Canât stop thinking about Patrick Bateman and a pregnant reader⊠how wld he look after you and wld he be controlling or just not care
Bateman Junior
(Patrick Bateman x Pregnant! Reader)
âPatrick had always wanted an heir to his excellent genetics: itâs what normal people his age do. Thanks to his strict routine, heâs sure his heir will be perfect.â
The penthouse gleamed under the cool halogen lights, every surface polished to an impeccable mirror-like sheen that reflected Patrickâs own impeccable form back at him. He had insisted on the cleaning service coming twice a week nowâ once wasnât enough, not with the faint scent of impending chaos that pregnancy seemed to introduce; chaos he would not tolerate. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, his reflection superimposed over the twinkling grid of Manhattan like a god surveying his domain. In his hand, a glass of Perrier with a precise twist of lime; alcohol was off-limits for both of them these days. He had decreed it so.
She was in the living room, reclining on the custom Roche Bobois sofa that cost more than most peopleâs annual salary. Eight months along, her body a testament to his careful orchestration. The black AlaĂŻa dress clung to her curves in a way that was still elegant, still controlledâ no sloppy maternity wear for her. He had curated her wardrobe himself, flying in pieces from Milan and Paris because American designers didnât understand restraint. âYou represent us,â heâd told her that morning, adjusting the hem before she left for her prenatal yoga class, the one he had vetted personally, ensuring the instructor was certified in exactly the right methodologies: nothing too strenuous, nothing that might disrupt the symmetry he envisioned for their child.
Patrick turned from the window, his Oxfords silent on the floor as he turned. He watched her for a moment, hand absently rubbing the swell of her abdomen. She was reading a bookâ something innocuous, a first-edition of Bonfire of the Vanities heâd selected from his library. No trashy novels, no self-help drivel about motherhood. He controlled the inputs: the media she consumed, the conversations she had. Her mobile phone was monitored via a bug an ex-FBI friend had installed, filtering out any calls from someone that didnât meet his standards. Old friends from college, any friends of yours he didnât like? Call declined. They were too pedestrian; too likely to fill her head with suburban banalities about strollers and playdates.
An heir, he thought, the word echoing in his mind like the closing bell on Wall Street. Not just a childâa continuation. A perfect extension of Bateman lineage. He imagined the boy (it had to be a boyâ heâd paid for the genetic screening to confirm it) inheriting his jawline, his drive, his unyielding precision. No weaknesses, no deviations. The world was a slaughterhouse of mediocrity, and this child would be the blade. Patrick felt a rare surge of something almost like excitement, tempered by the cold calculus of legacy. Heâll attend Dalton, then Yale, then inherit Patrickâs own role at Pierce & Pierce. Or perhaps something more eliteâ my connections will ensure it. No room for error. If thereâs any flaw⊠The thought trailed off into darker territories, visions of returns and exchanges that werenât possible in biologyâ but he pushed it aside. Control was key. He would mold this heir like he molded his own body at the gym: relentlessly, perfectly, and without mercy.
Approaching her, he placed a hand on her shoulder, fingers tracing the line of her collarbone. âDid you take your supplements?â he asked, voice even, though he already knew the answerâ heâd set reminders on her phone.
She glanced up, a faint smile playing on her lips. âYes, Patrick. The omega-3s, the prenatals, the calciumâŠall of them.â
His jaw twitched when she didnât say anything about the Vitamin D tablets, but he decided not to start a fight about it today. Heâd just crush them into her dinner, later.
âGood.â He sat beside her, his posture ramrod straight even on the plush cushions. He had overhauled her diet weeks ago: no caffeine, no refined sugars, nothing processed. Meals were prepared by a private chef he interviewed three times, menus approved daily via fax. Organic kale smoothies in the morning, grilled salmon with quinoa at lunch, lean proteins and greens for dinner. Heâd even calculated the caloric intake to the decimal, ensuring she gained exactly the recommended weightâ no more, no less. âExcess is vulgar,â heâd explained once, measuring her waist with a tailorâs tape as if fitting her for a gown. And the exercise: mandatory walks in the park (she found it romantic; he thought it was much needed supervision), Pilates sessions with a trainer who reported back to him on her progress and weaknesses. He tracked her steps via the Apple Watch heâd synced to his own device, intervening if she fell short.
She thinks itâs care, his internal voice mused, cool and detached. It is, in a way. But more than thatâitâs investment. This body is the vessel for my empireâs future. Flaws in gestation could mean flaws in the product. I wonât have a defective heir. No learning disabilities, no physical imperfections. Iâve read the studiesâstress hormones affect fetal development. So I eliminate stress. For her. For us. He pictured boardrooms in twenty years, the boyânamed something strong, like Hunter, or something Greek, like Alexanderâ sealing deals with the same predatory smile his father flashed. Heâll eclipse me, but only because I designed him to. For Patrick, legacy isnât accident; itâs architecture.
The baby kicked then, a sharp jab that made her wince slightly. Patrick felt it through her dress, his palm pressing firmer against the fabric. âActive,â he noted approvingly. âThatâs the Bateman spirit.â
She laughed softly, setting the book aside. âHeâs probably practicing his mergers in there.â
âAcquisitions,â Patrick corrected, his tone light but his eyes intense. He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. âIâve scheduled the 4D ultrasound for tomorrow. Weâll see his features more clearly. Ensure everythingâs⊠optimal.â
She nodded, accustomed to his micromanagement by now. But he caught the flicker in her eyesâthe one that said she knew this was more than protectiveness. It was possession. He controlled the doctorâs appointments, too: only the best obstetrician at New York-Presbyterian, one whoâd signed an NDA because Patrick didnât trust discretion without legal teeth. No group classes, no mommy blogs. Isolation was safety, and outside influences were contaminants.
What if heâs not perfect? The thought intruded again, unbidden, like a glitch in his otherwise flawless psyche. Genes are a gamble, even with screening. But Iâll fix it. Surgery if neededâ early interventions. He wonât be like the others, the sheep bleating through life. Heâll be a wolf. My wolf. Pride swelled in him, mixed with a possessiveness that bordered on the obsessive. This is immortality. Flesh and blood carrying my name, my methods. No one else gets thisâ Evelyn couldnât have handled it, Jean would have crumbled. But Y/N⊠sheâs strong enough to bear my heir.
He straightened, glancing at the Rolex on his wrist. âTime for your evening routine,â he said. âThe infrared sauna, then the meditation. Iâve made a new CD for youâ more Bach, less Mozart. Studies show it enhances neural development.â
She rose with his help, her hand in his feeling small yet vital. As they moved toward the master suite, Patrick allowed himself a rare, genuine smile. The city below may have been indifferent and chaotic, but up here, in his controlled orbit, everything was aligning. The heir was coming, and with him, perfection incarnate.
