synopsis: It was simply a fuck—you bending Wall Street's golden boy and using him like your personal toy—but for him? He became obsessed.
WARNING: 18+ SMUT AHEAD
You never meant to wreck him.
Patrick Bateman—Wall Street’s golden boy, poster child of wealth and perfection—was never supposed to look at you like that. Not with flushed cheeks, bitten lips, and a ruined whimper stuttering out of him like a prayer. It was just a night. A quick fuck. You’d had better. You’d had worse. What mattered was that he wanted it, needed it, and you gave it to him.
Bent over his own $30,000 sofa.
Fingers twisted in his styled hair.
Fucking him open until he shook and sobbed and begged.
And then you left.
No kisses. No compliments. Just a whispered "You're welcome" and the click of your belt as you walked out of his penthouse and out of his life.
Or so you thought.
Patrick couldn’t sleep. He tried. He tried everything.
Valium. Sex. Murder.
Nothing worked.
Nothing felt as good. Nothing made him feel that raw, that undone, that owned. You had fucked him like he was just a thing, just a warm hole to be used, and he hated how much he wanted to feel it again. How much he craved your hands, your voice, the weight of you pinning him down like he was nothing.
Nobody had ever taken him like that. And now? Now you wouldn’t even answer his calls. So he started sending gifts.
A Rolex. You returned it.
Designer shoes. You tossed them.
A custom Tom Ford suit, tailored to your measurements. You sold it.
You didn’t want him and that drove him fucking insane.
The killings came faster now.
Messier.
He didn't even try to be neat. Every man who looked at you too long? Slaughtered. That smarmy guy at your gym who made you laugh while spotting your squats? Head caved in with a dumbbell. The barista who said “See you tomorrow” with a wink? Shot in the alley behind the café.
Patrick didn’t even check for cameras anymore.
It didn’t matter.
You were his.
And if he had to paint the city in blood for you to see it. Fine. He had the dry cleaning budget.
He showed up at your apartment one night, suit wrinkled, tie missing, hair a mess. Not the Bateman you remembered. “Don’t close the door.” he said when you opened it.
You leaned against the frame, chewing gum. “Oh. It’s you.”
His eye twitched. “Don’t be cruel.”
“You followed me home. That’s creepy, not romantic.”
Patrick’s voice cracked. “You broke me.”
“Because I fucked you?”
He flinched. “Because you left. Because I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.”
“You were supposed to be a fuck,” you said, stepping forward, jaw tightening. “Not a project. Not a stalker. You came. You moaned. You cried on my dick. That was the deal.”
Patrick swallowed. His eyes were glossy. “I want it again. I want you. You can do whatever you want to me. Just don’t ignore me.”
“And if I say no?”
He stared at you then smiled. That twitchy, unstable kind of smile that stretched too wide and didn't reach his eyes. “Then I’ll keep going until I matter. Until you can't ignore me. Until you look at me again like you did that night.”
You didn’t slam the door in his face.
You didn’t invite him in either.
Instead, you grabbed him by the tie of his crumpled shirt and shoved him back against the hallway wall. Patrick let out a strangled gasp, knees nearly buckling as your hand wrapped around his throat.
“I should kill you.”
Patrick’s pupils dilated. “Then do it, but please fuck me before you do.”
You stared at him. The desperation. The slick obsession behind his perfect, crumbling face. “Get inside.”
He obeyed.
The second time was worse than the first.
Worse for him, because he cried. Tears streaming down his cheeks as he begged for more. Nails scratching your back as you thrust into him harder than the last time, your palm pressed over his mouth to muffle the screams.
"You like being nothing, don’t you?" you whispered, dragging your teeth across his jaw.
He nodded frantically.
"Say it."
“I’m yours,” he sobbed. “Please—please don’t leave this time—”
You came inside him. Deep. Rough. No condom. Just because you knew it would fuck with his head. Just because you could. He collapsed under you, shaking. He looked up at you like you were a god.
And you?
You just lit a cigarette and watched him fall apart.
Three weeks later, Patrick hadn’t killed anyone. Not because he was better, but because you were finally calling him back. You weren’t dating, no, but you let him kneel. You let him beg. And when he got too loud, too possessive, too dangerous? You bent him over and used him like your personal toy.
I intended for this to be a more joking piece but i kind of locked in and made it pretty abusive. but they do it out of love so its okay 💕
i am so sorry i keep disappearing for months at a time. please don't leave im just very slow at writing </3 requests are seen and being written. next thing to come out is trying to escape in sleep part two!
characters include: Michael Myers, Thomas Hewitt, Dexter Morgan, Brian Moser, Patrick Bateman
CW for physical abuse
GN reader
After hearing about a new breakup prank trend going around among couples, you thought it'd be funny to participate with your own lover. What happens next...well that's entirely on you.
Michael Myers (Halloween '78)
You're sitting on the bed watching Michael play around with his knife when the idea first comes to you. A sly smile escapes you before you turn your body to Michael with a serious expression on your face. "Michael, we need to talk." This was going to be hilarious!
Michael doesn't stop what he's doing. He only barely moves his face slightly towards you in acknowledgment that he's at least somewhat paying attention to you, and you almost don't know what to say as mischievous excitement and a tinge of fear clouds your thoughts. Is he even going to react?
"We need to break up. I...can't do this anymore Michael. I'm sorry."
His entire body stops, his hands freezing with the knife mid-twirl. He's almost like a statue, his face devoid of all emotion, like always. You feel a shiver run up your back. This....wasn't a good idea. You try to move closer to him, and reach an arm out to him when he suddenly grabs your wrist, stopping you.
His grip hurt. A lot. You wince in pain but he doesn't let go, but instead tightens it until you're almost positive he's going to break it.
"It was just a joke, Michael! Let go!" You beg him, and after a few moments, he does. You cradle your wrist. It's bruised, badly, but it wasn't broken. You can feel tears threatening to fall from the pain. This wasn't a threat from Michael, of course. This was a statement, a reminder to you who runs the show. You can't leave him. You'll die before you do.
He follows you into the bathroom when you go to bandage your wrist. You look into the mirror for a quick second. Michael stares back at you, his face empty. He isn't completely cruel, or at least maybe he tries not to be as he hands you the bandages and watches you wrap your wrist. He forces you back into bed immediately after, holding on to you tightly as you both settle into darkness. He kisses you on the very top of your head. This is how the boogeyman loves you, y/n.
Don't do that again, unless you want a broken wrist next time.
Thomas Hewitt (TCM Remake)
You wait until the day is nearly done and Tommy is settled down in your room to enact your plan. He's doing something with some leftover skin at your shared desk, hunched over until he hears you open the door and step into the room. His face quickly falls from joy to confusion when he sees the melancholic look on your face. He's immediately at your side, looking down at you with nervousness. What's wrong, y/n?
You sigh dramatically as you sit Thomas down on the bed, taking a long and exaggerated pause before looking up at him with what you hope is a convincing look of exhaustion.
"Thomas. I don't want to be with you anymore. I'm sorry."
The nervous energy that surrounded him is completely gone the moment you utter those words. His eyes stare blankly at you. It's hard to exactly make out his expression with the mask covering a good portion of his face, but you can tell it's a mixture of hurt, anger, and disbelief.
If you think he's about to let you go, you are sorely mistaken. He grabs your shoulders harshly and refuses to let go no matter how hard you struggle against him. His eyes are just barely glistening with tears.
His grip hurts you. It hurts even more when you start laughing, mostly out of nervousness. You've just broken his heart, and now you're...laughing?
"I'm sorry! I was just joking!"
He stares at you for a second before his entire body collapses into you, and the air is nearly squeezed out of you as he hugs you as tight as possible. You can hear a deep sigh of relief from him as you kiss his cheek as you apologize over and over. You didn't mean to upset him so badly.
He becomes extra clingy for a few days after. Following you around the house more, sitting extra close to you during dinner. Prank or not, he can't stop thinking about you trying to leave him.
Be nice to Tommy, y/n.
Dexter Morgan (Dexter TV Series)
You're lounging around in your apartment, waiting for Dexter to come home from his work when you get the idea. Dexter is an enigma to you, and you just desperately want to see how he'd react to you wanting to leave him.
You text Dexter that you need to talk when he gets home, and you only receive a thumbs up emoji in response. You were a bit disappointed in his seemingly nonchalant response, but that was just typical Dexter.
Dexter is sitting in the lab, finishing his latest report when he hears his phone ding. When he reads your message, his heart races as he takes a deep breath. "This is the end. They've finally sifted through the sheep's wool, and seen me for what I really am; and they want no part of it."
For however long Dexter has left at the station, he's overthinking about how you're going to end it. How you're going to yank his heart out of his chest and rip it into pieces. And how could he blame you? You do deserve someone better, don't you? When the day ends, he has to force himself to drive home, to face the inevitable.
"Are you breaking up with me?" You don't even have time to process Dexter's arrival as he opens the door and immediately asks you that question. You are caught so off guard, that you forget about the prank entirely. "What? No?" You both stare at each other, confused, when you suddenly remember your text from before and start laughing, much to Dexter's dismay. Is this really funny to you?
After you both settle and you explain your plan, you can see Dexter visibly sigh in relief. He fake laughs at the situation, trying to convince you (or maybe himself?) of the humor of the situation, but really he's just...confused. Why would you fake break up with him to be funny? Is this something couples do often? Do you expect him to also do these types of pranks?
Dexter overthinks your relationship for the next few days. He won't say anything to you outloud, but inside he's wondering if you really do want to leave him. Could he do anything to stop it? He certainly tries, giving you extra and somewhat awkward attention. It's hard for Dexter to be normal, and do normal relationship things on his own, so you immediately get suspicious when he suggests going out.
You have to point blank tell him you do not want to leave him. Dexter will nod and smile and say everything is okay now, but you can still see the smallest traces of worry on him. Instead of going out, you make dinner together and have a date night at home eating food and watching a movie to ease Dexter's mind.
Pranks just wouldn't go over too well for Dexter.
Brian Moser (Dexter TV Series)
You're lying in bed with Brian when you remember a prank a friend told you about. Brian is reading a book beside you, one hand absent-mindlessly toying with strands of your hair. This is the perfect moment to do it, you think. He'll be completely caught off guard.
"Brian. I need to speak with you about something."
He hums in response, reading one last word in his book before looking over at you with a smile on his face. "Yes?" Your heart flutters as he looks into your eyes, pure love and obsession swirling around in his dilated pupils. You almost don't want to go through with the prank. He just looks so loving, y/n.
"I think we should...take a break. I just-"
His hand is immediately gripping your hair, pulling it back so painfully that you can't even finish your sentence. You wince and grab his arm to remove it, but he doesn't let go. His eyes stare into you and his face has lost any loving affection it once held. He looks emotionless.
"What?" His voice is almost playfully dark as he questions you. Like it's a game. It is a game. Only, you didn't intend on being a player. You try to apologize, try to explain that it was all a joke, but Brian doesn't let go of you. His grip only tightens, forcing your head back even farther as tears swell in your eyes as you beg him to stop.
After a moment, he finally lets go. He smiles at you, and moves in to kiss the top of your head. You cringe as you feel his hand slither back into your scalp, toying with your hair as he was before. He's gone back to reading his book, like nothing ever happened. You try to blink away your tears.
He squeezes you a little too tightly that night, putting more weight on you than he should as you both sleep. He will not let you leave him. He would kill you for trying. Because he loves you, y/n.
Was it worth the pain, y/n?
Patrick Bateman (American Psycho)
You know it's probably not a good idea to prank someone so unstable, but the curiosity of how he'd react gets the better of you. You wait for him to come home, sitting on the couch practicing your sad face for when he walks in. As you hear the lock on the door turn, your heart jumps in anticipation.
Patrick's already had a long day at the office when he sees the sullen look on your face as you sit on the couch, waiting for him. He rolls his eyes as he takes off his suit jacket, annoyed already at the change in routine; you should be at his side already, kissing him and asking him about his day. He doesn't want to have to deal with whatever the hell is going on with you after the day he's had, but he begrudgingly sits on the couch anyways, sighing and waiting for you to say something. "Well?"
"Patrick, I'm leaving you."
He laughs. There's no humor in it, just disbelief and anger that he's desperate to hide. You're leaving him? Him? He just can't believe it. He's the perfect boyfriend, after all. Sexy, charming, rich, loyal. You are literally never going to find anyone better than him, y/n. Are you stupid?
"No you're not." He's still laughing as he says it, refusing to believe you'd actually be this idiotic. You actually think he'd let you go? Alive?
You can't calm him down. He flips from laughter to rage, and despite your claims at it all being a big joke, he just continues to get more and more enraged. He wants to yell and throttle you for even trying to entertain the idea, prank or not. You have to get on your knees and practically pledge your devotion to him for him to calm down.
He's obsessive for the next few days, lingering behind you as you do your regular household chores during the evening. He's like a panther stalking his prey, watching your every move, almost waiting for you to give him a reason to pounce, to keep you locked away forever.
This man is way too unstable y/n why the hell did you do that.
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!💖
Would you write an effeminate male reader? Who wears some clothes or jewelry/costume jewelry considered feminine? I'm asking because the last time I made a request like this on another profile, people said in the comments that I was reinforcing stereotypes(?) as if effeminate men didn't exist
Anyway! I'd like an imagine where Patrick Bateman is intrigued and somewhat bothered by the spontaneous way the reader expresses himself (perhaps internalized homophobia?) and it all culminates in angry sex!
Totally inspired by that bathroom scene 🤒
𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍 — weirdo
tw: male reader(he mainly wears women's jewellery and is described to look like a girl), (internalized) homophobia, micro misogyny, one sides angry sex, desk sex, sigma mindset, reader is written to have a slim and feminine body(it is NOT sugarcoated), reader 'flirting' is all in his head, feminization, breeding kink
note: i'm so bored bro can something happen fr
he hated you.
if you were dehydrated on an island with him and he had two bottles of water, he'd drink both of them right in front of your face.
when you came here, he thought you were some short haired woman in a suit. he already hated you then, thinking you were a lesbian or some shit. but learning you were a man? who willingly uplifted your feminine features? it drove him insane, he hated when you stepped foot in his office.
every time you handed him something, he could feel those rings along your fingers. they weren't bulky or big. they were thin and dainty, with little jewels in the holder. disgusting.
next came the earrings. now he guessed diamond earrings would be okay for a man, but you wore those..dangly ones. either that, or hoop earrings and flowered studs.
then the necklaces, almost made him lose his mind. now, almost. what genuinely made him lose it was the lip gloss. you swore to him it was lip balm, but he wasn't stupid.
"here you are mr. bateman, the finished files and a few customer names written down." your fingers would graze, and he'd barely hide back the look of disgust.
then he saw it, glistening from the sun and onto your lips. a gloss. "excuse me," he stopped you, clearing his throat. "what is that, on your lips." you'd blink a bit, like you were confused before you made an 'oh' sound. "it's just lip balm mr. bateman, my lips have been getting awfully dry." you'd flash him a smile, and be on your way.
as he'd watch you go he had to stop himself from thinking. nice ass..
if he was really that below himself he'd wolf whistle.
you've been working now about a good month or two, and this feeling in his chest and stomach has just been getting worse and worse. the night before, he had been thinking of you, and thought a bit too hard.
he could tell you felt it too. you were leading this on, making him feel this way. you'd wave at him a certain way, lean over his desk, give him looks. he knew it, knew damn well. he got a lot of flirts, but you, you weren't even bothering to hide it.
but he needed you..in his office. now.
"someone said you needed me, mr. bateman?" you came inside, different types of jewelry on this time. he was so angry, so pissed off at you and himself. at you for just being you, and at himself for simply being attracted to you.
his mind was so clouded. he didn't see his hand at your waist, didn't feel himself gripping the skin beneath your suit jacket, didn't feel his lips on yours, didn't remember himself bending you over the desk.
each thrust made the desk urge forward from time to time, the legs scraping at the floor beneath it. was the door locked? he didn't know, was one hundred percent sure he didn't care either.
"mr. bateman!" yeah, but he heard that. heard your constant babbling and moaning, felt your squirming and cries of pleasure and he fucking loved it.
his hips were getting tired, but he couldn't stop, it felt too damn good. he saw the way your ass jiggled with each thrust, his fingers gripping along the slim curve of your waist, and leaving faint agitated marks.
"never fucked another man before," he breathed out, slowing his thrusts but making them harder. one of his hands came to your neck, pushing you lower down. "but i guess you don't count, do you?" his voice was low and patronizing, teasing you to get you upset and not aroused.
but shit did it have your dick twitching, you liked it you wanted even more. "look at this.." his fingers wrapped around your necklace, pulling it to choke you up. "dressed like some woman, body looks like one too. it's ridiculous."
his lips caught yours, tasting the flavour of your so called 'lip balm'.
a gasp caught in his throat, his eyes fluttering shut as he felt himself cum inside. he hadn't even known he was close, he was far too caught up in the pleasure.
"damn.." he pulled out, watching you twitch and writhe as his cum oozed and glopped out of you wantonly. "i could probably get you pregnant like one, have you full of me."
he sighed shakily, his dick softening up. "get out." your head turned over, looking confused. how the hell could you just leave with his cum leaking out of you?
but damn it, whatever. you cleaned yourself up best you could, getting your clothes on messily yet trying to look somewhat presentable.
Male reader who jokes about breaking up with the slashers but they don't realize its a joke? (Hannigram, Thomas Hewitt, and anyone else you like :))
FUCKING YES I LOVE THIS!!!!
Slashers x gn/male reader who jokes about breaking up with them
-hannigram
I really don't think they wouldn't realize that you're joking. Like,one it's Hannibal Lecter and the other is Will Graham,they know when you are joking and when you are serious. Actually,they would definitely be able to always know whetever you're lying or not.
That is,unless you're...a bit more like them. More like Hannibal,specifically. So immagine a reader who is just naturally manipulative lke him,but with attachment issues maybe. One day,it starts to look like your boyfriends are slipping away from you,like you are losing them.
No.
You CAN'T let that happen.
So,you start hinting that you might leave. You know,a playful comment there that doesn't really sound all that playful to them,a subtle flirt with someone at one of Hannibal's event...
Nothing obvious. Nothing solid enough for them to confront you with.
But enough to make them paranoic.
And so,they do the only thing they can. They start to fight back against it. Less time outside,less time alone with yourself,more intimate dinners between the three of you,more shared moments. More isolation. It's not too bad at first,and how it goes really depends on you.
If you just stop it after a while,as if it was just a bad time,just a small phase or some tiredness,everything will go back to more or less normal. They might get clingier,sure,but it's not like you mind it.
If instead you keep drifting away,or pretending good enough that they fall for it,they will keep getting more and more agitate and nearly possessive. To a dangerous level.
And that might lead to some more...drastic actions.
Maybe you should have stopped when you could have.
Because the basement is pretty cold and the robes are kind of digging into your wrists...
-Thomas Hewitt
Why is he so goddamn hot?!
I can immagine this happening with him a lot more than with Hannigram.
Like,you two were just doing some work arounf the house,you were talking and he was listening,and you mentioned something about "leaving this goddamn place" because of how hot it was there,wiping the sweat off of your forehead and chuckling.
He froze,staring at you. Leaving? You wanted to leave him?! He felt his throat close. For the first time,he had found someone that he loved,that he could share anything with,that he knew thought would never leave him. And now you wanted to leave?
Becomes super closed-off,starts avoiding you. Which is EXTREMELY concerning considering how much time you two used to spend togheter. What the hell happened?! Yesterday he was refusing to leave your side during chores,and now he didn't even want to look at you.
Ends up finally communicating after days of you trying to talk. You explain that it was just a joke and that you would never leave him,and he finally starts to believe you after a while of talking and a bit of affection.
Did NOT like the joke. Please don't joke about leaving him ever again. His poor big heart can't take it.
Also,definitely gets a whole lot more possesive clingier after this incident.
-Patrick Bateman
You fucked up.
Fuck.
You fucked up.
You two were just talking,laughing and joking with eachoter.
He told something that made you laugh,and you jokingly said that you were literally gonna leave his ass.
Immediately,his laugh died,and before you could say that it was just a joke,he had moved.
Gripping your hair and yanking your head back to look at him,you cried out in pain,tears forming at the corner of your eyes.
He kept you there,gripping your hair so hard you thought he was gonna rip them clean off of your scalf,face completely emotionless.
"It was a joke,it was a joke,I'm sorry!" You cried out,trying to push his arm away. He didn't budge. You thought for a moment that he was actually gonna kill you. Slit your throath? Or maybe break your neck? You were scared.
He let you go after another minute of staring,sat back down on the couch and started talking again,as if nothing happened. Completely unmoved by your tears or your terror.
What the hell were you thinking,joking with this man? He's far too unstable for it.
So I had an idea of a gn or male reader who had really strong or sharp teeth? Like for example if a bottle cap isnt coming off theyll just unscrew it with their teeth or even pop it off! Like headcannons
Open for any slasher content your pick because i’m in for it regardless‼️ (Stu definitely. I think he a cutie.) (ALSO sfw or nsfw stuff i’ll take it.) LOVE YOUR WRITTINGS!
SLASHERS WITH AN S/O THAT HAS SHARP TEETH
WARNINGS: SFW and NSFW content below the cut so read at your own risk
BO
Bo didn’t initially notice your teeth. But boy when he does they are his new favorite thing about you. He’s all over you. Making out constantly and adding in tongue so he can feel up your teeth a little less blatantly than sticking his fingers in your mouth and feeling them up.
Wants to do everything and anything that involves your teeth. Nip him with your teeth, bite him till the point he bleeds, drag out his pleasure with your teeth. Nothing, absolutely nothing is off the table with him.
MICHAEL
When Michael first saw your teeth and how sharp they were he did his signature held tilt. Then after this he quite literally shoved his fingers in your mouth and felt all up on your teeth. To say that he’s now OBSESSED with them is an understatement.
Has always had a thing for teeth but you have amplified it by 1000 percent. He likes to shove his hand into your mouth and feel your teeth while jerking himself off.
OTIS
Otis has seen some crazy stuff so your teeth don’t bother him and he doesn’t really think about them. However time to time he does hyper fixates on them and will shove his hands into you mouth so he can touch them and admire them.
Please please bite every inch of his body to the point that he’s covered head to toe in his own blood. And straight up if you do this he will ask you to marry him right on the spot.
PATRICK
Patrick loves your teeth. He always has and always will but he specially loves when you grin. It’s like a wolf who’s cornered its prey or like a cat with a canary in its mouth. And let me tell when he sees you grin it causes his heart skip a beat and gets him all hot and flushed.
He likes when you tease him with your teeth. Drag you teeth down his body. Bite him.
THOMAS
Thomas noticed your teeth when you first smiled at him. Your smile looked off to him and he was confused at first why at first. Sensing his confusion you quickly realized why and told him your teeth were sharp. He was like ok and went on with his day but he was curious about them.
Thomas WANTS to desperately know how your teeth would feel grazing his cock as you go down on him. But he’s too shy to ask you to blow him.
VINCENT
Vincent is utterly fascinated by your teeth. He wants to know when they got so sharp and how they got so scarp. This fascination blends into him drawing your so expect for your jaw to be sore from having it open so he can draw each and every one.
Vincent loves when you bite him to the point he bleeds because then he knows that he’s yours but also he loves the way your bite marks look on his skin.
summary: Patrick has been prolonging this moment for almost two decades now. He’s tried to push past these feelings, telling himself it’s just a phase. That’s what everyone else loves to preach. Loving men, being attracted to them, it’s a phase.
It’s ironic, he thinks, that his adult self stands here—completely plagued by these feelings that were reported to be fleeting and temporary.
word count: 4.8k | ao3 version
warnings: employer-employee dynamic, canon-typical violence, Patrick Bateman-typical misogyny
author's notes: I watched twenty minutes of American Psycho and got pissed off and wrote this instead of finishing the movie. It’s fine, everything’s fine. Idk, I feel like Patrick isn’t that deep of a character. Seemed pretty fuckin easy to understand 💀 But who knows? Not me. Idk. That’s your warning for potential mischaracterization. I hate everything Bateman represents, but I think I tear him a new one pretty well in this.
The reader is referred to with he/him pronouns and he’s written to have tattoos; otherwise, race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used. He’s called pretty, but that isn’t intended to be a gendered compliment. Guys can be pretty, people can be pretty.
The title of this fic is from Mr. Loverman by Ricky Montgomery.
god let's just get this over with i hate myself
Patrick Bateman is, in a word, annoyed. He’s suffocated by routine, drowning in expectations only he has set for himself. This does not transfer well to his work: he lashes out quickly, nitpicks at the smallest of things and raises his voice when he shouldn’t. But Patrick knows he’s invaluable to the company, so he has a certain level of diplomatic immunity.
Even so, he didn’t expect his boss to go so far as to personally select his next assistant. Usually, Patrick is given that responsibility—and he just bases it on which female applicant is the least irritating to look at. But apparently he doesn’t have that kind of authority anymore. He’s annoyed, even if he’s also secretly relieved to be freed from the endless cycle of interviews.
“Patrick,” his boss says sternly one unremarkable Tuesday morning, lingering in his doorway. “Your new assistant starts tomorrow.”
“Right,” he says, barely able to conceal his annoyance. Patrick can’t wait to be met with yet another woman who drools all over him, who compliments his outfits and stares at him with hopeful eyes. So very exciting. And the fact that he was given no agency in the affair doesn’t exactly make him feel any better about it.
His jaw is clenched through his skincare routine the next morning. His hands almost shake as he applies his ice mask. He has a white-knuckled grip on his steering wheel as he drives to work, a permanent scowl on his face as the elevator ascends the building’s floors.
Patrick isn’t settled at his desk for more than a few moments before his boss is in the doorway. “Patrick,” he says, virtually the same words spoken in the same inflection in the same place at the same time as yesterday. Is his life really growing so monotonous and predictable? Patrick sighs, tries to pay attention despite the growing urge to think about literally anything else. “This will be your new assistant,” his boss continues, stepping aside to allow them to enter.
Patrick almost doesn’t want to look, but he manages to convince himself if only to maintain pretense. His eyes drag across the elegant bookshelves against the wall and over his boss to find… you.
“Him?” Patrick just blinks in disbelief. Surely you’re not his new assistant.
“Me,” you confirm, looking at him with thinly-veiled amusement. You don’t seem threatened or bothered by the fact that he just ignored you. “Nice to meet you,” you say before introducing yourself. You step in and offer a hand; he shakes it. The gesture doesn’t tell him much about you: it’s firm and brief, almost unassuming. You don’t attempt to pry his hand off with a strong grip, but you also don’t rush to get your hand away. Hm.
His boss soon departs, leaving the two of you standing there. You’ve stepped back, still lingering in the doorway. You’re wearing a dress shirt and slacks. Ordinary, unassuming.
“Come in,” Patrick offers. You take a step forward, closing the door behind you. Your eyes flit about the space with a detached curiosity. He watches you for several seconds, studying you. “You’re a guy,” he eventually states.
“Yeah,” you confirm, meeting his gaze. “You seem surprised.”
“My prior assistants were all women,” Patrick elaborates.
You’re silent. He wonders if you’ve connected the dots on that particular puzzle. It looks like you have.
“Nothing to say?” he challenges you.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that,” you frown.
“Fine,” he relents. “Have a seat. We should discuss what your days will consist of.”
“Okay,” you answer casually, taking the proffered seat.
Patrick feels his eyebrow twitch at the informal remark, but he manages to hold himself back from reprimanding you. This is what he wanted, after all: someone who didn’t immediately fall in love with him. The question remains, though: are you competent?
He tries his best to figure that out, as he engages you in conversation. Ultimately, though, Patrick won’t really know for sure until your skills are put to the test—until you’re in action, completing tasks for him. In the meantime, he’ll settle for messing with you a bit.
“Get me a mineral water, will you?” he asks nonchalantly.
“I don’t know where it is,” you say flatly, almost too quickly.
“In the kitchen around the corner,” Patrick recites, making sure to sound as bored as possible. “Second shelf from the top in the fridge.” He waves his hand and waits for you to scramble off.
A few seconds pass and he doesn’t hear any scurrying footsteps or murmured apologies. Patrick drags his eyes up from his papers to find that you’re still just sitting there. “Well?” he demands impatiently.
“I’m your assistant, not your delivery boy,” you remark calmly, “and you have one right there.” You nod to the mineral water on his desk, which is, in fact, untouched.
Patrick is struck with a profound sense of irritation. It boils along his skin, makes his fists clench under his desk. You have some audacity—to be sitting there with that damn blank expression on your face. As if you hadn’t just outright refused him.
“You said we’d discuss what my days will consist of,” you then say, leading the conversation. Patrick wants to scream. He can’t wait to take you apart.
Instead, he takes a measured breath. “I did. Very well.” Patrick feels his knees shift apart a bit under his desk, as he slips into the posture of unwavering power.
A quick glance at you shows you’re either uncaring or unaware of the nuances of body language: you have one leg crossed over the other, your hands clasped in your lap as you just… stare. It’s almost eerie, he thinks.
Patrick decides he hates you.
You’re growing too comfortable too quickly. That’s the only explanation for what you’re wearing right now, a mere few weeks after you were first hired: a dark sweater over a collared shirt and slacks. And sneakers. Sneakers. As if this is a basketball court, not one of the best investment firms in the country.
Patrick can’t hold back his criticisms. And he doesn’t think he even wants to. It slips out the next time you’re in his office that same day. “Don’t wear that outfit again,” Patrick says clearly, his eyes locked on his paperwork.
You’re quiet. Good.
“And dress shoes,” Patrick continues. “I like dress shoes.”
You still aren’t responding, so Patrick begrudgingly looks up from his work to find you staring at him with a blank expression. A bit unnerved, Patrick stares back.
You’re watching him. Scrutinizing him. Patrick isn’t sure if anyone’s ever just stared at him like this. Like he’s some kind of vile thing, a mere pebble thrown into the path of a pedestrian. He almost wants to fidget. Almost.
As if sensing his growing discomfort, you stare just a bit longer.
“Is there a problem?” Patrick remembers to ask.
“No,” you respond unflinchingly. “I just wanted you to sit in that. Do we need to talk about your outfit too? I feel like it speaks for itself.” You look him up and down, your voice dripping in disinterest and judgment. Then you turn and walk away.
Patrick is staring at the door long after you leave. What the hell just happened?
He’s thinking about you, even as one of his coworkers drones on and on in their weekly meeting. He realizes, idly, that you may just be the only interesting person he knows. You’re not trying to fit in or impress him. Hell, it doesn’t even seem like you care what he thinks of you. You should, of course. But you don’t. It perplexes him.
It only takes a month for Patrick to be forced to accept that you are competent. (Of course, he’ll never go so far as to admit it.) You complete your work quickly and accurately; you never linger too long. You aren’t bothered by his constantly oscillating moods; his sarcastic remarks and borderline insults have virtually no effect on you. It’s almost frustrating—Patrick has grown accustomed to being in control. He dominates any and all conversations he has. Yet, when he interacts with you… he doesn’t feel that way. He doesn’t have that same bone-deep assuredness and authority. You refuse to give it to him.
“Any plans for the weekend?” Patrick hums one Friday afternoon, tapping his pen against his desk a few times. He feels strangely restless. He tries to focus on other things, instead of your presence in his doorway. Predictably, this does not work.
It’s almost amusing to see the surprise flicker across your face, as you process his remark. You know he never bothers asking about such mundane trivialities. You know he doesn’t care, yet here he is, asking as if he does.
“Why are you asking?” you question skeptically. You know he wouldn’t be asking unless he had a good reason. Patrick resists the urge to sigh. Sometimes, he wishes you weren’t so sharp. It would make things easier. You would never grace his mind, never persistently linger in his thoughts.
“Just making casual conversation,” Patrick answers nonchalantly.
“You’ve never seemed to care about that before,” you remark.
True. But Patrick finds himself, strangely enough, actually wondering what you’ll be up to. He wonders what your life is like. To him, you only exist in this particular space and time: this building, during work hours. He has only ever seen you in work clothes; he has only ever spoken to you regarding work. The few glimpses he’s caught of you, hidden beneath that professionalism, have intrigued him far more than they should.
“Humor me,” he prompts you. You’re making him fight for it.
“Um…” you trail off. “Honestly, I’m not doing much. How about you?”
“Not doing much,” he repeats. Patrick completely ignores your follow-up question. You’re trying to take the attention away from yourself; for some reason, he doesn’t like that. “And what does not doing much entail, exactly?”
“Pretty much what it sounds like,” you respond. “Grocery shopping, maybe a bit of cleaning. Reading, watching bad horror movies.” Your fingers tap against the door frame for a few seconds, a fidget.
“That sounds like a nightmare,” Patrick scoffs instinctually. The words crawl from his lips before he can stop them—even though he doesn’t actually believe them. Secretly, beneath all of his corporate pretense, he’s envious of that freedom. His life is dictated by the desires of others.
You barely react to his statement. Your shoulders shift ever so slightly, in a mild shrug. Secure. Uncaring, unbothered despite his scrutiny.
“You haven’t asked what I’m doing this weekend,” Patrick continues. He wants to throw you off, wants you to apologize for the error.
“I did,” you remind him instead in a swift and effective argument. “You brushed it off.”
That’s right. You did ask him. But he was so busy attempting to combat your evasiveness that he forgot about it. Patrick lets out a quiet frustrated noise under his breath. Why does he feel so weirdly off-kilter around you?
“Did you want to tell me about it?” you continue gratuitously. Damn it, you’re not even trying to one-up him. And somehow, that’s making things even worse. Why couldn’t you have been a jerk? Why couldn’t you have been hellbent on making his life miserable? It leaves him with no excuse for his behavior. No excuse for the uptick in his heart when his eyes meet yours.
“No,” Patrick responds immediately.
That’s a lie, and you both know it. Neither of you acknowledge it, instead continuing as if nothing had been said.
A chance meeting in the hall proves to be his undoing.
Patrick nearly bumps into you in his distraction. You don’t seem bothered by it, instead giving him a weird look before turning to follow him into his office. Your movements are sure and certain as you close the door behind you, before turning to him.
“You all right?” you ask him, paying him a glance that almost looks concerned.
“Yes, of course,” Patrick remembers to answer, trying to sound as composed as possible. Usually he wouldn’t worry, but this is you—there’s a good chance you won’t believe him.
Indeed, you look skeptical. “Right,” you remark, your eyes falling to his hands. “Your hands are shaking. And you nearly bumped into me.”
“Caffeine,” Patrick explains. “And you were in the way.”
You ignore that snappish remark, because of course you do. “You have coffee every day, and it’s never that bad,” you say. You’re observant and he hates it.
What in the hell is Patrick supposed to say now? His hands are shaking from the adrenaline high of slitting someone’s throat mere moments ago; his skin is practically thrumming and buzzing underneath his clothing. Patrick washed the blood off, but it still feels stuck to him. His shirt is perfectly clean, he made sure of it. His hair is effortlessly styled, his shoes are a glossy black—
Your hand is on his shoulder.
All of the background noise seems to fall away.
“Patrick,” you say slowly. You look genuinely concerned. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I—” he breaks off, his mind a jumbled mess of thoughts. Jesus Christ. He’s slept with several women before—he’s engaged in physical intimacy. But somehow, none of those feelings even come close to the one you’ve just incited in him. You’re another man, and you’re just placing a hand on his shoulder, for God’s sake. This should not be making his heart thunder in his chest.
You’re looking at him patiently. Your eyebrows are furrowed ever so slightly and your gaze flits about his face. This may be the most attention you’ve ever paid him. He wants to drown in it.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Patrick remembers to say. The words almost hurt.
You don’t seem to believe him, but you drop the subject. Patrick is both relieved and oddly disappointed when your hand falls from his shoulder.
Patrick is a man on a mission. His mission? Heading home.
It’s been a long day. Work was pretty ordinary, but his commute home had been hindered by seemingly random traffic. Then, to make matters worse, he very nearly forgot about the dinner he had scheduled with some prospective clients. He managed to show up to the restaurant in time, smiling and conversing when he needed to. His mind was elsewhere, though.
It still is—Patrick is distracted. He’s distracted enough to be walking down the street quickly, not even noticing the person in front of him until he’s crashing into them. A bitter remark is on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it down when he recognizes who he nearly tackled.
“Sorry,” you say quickly, stepping to the side. Then you blink, coming to the same recognition that he just experienced. “Oh, shit. Hey, Patrick.”
Patrick studies you, finding that you look different. You’re not in your typical work clothes: you’re wearing a deep green collared shirt, the top few buttons unbuttoned to reveal the edges of your collarbone; black jeans, cuffed at the ankles; and black boots that appear to have a slight platform. You sound a bit breathless, but there’s a content smile on your face. (Happy, free of expectations. Patrick wants that feeling more than anything.)
“......Hello,” Patrick manages to respond. His throat feels dry. Why does his throat feel dry?
“What’re you doing here?” you ask. “Didn’t think you visited this side of town.”
“Just passing by,” he says smoothly. Right, this side of town. The queer side. Evidenced by the gay bar you just walked out of. You don’t seem the least bit bothered by being seen here. Meanwhile, Patrick’s skin feels like it’s on fire. He’s restless, subtly jittery.
“Okay,” you just respond, as if it doesn’t make a difference. You shove your hands in your pockets in an unconscious movement and Patrick watches, realizing it’s not just a trick of the light: there’s ink across your forearms.
“You have tattoos,” he states matter-of-factly.
“Oh, yeah,” you blink and respond. “The dress code’s pretty strict at work, so… I’m stuck in long sleeves.”
Patrick quite literally has to rip his eyes away, blinking hard enough to bring dizzying circles to his eyes. “Right,” he says. And wow, he is making a total fool of himself here. He’s never floundered around so helplessly before.
“It’s nice to see you,” you say with a smile. Good God, man, get it together. He should not find that smile so charming. “See you… Monday, I guess?”
“Monday,” he responds. You walk away; Patrick does too, albeit after a brief second he spends faltering. Then he forces himself to keep moving, watching the cracks run across the pavement.
Within a few steps, Patrick is glancing back at you over his shoulder. He can’t help it.
Your back is turned.
He sighs.
The rest of that night is kind of a blur, but Patrick knows this much: he kills someone. Shortly after colliding with you on the street, he heads back home. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, his teeth practically grinding together as he tries to move past this intense, almost unfounded anger. Jealousy and envy boil hot under his skin.
He bumps into someone again.
It’s not you. It’s a businessman, just like him. The man doesn’t apologize, doesn’t even budge. The slight breeze in the air carries the scent of alcohol, and the guy’s wavering balance suggests he’s very inebriated.
An hour later, Patrick is staring down at the guy’s dead body. The crisp white dress shirt he was sporting is splattered with blood, pooling underneath his unmoving corpse.
Patrick exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. Unsurprisingly, this act doesn’t quell the restlessness buzzing along his skin—nor does it free him from dreaming of you that night.
…Patrick is getting ruder.
He knows it. He’s pushing you away, because of the feelings you incite in him: irritation, anger, exhaustion. And… others that he’d rather not name.
Frustratingly enough, you seem to recognize this. You start giving him space, only entering his office when you need to. Suddenly he’s only seeing you a few times a day, if even that. Patrick wants to feel satisfied—this is exactly what he wanted. But it only makes him more angry.
It’s only natural that he snaps. Contrary to popular belief, Patrick is but a man. And men like him will grow impatient.
Patrick enters the men’s restroom, walking into a stall. He emerges to wash his hands… only to find you standing there. You’re at the sink two away from him, staring down at your hands as you scrub them with soap. You’re so preoccupied that you haven’t even seemed to notice him. And for a few seconds, Patrick just stares.
The words crawl from his lips as you’re drying your hands. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
You glance up from the faucet, over at him. You look surprised and momentarily confused. For a moment, Patrick thinks you’ll try to deny it. Instead, you just look askance. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
You will never know just how deep that remark cuts. It’s spoken so innocently, without caution. But those words… They’re what Patrick’s entire life has been boiling down to—other people’s perceptions of his desires. People think he wants to be this way, act that way. They throw their expectations on him, without ever considering the weight of them. And Patrick has been sinking under the pressure.
“Don’t presume what I want,” he says coldly.
You’re not visibly affected by his tone. “That’s my job,” you frown, drying your hands and throwing away the paper towels. You turn back to him. Sure, technically speaking, that’s correct. But regardless, Patrick isn’t pleased.
“Your job,” Patrick seethes, the words venomous and biting, “is to stand there and look pretty.”
“What?” you choke. And it’s the surprise that widens your eyes, the damn flustered expression that passes over your face—as if you’re genuinely shocked that he’s just acknowledged your attractiveness…
Patrick surges forward, his hand latching on to your collar far too easily. He yanks you closer, looks at you furiously. “You heard me,” he asserts. “You’re not supposed to think for yourself. I tell you to do something, and you do it.”
He’s not sure what he’s expecting: a sharp inhale of breath, a hand on his wrist, a flinch or a twitch. Patrick is expecting something—but he gets absolutely nothing. You’re entirely still, just staring at him with those defiant, scrutinizing eyes. Patrick suddenly feels as if he’s being ripped apart under your knife, laid bare for the world to see.
Voices sound from the hallway, forcing him to remember himself. Patrick releases you as if burned. And he stalks off, unable to shake the uncanny feeling that he was somehow the loser, not the victor, in that interaction.
As Patrick stands on the cracked pavement, looking up at the flashing neon sign he saw all those days ago, one thought presides over all others: …is he really doing this? What is he trying to prove? What does he want? Why is he here?
The bar sign is immune to his scrutiny, almost blinking at him mockingly. The rhythm of the music inside reaches his ears, a consistent beat. He doesn’t need to look to know the people in that bar are happy, comfortable, confident.
He’s been prolonging this moment for almost two decades now. Patrick has tried to push past these feelings, telling himself it’s just a phase. That’s what everyone else loves to preach. Loving men, being attracted to them, it’s a phase. They say you’ll grow out of it.
It’s ironic, he thinks, that his adult self stands here—completely plagued by these feelings that were reported to be fleeting and temporary. No. These sentiments have been formative. Patrick has been avoiding this for far too long.
He takes a step, then another. He’s lurking in the doorway awkwardly now. There are people behind him, growing impatient and eventually just brushing past him. Patrick’s throat burns as he sees the ease with which they bleed into the space. Meanwhile, he’s frozen at the edge.
Someone else passes by, their shoulders knocking against his and sending him forward. It’s the push he needs, both figuratively and literally. Patrick is officially in the bar now.
A man brushes against him within seconds. “Hey, handsome.”
He doesn’t pay him any attention, instead combing over the space as he looks for you. It doesn’t take long to find you, lingering in the corner with a peaceful expression on your face. You look like a quiet spectator to the chaos—a happy one, though.
“Patrick?” you say as he approaches. The shock on your face is completely priceless. He wants to smirk. But his heart is racing for some reason, so he just tries to focus on the conversation.
“Hello,” he greets you.
“What are you doing here?” you ask. He supposes your surprise is warranted: the image he’s carefully cultivated wouldn’t be caught dead in a queer bar. Yet here he is, standing here entirely of his own volition.
“...Exploring,” Patrick answers loftily.
“Okay,” you say, accepting his vague answer with ease. The ease with which you’re accepting his explanation—or lack of—is both confounding and reassuring. Then you hum, your eyes glimmering with what appears to be amusement. “Just a fair warning, you’re going to be pretty popular.”
“Why’s that?” he asks, struggling not to sound smug. He gets those kinds of compliments all the time. Somehow, it means infinitely more coming from you.
“Don’t play coy,” you just say with a roll of your eyes.
Damn. He wanted to hear you say it.
A somewhat comfortable silence lingers in the air, before Patrick finds himself breaking through it. “If anyone’s popular tonight, it should be you,” he says before he can stop himself. Huh. He feels weirdly free of inhibition, and he hasn’t even had a drink.
“God, I hope not,” you just huff. Patrick feels his lips twisting into a smile. You notice it, because of course you do. “Did you just smile?” you question disbelievingly.
“No,” he says immediately.
“You totally did,” you say with a slight smirk of your own. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” A concession.
“Protect my reputation,” he adds.
“I’ll try,” you joke. You stare for a moment. Patrick can’t get rid of the quirk to his lips, as much as he tries. You don’t seem to mind, instead unabashedly saying, “You should smile more. It’s cute.”
He’s definitely blushing now. What the fuck? He’s heard far more specific—hell, even obscene—things and never batted an eye. But these simple remarks from you, uttered so earnestly and unapologetically, are wrecking his composure.
“Thank you,” Patrick eventually says.
Your eyes widen. “Wow,” you say, evidently thrown off by his gratitude. “You must be in a good mood or something. Are you a doppelganger?”
A restrained huff. “Not to my knowledge,” he answers.
The silence from before returns, but it feels more tense. That could just be Patrick, though—he still feels incredibly out of place. Despite the fact that you’re here, despite your solitary position against one of the walls, he’s still off-kilter. It’s almost scary, how freeing this experience is. Between the loud music, dancing, and surrounding conversations, Patrick could say whatever he wanted without judgment.
“You know, you don’t have to be here unless you want to be,” you say, swiftly breaking through his thoughts.
You’re trying to reassure him—you’re giving him an out. You’re being polite and unintrusive, but somehow, that’s the opposite of what Patrick wants to hear. He huffs dryly. “Why else would I be here?” He wouldn’t be here unless he wanted to be.
You’re too nice to pry any further. The one time he wants you to ask for more information… and you don’t. He sighs. “You can ask,” Patrick says, grateful for the background noise. The comment is lost to the pulsing music and distracted clubbers. You are the only one to bear witness to his vulnerability.
You study him for a moment, as if discerning if he’s really telling the truth. Then, you finally ask. “Why are you here, Patrick?” you indulge him.
“For myself,” he responds after a beat. His hand nearly twitches at his side. You don’t seem surprised by that revelation, instead listening to him patiently. Patrick takes a slow breath. “And… for you.”
“Me?” you ask.
“You,” he confirms.
“Oh.” You’re surprised, evidently.
“Yes, oh,” Patrick responds. If he weren’t so irritatingly fond of you, he thinks he’d be frustrated. But he’s only exasperated, and nervous. Nervous. Patrick Bateman, nervous. The thought confounds him.
In the chaos of the surrounding conversations and dancing bodies, you both gravitate towards each other. Patrick feels like a puppet on your string. The two of you are far closer than socially appropriate, but in the flashing lights and loud music of the gay bar, you go unnoticed. It’s… liberating.
Patrick reaches out, his hand splaying across your cheekbone and jaw. There’s an uncharacteristic shakiness to the movement. It’s the most he can allow himself. He can’t— He can’t convince himself to go further, to just take the leap and stop being a coward. Patrick is out of his element here.
You’re infuriatingly perceptive, as always. He knows you can see the tension drawing his shoulders together, the slight tremble to his hands. And somehow, despite all of the tense moments between you—the backhanded compliments, the passive aggressive demands—you’re merciful. “Can I kiss you?” you ask.
The question pierces through the air with the force of a bullet.
“Yes,” he breathes. The word has never tasted so good, so right before. Of course, his traitorous heart does not stop there. “Please.”
Fortunately Patrick isn’t given time to feel the full force of his embarrassment, as you swiftly lean in to kiss him.
All the kisses he’s shared with women… He had to force himself to play a part. It wasn’t natural; it was fake. But this… this is almost too real. Patrick has no idea how to even do this—he just knows his hand is fisted in your collar tightly, the other pressed to the small of your back, and nothing will shake his grip.
Patrick is always the one to break away, to end things. This time, you pull away—and he sucks in a harsh breath as he reminds himself that he needs to breathe. His fingers tangle in your shirt collar, brushing against your collarbone and giving him yet another reason to feel restless.
“You okay?” you ask, your eyebrows furrowing in concern. Your hand is still on Patrick’s shoulder and it almost burns. He swallows.
