting to his every little move, felt like heaven. "Fuck... You're taking me so well, doll," Patrick would murmur in your ear in a passionate tone, spooning you while he covered your neck with feverish kisses, his hands secured around your round belly while he continued to push carefully inside you. "So soft, so round, so warm." Being both insatiable and needy, Patrick would be literally erratic in his craving for your breast milk, acting like a little baby. But, if you ever implied that he was behaving like a baby boy, he would be so fucking offended and grumpy, but in the end, he would suckle at your breasts with full determination, which would make your nipples really sore, especially the moments when he would decide to use his sharp white fangs. Patrick literally can't stop craving the taste of your breast milk—he even considered taking some of your expressed milk to add to the coffee at the office. But this psycho would never tell you about his depraved plans.
Bruce Wayne
When it comes to your pregnancy, Bruce is extremely protective, but not in a babysitting kind of way, because he doesn't want you to feel pressured and obligated to follow a strict list of instructions, as he respects your personal boundaries, but still, sometimes Bruce can be a little too stressed about the safety of you and the baby you're carrying. Giving him a few pecks, stroking his cheek in a reassuring way, and telling him that he doesn't have to stay alert may help. But only until the next time Bruce gets worried about something else. He would also never stop bragging about how proud he is of you and how beautiful you are whenever you show up together at any gala event, and he would even make you wear the tightest dresses to show off your baby bump so that everyone would know who you belonged to. The images of you playing with your child in the backyard of the Wayne Manor would be his most intimate fantasy that he wouldn't share with anyone, claiming it was too personal. After all, Bruce has always been too sensitive about anything family related, but now he was in the process of creating HIS OWN family and he finds himself even more anxious, but he would do his best not to let anything like what happened to his parents happen again. Never again.
The idea of putting another baby inside you after you give birth would live inside his head for a long time like a brain worm, but it would be a very difficult time for him finding the right moment to make a suggestion about it. The man would be nervous because he knows that pregnancy is a very complicated time for any woman, with all those heavy syndromes, including morning sickness and sudden mood changes due to hormones. Bruce sees all this and it makes him insecure if you really want to go through all this again. And he'll never make decisions like this for both of you without your approval. For now, the man will focus on your current pregnancy, take care of you in every way possible, be your shield and shoulder to lean on when you feel down or unsure about being a good parent. Every time you doubt that you'll be a good mother, Bruce will bury his nose in the crook of your neck, deliberately tickling your skin to hear you laugh, and then whisper sweet little things about how happy he is that you're carrying his child and how absolutely sure he is that you'll be the great mother. Zero doubt.
Physical affection means a lot to this man, starting with holding your hand every time you walk together, hugging your waist whenever he can, planting feathery kisses on your temple or forehead. And all of this Bruce does to make sure you know how much he loves you, how much he cherishes every second of his life spent with you. When your body begins to change due to pregnancy, Bruce would be even more focused during sex, making sure you feel good and comfortable, choosing the best position to fuck you deeply but without harming the baby, literally worshipping your body as his personal shrine, telling you how much he loves every little detail of your changing figure: "Uh, darling, you're so beautiful. Uh...I can't get enough of you." In the mornings, you'd usually find him resting between your legs, eating you out with pure devotion, caressing your curvaceous hips and massaging your ample breasts that would soon be so full of milk. One day, when he was playing with your nipples and some of your milk would spill out, he would catch it with his finger and put it in his mouth—the moment Bruce would taste your milk for the first time would be his personal downfall as he would be very paranoid that you would think he's weird. He would try to fight the very idea of asking you to suckle your breasts, and he would be absolutely embarrassed until one day you would suggest it to him, because you'd remember his moan of satisfaction when he tasted your breast milk. Sometimes Bruce would latch his mouth around your nipple as you rode him, his muffled soft moans sounding so perfect and hot, literally becoming your personal aphrodisiac, making you orgasm quite quickly and very vividly. And your round hips, Jesus Christ, your hips would always be touched and teased, fondled and kneaded—simply because your husband can't stop himself, he's literally obsessed. The days when you're struggling with your sore breasts, Bruce would immediately offer you his help, massaging your soft mounds and asking you how you feel and if he can squeeze them a little tighter, because he wants to feel your tender flesh under his fingers—he literally craved it so much. Scattering pillows on the bed for you to rest on would be Bruce's special ritual whenever you decided to get naughty or just relax together, naked, skin to skin, lips on lips. Once your baby bump got too big, Bruce would help you take a shower, including washing your hair and every little patch of your gorgeous body, so after that he can comb your hair and carry you into the bedroom to massage your feet and GOD, his strong hands really know how to work magic and sometimes it feels even better than sex.
You give Patrick tiny pats on the head whenever he does something genuinely nice—like remembering your coffee order exactly right, or not snapping at the waiter for once.
The first time you do it, he freezes. Eyes wide behind those perfect lashes, mouth parting in pure shock at the sheer audacity. No one's ever dared treat him like a kitten before—least of all you.
"You ruined my hair," he grumbles immediately, voice low and petulant as he smooths it back with manicured fingers. "Now I'll have to spend extra time in the bathroom before we leave for dinner. Do you have any idea how long the styling takes?"
But the worst part? He likes it.
Deep down—buried under layers of designer suits, meticulous skincare routines, and that icy, detached facade—he craves praise. Worship. Validation. Even these silly little head pats make something warm and unfamiliar bloom in his chest. They make him feel seen, loved, needed in a way no merger, no reservation at Dorsia, no blood-soaked fantasy ever could.
It's his father issues talking, of course. The cold distance, the unspoken expectations, the endless pressure to perform perfection without ever receiving genuine affection. You both know it. He knows it. You never bring it up—never need to. The pats say enough.
The next time he surprises you with flowers (not the over-the-top ostentatious kind, just simple white tulips because you mentioned liking them once), you reach up without thinking. Gentle fingers card through his gelled hair, patting softly once, twice.
He exhales sharply, a tiny shudder running through him. His jaw ticks like he's fighting a war inside.
"...Don't," he mutters, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he leans in—just a fraction—eyes fluttering half-closed like he's savoring it against his better judgment.
18+ | MDNI • Patrick cums so hard while eating you out that it scares the shit out of him.
Patrick couldn't help it.
He kept lapping at your pussy like a man possessed; his cock pulsed in his grip, and he literally groaned into your flesh every time he felt his orgasm looming too close.
“You taste so fucking good,” he kept repeating, voice muffled and raw against your skin.
You moaned and arched, legs resting possessively over his broad shoulders, one hand fisted in his soft hair. His face was buried between your thighs—already a wet, filthy mess. You loved how he always lost control when he went down on you, but this time he was absolutely ferocious. Like an animal.
“I’m so close—please, don’t stop—”
He tightened his lips around your clit, fingers probing your entrance, hot and dripping. When he pushed them inside, black dots danced across your vision. His breath was scalding against your skin. You clawed at the bedsheets with one hand, pressing his head harder against you until his nose rubbed directly against your swollen bud. He plunged deeper, slurping at your folds, fingers stretching you wide. He curled them exactly where you needed, pads dragging against that perfect spot over and over.
“Yes—yes—that’s it! Please—Patrick—” Your words slurred together, heels digging into the mattress. “Oh—fuck—fuck—”
Your whole body tensed like a drawn bow. Your face froze in a delirious, open-mouthed smile as your walls clenched around his fingers and tongue. Patrick kept licking you through it, stroking himself with feverish, almost desperate speed. Your taste, your sobs, your warm skin—everything about you consumed him. His balls ached from how intoxicating you were; he was completely lost in you.
“Mmm,” he hummed into your slit. “Baby—fuck—”
His loud, guttural groan vibrated along your skin like a second wave of pleasure. You were still shaking, every nerve lit up and oversensitive. His cum gushed over his hand, the bedsheets, your legs—hot and messy.
It took him a full minute to come back to himself. When he did, a flicker of something like fear crossed his face. He was scared—genuinely scared—of how much he liked this. Nothing else had ever made him combust so completely.
“Holy shit,” he gasped, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against the mattress. “I thought I’d see Jesus.”
You chuckled, still breathless. “Not too fast. You still need to fuck me.”
He wanted to reply—opened his mouth to try—but nothing came out.
His whole body went limp. Eyes glassy and unfocused, cock still half-hard and throbbing. Your taste lingered vivid on his lips, but he brought his slick fingers to his mouth anyway, cleaning them slowly, like he couldn’t get enough. Because he truly couldn’t.
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.
