#patrick bateman x reader

Think that one day you decided to confess to Patrick Bateman about this…

You’ve been holding it in for weeks—the quiet, constant pull every time he lights a cigar. The way the smoke drifts from his mouth, the unhurried precision of his hands, the way he looks so completely in control. It does something to you that you can’t ignore anymore.

So, one quiet evening when he’s sitting on his slutty white couch like he has all the time in the world, you finally act on it. You reach for the humidor on the coffee table, which he stocked earlier that morning, and take out a cigar.

He looks confused for a moment.

You place it between his fingers, find the cutter, the lighter. He performs the familiar ritual without thinking: cut, toast, and the first slow draw. You kneel between his spread knees, watching every motion with an intensity bordering on pure, chaotic obsession. Smoke curls upward. The rich, heavy taste settles on his tongue.

“I’ve always wanted this,” you admit quietly. “Watching you smoke turns me on so much. I used to imagine it. Giving you my mouth while you sat exactly like this, cigar in hand, looking down at me.”

The admission would hit him with unexpected force. He would be genuinely shocked, almost wordlessly, but the shock would be clean, bright, and welcome.

The quiet of the Southampton night presses in around you both, the distant hush of waves against the shore the only sound beyond the soft rustle of sheets. Patrick’s body is a study in gold and shadow under the thin white covers—broad chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths, the sharp cut of his abs catching the low moonlight, that thick bulge beneath his briefs twitching every time your fingers ghost over it.

You keep your promise only as long as you can. The fabric is already damp where the head of his cock has leaked through, warm and slick under your palm. You stroke him slow and steady through the cotton, feeling him thicken, the shaft pulsing against your hand while a low, sleepy groan rumbles in his throat. His hips give the smallest, involuntary roll upward, chasing the friction even in sleep. Pink blooms high on his cheeks. His lashes flutter.

When you finally slip your fingers beneath the waistband and ease the briefs down just enough to free him, the cool air makes him twitch hard in your grip. The head is flushed and shiny, already leaking a steady bead of pre-cum that you smear with your thumb in lazy circles. You lean in and brush the softest kisses along his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, the hinge of his jaw—feather-light, almost gentle.

“Fuck… baby…” The word is barely a breath, still half-dreaming, but his voice is rough with sleep and need.

His cock jerks in your fist as you tighten your grip and start stroking him properly—slow from base to tip, twisting just under the ridge the way you know he likes. Pre-cum wells again, thicker this time, coating your fingers until the glide is filthy and wet.

He starts to fidget, thighs spreading a little wider, hips lifting in small, restless thrusts. A soft, needy sound escapes him every time your thumb sweeps over the slit. His breathing has gone uneven. You watch the way his perfect abs tighten, the way his cock throbs heavier in your hand, leaking steadily now onto the flat plane of his stomach.

Then his eyes open—dark, glassy, still half-lost—and the second they focus on you the hunger hits him like a wave.

“Christ, look at you,” he rasps, voice wrecked.

One strong hand shoots up, fingers threading into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your face to his. He kisses you like he’s been starving for it—deep, wet, open-mouthed, tongue sliding against yours while his other hand closes over yours on his cock and makes you stroke him harder, faster.

“Don’t stop. Keep going, sweetheart. Just like that. Fuck, your hand feels so good…” He moans into the kiss, shameless, hips rolling up into the tight circle of your fist.

You can feel every pulse, every desperate throb as he gets closer. His free hand finds your wrist and guides your other fingers to his mouth. You slip two past his lips and he sucks them in deep, tongue swirling, eyes locked on yours, cheeks hollowing as he groans around them.

“Gonna come,” he warns against your knuckles, voice cracking. “Gonna come all over myself for you—fuck, baby, don’t stop, keep pumping me—”

His whole body coils. The kiss breaks on a broken, open moan as his cock swells impossibly harder in your fist. Thick ropes of cum pulse out of him, striping those perfect golden abs, some of it catching on the cut of his hip, more of it dripping down onto the sheets. He keeps sucking your fingers through it, trembling, hips stuttering, still thrusting weakly into your slick hand until he is spent and oversensitive.

You don’t give him time to catch his breath. You lean down and lick a long, slow stripe through the mess on his stomach, gathering the warm, salty taste of him on your tongue. When you rise again he is already pulling you in, kissing you deep and lingering, sharing the taste of himself between your mouths.

“Jesus, you’re perfect,” he murmurs against your lips, still panting, still petting your hair like he can’t stop touching you. “My sweet little thing. Going to keep doing this to each other every night for the rest of our lives, aren’t we? Ruin each other just like this… until we can’t walk straight. Promise me.”

He kisses you again, softer this time, but the heat is still there—slow, possessive, full of quiet, filthy promises for every summer night still to come.

He’s a complete mess: crying, sweating, blushing like a whore. He’s so far gone that he’s shaking wildly, unable to grip your head, forced to cling to the couch instead. His legs are strained, eyes squeezed shut, and the moan that tears out of him is the wildest, most broken sound—like it’s the first real orgasm he’s had after a fucking century of denial.

You work him through it, swallowing everything until there’s nothing left for him to give. It’s both illegal and the most genuinely right thing between the two of you, the moment the walls finally come down and he lets you see him as the one who craves—without shame.

You don’t stop.

Even after he’s spent, even after you’ve swallowed everything he had to give, you keep your mouth on him. Soft, wet, relentless. The second the sensitivity hits, his whole body jerks like he’s been shocked. A broken, almost panicked sound leaves his throat—high and raw, nothing like the controlled man he forces himself to be every day.

“Fuck—wait—” His voice cracks.

His hands finally find your hair, but he doesn’t pull you off. He just holds on, trembling hard, thighs twitching under your palms. You can feel how oversensitive he is, how every slow drag of your tongue makes him flinch and whimper. His hips try to twist away, but there’s nowhere to go. You keep him right there, gentle and merciless at the same time, working over the head until he’s shaking so badly the couch creaks.

Tears are still slipping down his flushed face. He’s biting his lip so hard it looks like it might bleed, trying to muffle the soft, ruined sounds you keep pulling out of him. Every time you suck lightly or swirl your tongue, his stomach flexes and another broken noise slips free. He looks wrecked. Completely undone. The perfect, composed Patrick Bateman reduced to a trembling mess who can’t decide if he wants you to stop or never, ever stop.

When you finally pull off, a thin string of spit still connects your mouth to him. He stares down at you with glassy, overstimulated eyes, chest heaving, lips parted. For a second he just breathes, wrecked and exposed.

Then, voice hoarse and quiet, he says the most honest thing he’s probably ever said to you:

“…Don’t stop.”

I guess these are also just my headcanons in a general sense and how I tend to write them, wether it's reader-insert, canon x canon or oc x canon

Dating Patrick Bateman (male!Reader, headcanons).

✦ You expected polished, lavish dinners and him treating you like a carefully curated status symbol.

Reality: He still takes you to Dorsia. He just spends the entire meal gripping his whiskey glass too tightly, muttering that this is “strictly professional networking,” while his knee presses hard against yours under the table and stays there the whole night.

✦ You thought the internal conflict would keep him distant in public. Instead he corners you in elevators and quiet corridors, adjusting your collar or straightening your tie with unnecessary precision, voice low and flat as he reminds you that if anyone asks, you’re simply his assistant. The way his hand lingers a second too long says everything he refuses to.

✦ Expected cold, controlled dominance that still felt artificial.

Got: him making you sit perfectly still on the floor beside his chair while he ranks business cards and watches The Patty Winters Show. He only allows you to lean against his leg when the segment is particularly dull. When the show ends he stands, smooths his suit, and pretends the entire arrangement never happened.

✦ You assumed he’d never let you stay over.

He does. He just assigns you the far side of the king-sized bed, insists on matching silk pajamas “for visual consistency,” and wakes you at 6 a.m. with a single sharp look that means get up and follow the morning routine. He never comments on the fact that his wrist stays loosely circled around yours until the alarm actually goes off.

✦ Expected sophisticated power plays.

Reality is him staring at his own reflection after a long evening, repeating under his breath that none of this changes anything, while you kneel quietly nearby holding his cufflinks exactly the way he likes. He takes them from you without meeting your eyes, then adjusts your posture with his fingers under your chin like he’s still checking a mirror.

✦ Physical affection & kisses

You expected any physical affection to be rare, rigid, and strictly controlled—maybe a brief, cold press of lips if he ever allowed it at all.

Instead the kisses start neat and almost clinical, the way everything else about him is. Then they don’t stay that way. The moment you make even the softest sound against his mouth he freezes for half a second, eyes narrowing like he’s calculating something, before tilting his head and deepening it on purpose. What begins as a closed-mouth claim turns slower, wetter, deliberately messier the longer it goes on. He keeps one hand firm at the back of your neck so you can’t pull away, and every quiet, involuntary noise you give him only makes him press closer, like he’s collecting evidence he can later deny. By the time he finally breaks the kiss his breathing is slightly off and he looks irritated with both of you. Then does it again the next night, just a little filthier than before.

Imagine having dinner with Patrick Bateman and his friends.

While they’re busy arguing over whose watch is more expensive, you lean in and whisper against his ear that he’s your “sweet cutie pie.” He goes red with pure rage, but he can’t explode in front of everyone. So he has to sit there and take it while you keep playing with his tie, forcing him to smile and chuckle charmingly like nothing is wrong. Under the table, your hand is already on his groin. The second you feel how hard he is, you tell him how nasty he is for getting off on being humiliated like this—in public.

His face stays perfectly stoic, but the flush on his cheeks gives him away. You want to choke him. You want to bite his neck. Instead, you slide your hand to the nape of his neck, right above his perfectly ironed collar, and nip at the mole on his Adam’s apple.

The P&P boys notice and start whistling, tossing out comments like, “Jesus, look at them. They can’t even keep their hands off each other.” Craig would probably say something even filthier, but Patrick can’t hear him anymore. All he can focus on is your hand still pressed against the aching bulge in his pants. He needs an excuse. Any excuse to leave early and take you somewhere private, somewhere he doesn’t have to keep pretending to be the nice boy next door.

⚡︎ ✮⋆˙🎱🕷️tricks or truth? (patrick bateman x jennifersbody!reader)

he's practicing a fake, friendly approachable smile in the bathroom mirror at the event, dead eyes staring back at him as the cold water he splashed on his face drips down his pore-less skin. he wishes he had some cocaine right now, but that might make him too jumpy. too paranoid. he swears the drugs Courtney takes has somehow seeped into his body through her cunt. he simply does not feel like himself. who else is to blame?

he takes a breath, freshly manicured fingers gripping the sink. get it together.

when he looks out the door, he sees you wiping blood from your mouth, something dark in your gaze, a droplet of heme dripping down your index finger. his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. his mind is playing tricks on him again.

you look up at him, your gaze softening, but always cold. the last bit of your fang turning into a human tooth. he's blinking at you. 'something terrible happened to Paul Allen,' you tell him. 'they just found his body on the roof. mutilated.'