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THE PERFECT GIRL — patrick bateman x reader

THE CAB HUMS FAINTLY as it cuts through manhattan traffic, the city’s skyline glowing outside the windows. your fiancé sits beside you, immaculately dressed in valentino, his walkman resting on his lap as he adjusts the foam pads of his headphones.

whitney houston’s voice leaks out faintly, bursts of synth breaking through whenever the cab hits a pothole. the air smells of leather and the paul sebastian fine cologne patrick doused himself in before leaving his apartment. you’re pressed into the corner of the backseat, trying to stay out of his way while he stares out the window, the city outside reflected in his glassy eyes like an art exhibit only he can understand.

you’ve spent most of the ride staring out the window, accustomed to his rituals. patrick doesn’t talk much in cabs—usually distracted by his music or staring at his reflection in the window. not exactly a conversationalist unless the subject revolves around himself.

your game of counting homeless people slumped in doorways and subway grates has run its course, leaving you disheartened.

it’s too many. there’s always too many.

bored out of your mind, you sneak a glance at him, taking in his sharp features, the way his full lips part slightly like he’s thinking hard about something. maybe another fancy restaurant he’s dragging you to. maybe a new suit. maybe the font of someone’s business card.

“you okay, patrick?” you ask casually, not really expecting an answer.

but he surprises you.

“we should get married,” he states flatly.

you blink, caught between confusion and disbelief. “what?”

patrick adjusts his headphones like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb into the space between you.

“married, y/n.” he repeats with an impatience air in his tone.

“it makes sense. people expect it.”

“wait—pat, are you serious?”

“you’re… not terrible,” he mumbles, as if that’s supposed to be some grand compliment. “it would—what’s the word—streamline things.”

you laugh, the sound a little shaky because what else are you supposed to do? “streamline things?” you echo, folding your arms. “that’s your pitch?”

patrick shrugs. “you don’t want a wedding? flowers, rings, cake?” he gestures vaguely, his hand slicing through the air. pantomiming cutting a wedding cake (or someone’s jugular). you’re still trying to process this, trying to figure out if he’s serious or just messing with you.

“well, do you want that, patrick?”

he pauses, the question hanging in the air. for a second, his mouth twitches, like he’s about to say something honest, but instead, he leans back in his seat, pulling his headphones back over his ears.

“…just consider it,” he mutters, closing his eyes as the music drowns you out again.

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[christianbalesblueadidas]

just bled through my pants at the mall. this mf would have loved it

[christianbalesblueadidas]

has any of my mutuals read that one newsies fanfic where david married an oc and she's cheating on him with jack (and that's only a subplot)? that was crazy

[christianbalesblueadidas]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝒜𝓂𝑒𝓇𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒫𝓈𝓎𝒸𝒽𝑜 ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

[christianbalesblueadidas]

[christianbalesblueadidas]

i love him i love him i love him i love him

he is 2 sauce tall.

[christianbalesblueadidas]

thinking about newsies and red as the defining color of power. there's jack's bandana and spot's suspenders, of course, as well as the tablecloth the newsies drape over denton's shoulders right before he declares himself the king of new york.

and there's the rally and how the red curtains are the backdrop while the newsies settle the question of how to deal with the scabbers. and this is really an argument about where the newsies's power truly lies — if it's in shows of force ("and nobody ain’t gonna listen to us unless we make ‘em") or a united front ("if we don’t stick together, then we’re nothing").

another red scene is the one in pulitzer's study, mainly from their clothes (honorable mention to jack's pink shiner, though). and i love how thoughtful the film's costuming is, throughout newsies, jack's wardrobe mainly consists of dark/muted colors (off white, black, gray), his bandana a shock of red. pulitzer, on the other hand, always dresses in black and white — the only time he departs from this is when he's making desperate grabs at the upper hand in order to convince jack to scab.

(i also like that they replaced the traditionally black chess pieces with red ones for a scene in which the two main players make calculated moves to outsmart/out bluff the other.)

and their color palettes are the same here, communicating that they're similar, in a way, despite being diametrically opposed. there's pulitzer's unsaid rags to riches backstory. he's no stranger to the violence of poverty. more explicitly, though, they're two people embroiled in nontraditional warfare — pulitzer's circulation wars and the strike as part of a broader class war — and they both have a deep understanding of the dynamics at hand, of what power is.

PULITZER: People think war is about right or wrong and not power.

JACK: If Joe gives into nobodies like us, it means we got the power. And he can’t do that, no matter what it costs. . . . Look out here. Right out here [where the people are] is where the power is.

it feels fitting that during their final confrontation, jack's bandana is back and the only source of red, while pulitzer has returned to his monochromatic palette — he knows he's lost.

[christianbalesblueadidas]

just updated the links on my masterlist!

[christianbalesblueadidas]

routine surveillance

batman x f!reader

a certain vigilante likes late night tv. but instead of the tonight show on his big television set at home, he watches you through your window.

warnings: NSFW, minors DNI (18+), masturbation (f), voyeurism, stalking, sex toys

word count: 1.1k

a/n: can be any batman you want but i'm a bale bat stan and i've noticed how stalker-y he is towards his love interests in his trilogy so... (too bad he didn't stalk miranda tate. could've saved him a stab wound.)

For his sanity and his morals, Batman rationalizes that stopping by your apartment window every night is just a routine background check. He only snoops on you for five minutes every night in the middle of patrol to see if you're a serious threat to him. Sometimes, on quiet nights, he watches you through your bedroom window for more than five minutes — of course, only to see if you're planning anything nefarious.

It has become part of his nightly routine when he goes on patrol. And it's becoming a bad habit. It's become so predictable by now.

Night after night, he finds himself standing outside your apartment's window, peeking through the curtains to see if you are doing anything suspicious.

Every time he thinks to himself that these midnight checkups are just part of his nightly routine and necessary to make sure you aren't a threat. Every other time, he can't help but admit the fact that he's becoming obsessed with keeping tabs on you.

Throughout the entire two weeks he has been surveilling you, you have done nothing of note. Nothing at all. But that doesn't stop Batman. He reasons that it's for Gotham's safety, not his personal stalker tendencies when a woman interests him.

Tonight is another one of those quiet nigts. He crouches on the rooftop of the building next to yours, looking through your bedroom window. You never close the curtains because you never thought anybody would be able to look in due to its height.

He watches as you read a novel under the dim, warm light of your bedside lamp. It's one of those cheap romance books that are filled with cliches and dirty scenes — something light to read before bed. You sigh, closing the book and slamming it onto my nightstand. You've clearly grown tired of it.

But you don't want to sleep yet. However, you're still very bored. With another sigh, you throw your blanket off your legs. You slide your underwear from under your oversized shirt, much to his shock.

All those other nights, he would keep his composure. But this time, he felt as if his mind was getting clouded. He is frozen in place, unable to tear his eyes away from you as he continues to watch with bated breath.

Is this the kind of man Batman is? It is, apparently, as he continues to be a peeping tom. He is many things: Gotham's dark knight, a caped crusader, a vigilante. And now, he can add one more thing to his resume: pervert.

He stares as you pull a pale skin-colored dildo out from your nightstand drawer. It's a decent size but still big. You're not unrealistic, he takes note. He never thought you'd be the kind of woman to own one, but he's finding out many things about himself and you tonight.

Your back is turned to the window, and in consequence, to him. You have no way of knowing that he is watching you. He can't see your expressions either.

You bite your lip as your position the toy on your hands and knees. You rub it along your slit to spread your juices on it, lubing it up. He can clearly hear the soft noises coming out of your mouth because of the tech in his cowl.

When you finally think you're ready, you begin to push the toy inside you, a long, drawn out moan escaping your lips. A hand on its base to keep it still on your mattress, you bounce on it, airy whimpers and moans spilling from your mouth.

He can't see much from the angle and because of my oversized shirt. But he can hear everything as you ride your toy, all thanks to his cowl. Despite his iron will and morality, he can't bring himself to even turn off the audio feed.

He should leave.

His conscience keeps telling him to just jump off the roof and take off with his grapple gun. He should. He really, really should.

He knows he should go now, but something is keeping him in place. His body won't move, his eyes unable to look away from you as the heat inside him keeps building up.

Why isn't he leaving?

He knows he needs to go, but the sight of you moving above your toy, your soft moans filling his ears like sweet poison. He can't bring himself to leave, his body slowly filling with want and desire.

His gloved hand slowly moves to grip onto the roof, his knuckles turning white from the grip as he fights the urge to move closer to the window. He knows he can't. That he shouldn't. But he wants to.

You slowly fall on your front, your face hitting the pillows. Your ass is now up in the air, giving him an explicit show. Your hand that used to hold the toy in place is now moving it, pumping it in and out of you in a languid pace. In consequence, the change in position has Batman seeing the toy stretching you out, wetness dripping down your thigh.

He is gripping onto the roof so hard, he's breaking the tiles. It's taking all of his will power not to just jump down through your window and give you what you need.

But he won't, he can't.

He is the symbol of justice. The one who fights for righteousness and order.

But god, hearing those desperate moans and your sloppy pussy is just driving him to the brink of madness. He is close to the point where he can't take it anymore. His cock is getting so hard that it's uncomfortable in his suit, confined by the rough armor.

The noises coming from your room are sloppy and wet, the sound of the toy slipping in and out of you mingling with your needy little moans and whimpers and gasps. You press your face onto the pillows a bit harder as your hand quickens the pace it thrusts the toy. He can see all of it, glistening flesh stretching around the pale skin-colored silicone.

Suddenly, your whole body quivers and pauses, thick fluid dripping down onto the mattress. He hears you let out a deep moan, a sound akin to relief. You let go of the toy and it quickly falls onto the small puddle on the sheets. He watches your flesh twitch and glisten around nothing and he wishes it's around his cock instead.

Then, his nightmare comes true.

You look back from your position and your eyes meet. You've been fully aware that he's been spying on you. And you've been wishing that dildo was his cock too.

What a pervert, you think about Batman — as you bite your lip and beckon him to join you inside with a come hither motion.

[christianbalesblueadidas]

Willem dafoe is actually scary i have an irrational fear of him i flinched when i saw him in american psycho

[christianbalesblueadidas]

[christianbalesblueadidas]

christian bale has ruined sliced white bread for me and i won't elaborate

[christianbalesblueadidas]

Bi character of the day: 11-18-24 is Jack Kelly from Newsies!

@musical-dash-trash headcanons Jack as bisexual!!

[christianbalesblueadidas]

patrick bateman x fiancée!reader | nsfw. mdni

you’re kneeling on the polished oak floor, jerking off your fiancé as he studies your hand, captivated by the engagement ring he’d bought for you. his thumb slides over the warm, polished 18k rose gold of the cartier panthère ring, and you can see patrick’s face contort slightly when you swiped your thumb over the bulbous tip, admiring the rosy shade of pink. you made a mental note of the colour, perhaps you could get some nail polish of the exact shade.

“this isn’t just any ring,” patrick mumbles suddenly, as if justifying his choice to himself. “it’s designed by aldo cipullo—the same guy who created the love bracelet. only the best, obviously.” his voice trails off, noting the way the delicate pavé diamonds sparkle against your skin, then looks back up at you, cheeks faintly flushed.

“two carats of vvs clarity diamonds, high colour… princess cut. they don’t make them like this anymore,” he rambles on, tongue poking out between parted lips. “each one’s hand-finished in their paris atelier. it cost… twenty-five grand. minimum,”

“thank you, patrick. they’re beautiful, i love them,” you say as you gently squeezed the head, a droplet of clear liquid oozed from the slit — glistening like the diamonds you’re wearing. his cock twitches in your hand and patrick frowns. “these trousers are ermenegildo zegna and they cost nine hundred and fifty dollars. don’t get them dirty.”

“… of course, patrick.”

[christianbalesblueadidas]

Bring back Christian Bale to play Thomas Wayne Flashpoint Batman I'm not fucking kidding

[christianbalesblueadidas]

I NEED THE HD VERSION OF THIS STAT !!

[christianbalesblueadidas]

imagine desperate Patrick who doesn't want his bae to leggo?👀

Hello!💗 I'm sorry that it's not long enough, I wrote it during my work break because I've been thinking about it all day, listening to Florence & The Machine—Over the Love, but I still hope you enjoy this little passage!

"You're not…going anywhere." I said it like a mantra, watching your breath catch in your throat as you were confused and angry. You were about to fall apart again. But I didn't give you that chance. I grabbed your chin and jerked your face up to mine. "I don't care if you hate me." I hissed. "I don't care if you think I'm incapable of whatever this… thing… is that you want. You're mine."

You gasped, your lips trembling as tears filled your eyes again. But I didn't let go, my grip tightening on your chin as I pulled your face closer.

"You don't get to run. You don't get to leave." Your breathing was shakier now. I could feel your pulse quicken under my fingers. "You think you'll find someone better? Someone safer?" Your silence burned and I gripped you tighter, forcing you to meet my eyes. "Tell me I'm wrong."