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melis-writes · 2 years ago

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Ok hear me out and I know im insane for this.. we need Victoria x Patrick Bateman smut ASAP

Shipping Victoria x Patrick; did you know I’m utterly insane? 🤭 The wildest prompt pairing I’ve ever received in my life is this by far, and I thought Victonny was wild in the beginning. 😅😅 WELL. 💀 I know Miss Victoria was subjected to a Patrick Bateman era a little while ago and a lot of questions about him and her were asked/submitted sjsjsjsjs. 😵‍💫 You requested and I’m here to deliver!! This is my very first time writing for Patrick Bateman…😅 I am considering writing more for him alone but here goes Victoria x Patrick starting off towards smutty themes…🥵

’55 West 81st Street, Upper West Side. American Gardens...’ Repeating the address in your mind as you enter the luxurious, high security apartment building; the exact one specified to you numerous times by your direct supervisor and one of the vice presidents at Pierce & Pierce; Patrick Bateman.

Having only worked in the same building let alone firm with Mr. Bateman for only a week, you can’t help but find it slightly unnerving and odd, yet also courteous to be invited to Mr. Bateman’s private residence so soon.

Still, you’re not one to give up opportunity of any kind, especially ones you can take advantage of.

How many can say they’ve had the same privilege of being able to meet with and discuss their work and performance with someone as influential as Patrick Bateman and so soon?

‘11th floor.’ Stepping into the elevator, you smoothen out your blazer and patiently wait to be taken up to the eleventh floor; your heart already beginning to race from a mix of nervousness and excitement.

You have to take this meeting with Mr. Bateman as you would competition at work; you’re not the only one in line applying to become Patrick’s personal assistant and secretary after all.

You remember briefly seeing another young woman in her mid twenties named Lily during your interview who was also accepted on a preliminary basis as you.

Pierce & Pierce wanted to see which candidate was more qualified since you and the other candidate, Lily, brought similar skillsets and experience to the role promising an excellent benefit’s package and excellent pay.

You were not trained at the same time with Lily nor did you ever see her around Patrick since employment courses and training were provided on a one-on-one basis with Mr. Bateman and away from prying eyes.

This leaves you to now guess that Mr. Bateman must be personally picking between you and Lily as to who he wants to hire permanently as his personal assistant and secretary; a formality and nothing more.

For dinner tonight, you can assume Patrick will either let you know he’s chosen you as a permanent hire, or that he’s chosen Lily over you; whatever answer, you’re completely prepared. You’ve been looking forward to this for weeks now, after all.

Just as you reach the door to Patrick’s suite, you’ve barely reached your hand out to ring his doorbell when you find the front door already opening for you.

Blinking in surprise, you watch as the front door opens to reveal half of Patrick’s suite and his back turned to you, walking away already.

“You’re late,” Patrick states, paying no attention to you as he begins to make his way back towards the living room.

“You wanted to see me at 7:00 PM sharp, sir,” stunned, you take a step inside Patrick’s grandiose, modern suite; unsure whether to focus on him or the striking features and décor of his beautiful home standing out to you.

Hearing your voice instead of Lily’s, Patrick stops in his tracks.

He turns around, facing you with an amused, beaming smile over his face; a completely different tune than how disappointed he sounded just seconds ago.

“So I did. Hello, Miss Ferrari,” Patrick greets you in his cool, soothing tone. “I was expecting a mutual coworker of ours, if you could guess.”

“Lily, was it?” Blushing a little, you begin to slip off your heels and notice Patrick watching your every move with complete interest. “Were you supposed to see her earlier this evening?”

“Actually, that’s none of your business, Miss Ferrari,” Patrick answers, completely nonchalant and still smiling. “But it means well for you.”

“Right,” you murmur, still finding yourself growing adjusted to Patrick’s somewhat erratic behaviour, let alone his distractingly sexy looks every single time your eyes land on him. “Sorry, um,” you clear your throat, clasping your hands in front of you, “there’s no reason now for me to hide how I feel about that.”

“I figured,” Patrick chuckles, gesturing towards his kitchen. “Would you like a drink? I have a number of fine Italian wines that I believe you would enjoy.”

Before you can even answer, Patrick heads into the kitchen with enthusiasm in every step as you politely move into the living room and take a seat upon one of his loveseats.

“Sangiovese wine in specific,” Patrick continues speaking, grabbing out a bottle and admiring the front label. “It’s a fine red wine popular in Italy. One can always find Sangiovese grapes growing in Tuscany, it’s native region, not to mention other various southern and central parts of Italy.”

“That sounds perfect, thank you,” you’re practically mesmerized by Patrick’s tone and how he can make what would be the most mundane, unnecessary explanation by anyone else sound like a fairy tale to you.

“From the moment we met, I came to the observation you enjoy red wine and red wine alone. White wine is not to your liking, is it?” Patrick takes out two wine glasses from his cupboard, setting them down on his kitchen counter in front of your line of vision.

“You’ve observed well,” you nod, smiling back. “I suppose I could have white wine every now and again but I’ve always preferred red.”

“You have excellent taste in wine,” Patrick compliments, pouring a quarter serving of wine in both glasses. “Sangiovese wines such as this one—” Patrick taps the bottle of wine with the back of his fingernails, “are rich in flavor. Even the color derives meaning from it’s name; the blood of Jupiter.” He picks up both glasses of wine, moving towards you. “You may enjoy the prominent cherry flavor upon first taste, but the dried herbs will add to a delectable aftertaste with a hint of plum.” Patrick hands you your glass of wine, pausing for a moment to smile at you again and give a small nod. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

Nodding, you take your glass of wine and blush. “I almost always drink a Sangiovese wine. You read me like a book, Mr. Bateman—”

“Patrick,” he corrects sharply while maintaining an overly friendly attitude. “You’re in my home now, Miss Ferrari. You don’t have to be formal with me.” Patrick raises his glass of wine to his lips. “I however, will call you whatever I wish.”

Taking a sip of your wine, you maintain eye contact with Patrick and find yourself clenching your legs while being unaware of it, but everything from how your expression changes, your body language and reaction times are noted by Patrick immediately and well.

“Patrick,” you repeat back, feeling your face grow hot with blush. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

“It presented itself,” Patrick swallows his wine, setting the glass down on the coffee table in front of him without taking his eyes off of you. “I saw what a patient yet confident and demanding woman you were throughout this week. I couldn’t take this position right from your hands now, could I?”

“I didn’t see it that way,” you reply back, “I always pictured you putting it in my hands.”

Patrick chuckles, shaking his head. “You more than have it now. I’m glad we made such an impression on you at Pierce & Pierce. That other woman, Lily, didn’t seem to think so.”

Your eyes widen a little but you hold your tongue, remembering Patrick practically scolding you a few moments ago for asking about Lily.

Patrick grins devilishly at you, noticing how you grow quiet. “I appreciate the gesture, Victoria,” he says your name for the first time, rising from his seat to sit directly next to you. “You won’t ask further questions.”

“You told me it was none of my business,” your heart begins to pound in your chest as you pick up the scent of Patrick’s heavenly cologne surrounding you. “And so it isn’t.”

“That’s right,” Patrick smirks. “You’ll find we do things differently at Pierce & Pierce; our rules do not shift but they are enforced strict. I have my own set of rules, and I have them for you now too.”

“Such as?” You can hardly focus on drinking your wine this close to Patrick.

“Your work attire,” Patrick places his hand over your thigh, sending a wave of excitement and pleasure rushing through you. “This skirt, for example…” He knits his brows, looking displeased.

“Oh,” you blink, unable to find anything wrong with the black, knee-length pencil skirt you’re wearing and had been wearing to work earlier today. “I’m sorry, what exactly don’t you like about it?”

“It’s not short enough,” Patrick’s eyes meet yours once again. “I want you to wear something shorter next time. Flatter your figure. You’d look good in something tighter and shorter.”

Your eyes don’t leave Patrick’s, but you can feel his hand taking your wine glass away gently and placing it down to reduce risk of you dropping it in surprise from how focused you are on Patrick’s words now.

“I’ve made my observations about you all week, Victoria,” Patrick continues, lowering his tone of voice as his hand begins to slowly glide up your skirt. “Your performance at Pierce & Pierce was more than satisfactory. Your attention to detail…” His hand moves up further to your upper thigh as you find yourself relaxing and spreading your legs further, but at a complete loss of words from throbbing, surprising arousal racking over your body. “Immaculate.”

You’ve no idea when Patrick’s face got so close to yours to breathe his words upon your neck, but you can’t get enough of feeling his firm, large hand caressing your skin.

“How you act around me is not workplace appropriate, so,” Patrick gives your thigh a squeeze, trailing his finger to trace your jawline. “I took the liberty to invite you somewhere private. My home—where you could indulge on all the dirty thoughts you have in my office about me. Isn’t that right?”

“Patrick…” Your eyes widen as you let out a soft whimper, watching his hands move underneath your skirt.

“And where I don’t have to sit and imagine what it’s like to feel your soft, supple skin; to touch and caress your thighs while adoring your body as one would do to a piece of art.” Patrick nuzzles your neck—his eyes fluttering shut as he takes in the scent of your perfume.

With that, you feel Patrick's hand harshly smack your thigh, causing a quiet yet surprised moan to fly out of your mouth as you clutch onto his shoulder and feel his hand tenderly rubbing over the reddening skin where he hit you.

“Where I can have you all to myself.”

#prompts #not canon #vatrick #victoria ferrari #moth to flame x american psycho #patrick bateman x oc #patrick bateman x reader #patrick bateman x victoria ferrari #crossover prompts #patrick bateman smut

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dogshit-gambler · 2 years ago

Text

verge of frenzy—; Patrick Bateman x f!OC

Commissioned by my lovely friend @myst3r10 🖤 thank you so very much for allowing me to write this! Liz is a true girlboss 🖤

Very dark content. CNC. Drug use. Violence/Graphic Depictions of Murder. Gore.

Hot water ran over the blonde’s body, her hair sticking to the back of her neck. Elizabeth ran her fingers through her hair, her hair mask sliding over her delicate fingers. The sun shimmered against her bedroom floor, clothes basking in the warmth of the sun. A formal, business look was her poison today. A long pencil skirt to hug a perfect figure was nearing her future. Sheer stockings and a white button-up to pair with her eccentric jewelry. As she squeezed her hair, her second alarm started to blare. “Fuck,” she spat. “I’m awake. Unfortunately.” It’d be one hell of a day interviewing stuck-up rich guys with egos the size of Texas. She needed a fix now. Drugs or alcohol either would do. She applied a glycolic acid cleanser to her face, dragging it down to her throat. A tingle shot through her skin as it gently exfoliated. She paired it with an almond oil scrub used primarily on her neck and chest. She needed to be perfect to combat the toxic yuppie culture - even if she took part in it too. Her skin was smooth and shaven, with tight legs and a perfectly round rump. Looks were everything.

Rinsing out her hair, she stepped from the shower, water running down her spine. Upon drying her face, she moisturized with SPF and added a sweet Gucci perfume. One sprit on her neck, the others behind her ears and wrists. She reached over to her bathroom drawer, just under the mirror to reveal a small baggie of white powder. Wasting no time, she took a sharp snort directly off the plastic. Much like people needed coffee to start the day, she needed her own special stimulant. Hers just happened to be much more expensive and illegal. All crime came with a price, yuppies knew this better than anyone. She wrapped a towel over her hair, flipping it up as she finished her routine. The rush was amazing, a quick heartbeat, the room looking so much more alive and colorful. It was awfully boring living the best life at all times, she needed this one thing to keep her intact.

Her outfit was designer, shoes worth a man’s life, lipstick as red as blood, and skin as clear as the summer sky. Elizabeth admired her reflection much like Narcissus, she could drown much like him too. Pools of beauty rippled before her, a beautiful nymph looking back at her. You’d wonder if you were even worthy enough to be looked at by her, for her eyes struck like bullets and sliced like a butterfly knife. Another hit, she thought. Fuck. She finished the baggie and chucked it into the trash. A small droplet of blood ran from her nose and a familiar soreness hit her. She took a washcloth to her nose and gently stopped the bleeding. Her damned dealer didn’t grind the shit fine enough, she’d have his head for that. Sharp, jagged crystals ripped into her nose, filling her lungs with acute amounts of blood. It was more of a nuisance than anything. Maybe one day it would catch up to her, but surviving brain-rotting conversations with millionaires hadn’t killed her yet - so nothing will at this rate.

On the contrary, Patrick Bateman never had this problem. They’d meet soon enough, even if that meant discomfort for the both of them. They were close enough to have done drugs together, but distant enough to not give a shit about each other’s problems. Bateman’s morning routine was all the same like it always was.

Jean’s ringtone began to go off.

“Helloooo?” Elizabeth spoke into the phone as she placed it on speaker.

“Hey! How are you, Jean?” She smiled through the phone, looking at herself in the mirror. She twirled the edge of the towel around her finger.

“I’m great! I was just wondering… Will I see you today? You’re so busy and I miss you. I’d like to see you even if you’re working.”

Elizabeth cleared her throat, holding the washcloth on her nose.

“Yeah, I’ll be in today for a while. I have some interviews to finish. There’s been a lot of shady bullshit going on at P&P and I plan to figure it out.” Murder scandals, how fun.”I know you’ll do great, Liz. I can’t wait to see you today.” Jean said her goodbyes before going back to work. Being an office princess had its perks, even if you were treated like meat. Having rich men fawn and bend before you - exhilarating. But Jean was far too sweet to notice the gawking expressions and predatory scrutiny. How their eyes stripped her naked and disrespected her grave before she was even dead. It was sickening. Elizabeth had seen it and stuffed it out like a candle. But Jean? She was too innocent, too kind to work in this cutthroat world. She too had climbed the corporate ladder but at what cost?

Bateman made his presence known at P&P. He looked down at his fellow yuppies, feeling their judgment, he only wished it was jealousy. Since Paul Allen’s death, more followed close behind. Bateman could only clean so much blood, oh god, how he hated cleaning the blood. He’d rather bathe in the crimson fluid, drink it, and add it to a wine sauce. Dining on the meat of mankind, drinking their blood like a sacrilegious puppet. Bateman, the man, the myth, the fucking maniac. He spent his morning jerking off the slasher movies, rewinding the death scenes until his climax. His moans mixed with the sounds of female screams, his cock rock hard as if they were real sounds of agony. His morning was ripe with violence, and porn to start the day off right.

“Hello, Jean.” He spoke. “I see you took my suggestion, you stopped wearing that ugly blouse. I like the yellow on you much better. The pink made your skin look dull. I like this so much better.”

“Morning, Pat. You look nice today.”

“Thanks! You too, Jean.”

Seemingly, all Jean heard was hello.

Patrick Bateman, you’re out of your fucking mind.

Chapter 2

Light rain, slight chance of thunderstorms.

“Good morning Liz!” Jean spoke as she made eye contact. Elizabeth made herself known, her presence requiring basic respect and intelligence. “How’d your date go last night?” Jean inquired, not knowing the cloud of disappointment that was about to glide over her head. “Horrible. A no-show. Bastard really thought I’d let that slide and tried to call me at 5 in the fucking morning to apologize.”

Jean frowned, resting her chin in her hand. “Well, I’m sorry. I hate to hear it didn’t work out. But why do you think he called you?”

Liz chuckled, at how innocent Jean was. Elizabeth looked around, making sure no one was listening. Apart from Bateman, not a soul knew she existed. “To… Just to enjoy himself.” Jean blushed a rosy red. “Oh.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Yeah. Not a good look. So now I’m just… making reservations for myself.” She was used to doing things on her own, being independent had its perks but always keeping your guard up is exhausting; and by god, she was. Jean shrugged, returning to her army of papers to fill out, leaving her cousin alone to interview. She knocked on Bateman’s door. “Come in.”

“Patrick Bat-”

He cut himself off. “Elizabeth.” “Patrick.”

A rush of memories began to flood them both.

She was in Bateman’s apartment, bent over the dresser with a line of cocaine sitting on her left asscheek. Bateman snorted the powder through a bill, his muscular body covered in delicious sweat. He slapped her ass, leaving a red print on her fine skin. Bateman was rough, the kind of guy you’d regret staying the night with. Liz enjoyed it, using it as a chance to feel alive. They coexisted in misery and loneliness, using each other to cope with the pain of the world. “Fuck me,” she demanded. Patrick laughed, slapping the tip of his cock against her. The drugs ran through his bloodstream, invigorating him like a racehorse. “Be a good girl,” he began, slamming his cock into her eager hole. “And take,” he bit his lip, her walls fluttering around him, “My big fucking cock. Take it, ohhh take it, just like that. Tell me you love my cock, tell me you love getting fucked like a slut. Fucking bitch.” Bateman pounded into her, his heavy balls slapping against her. “I love your cock,” she whined, gripping the wood frame of the table. “Fuck, fuck me harder! Please, fucking use me and all my holes.” Her body was tight, lean with muscle, and perfect hips. Her legs spread for Patrick, his skin hot against hers. His body flushed and hot, sweat running down his back.

“Fucking tell me, Liz. Tell me you feel my cock buried inside you like fucking corpse. I wish you were fucking dead so I could keep you here forever, even in death you’d be slobbering on me.” Liz felt herself close to climax as Patrick’s hand crept up to her throat. His grip was deadly, the air trapped in her throat. Her brain felt heavy, her rabid heartbeat told her she very well may have died at that moment. Her orgasm was godly, the rush of crashing worlds, on the brink of death, and the drugs mixing together created an intoxicating cocktail. Patrick screamed out profanities as he overstimulated himself inside her, his aching soul clawing at his neck for release.

“Clean yourself up in the bath. Wash my cum out of you.” Elizabeth fell on the floor, weak and tired. She attempted to pull herself up off the floor and at least onto the bed. Patrick almost took pity on the damage he caused. “Come,” he said, leaning down to pick her up. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’re covered in sweat, you know I can’t have that.”

He scooped her up with ease, his muscles flexing as he stood up. He was still high on the conglomeration of drugs, but still sober enough to know he didn’t really want her to rot on the floor. He felt confused with himself at times; his utter lack of empathy seemed to begin and end with her. He could abuse her and kiss the same wounds he caused. He took no pleasure in truly hurting her outside the bedroom. He wanted to spoil her with every dollar in the bank. Millions wouldn’t be enough, he’d buy her the fucking world if he could. He placed her in the bathtub, his slender hands blasting the warm water over her feet. Painted toenails shimmered under the soft lights of his bathroom. “Let me clean you up, you’re filthy.” He was gentle for the first time in his life. His hands spread almond body scrub over her back and chest, the sugar gliding over her skin like silk. Her head was still spinning, the warmth only making it worse. Patrick ran a washcloth over her skin, his soft hands tickling the gentle hairs on her arms. Her heartbeat slowed down, the dizziness now turning into an intense exhaustion; the kind worse than a long day. The coming down process was cocaine was a strong one, it felt more like dying than anything. Extreme fatigue plagued her entire body, it felt a chore to even take slow, easy inhales and exhales.

Patrick took care of her like a delicate flower, the only thing that mattered to him was Liz. His sweet, precious Liz.

---

“Patrick! Long time no see, how are you?” Liz inquired, placing her purse on his desk. The simple act of dominance annoyed Bateman. “I’ve been well, Liz. I’ve missed your company. I’m sure you’ve just been suffering without me too.” She chuckled, taking a seat. His office was dead, just like every broker in the building. “I’m not here for games, Bateman. It’s business. Take a seat.” Oh? No games? No joy. “What’s troubling you?” Bateman inquired, both his hands clasped together. His eyes cut into her like razors; blood dripping from her doll-like skin. “Well,” she began. “How’s it feel being one of the last standing? This isn’t looking good. Tell me what you know.”

Patrick scoffed. “Tell you what? That I killed everyone in the building and burned their putrid corpses?”

“There’s a start.” “Oh, don’t be silly, Liz.”

She leaned in close, the air thick with tension. “Patrick.”

She stared into his eyes, counting every lash, every pore, and soon to be every fucking zero after his bail. “I need you to be honest here. Where were you on the night of Paul Allen’s death? And the rest? John Minton? Samantha Higgins? Gustavo King? Come the fuck on, Pat. Tell me.” She stood strong in the face of evil, knowing damned well she could look back without a stitch of doubt, let alone fear. Patrick’s eyes danced around her neck, imagining his hands wrapped around it. His mind raced with the memories.

“It turned you on when I told you how I butchered them all.” Patrick began, a sinister smirk plastered on his face. “Christ, don’t you remember? Soaking your panties when I told you how I bled a man in the tub like a pig?” Fuck. “I know it did. You’re a glutton for punishment - only if you get to watch like a fucking voyeur.

His words made her cringe but she detected no lies. “Patrick. You are far too comfortable.” Bateman laughed. Oh god, how he laughed. “Don’t be silly. Let alone coy, you think I’d forget about you covered in blood while I fucked you next to a corpse?” Elizabeth rolled her eyes, she wasn’t so innocent either. “Correct. Which is evidence enough to throw your ass in jail.” “Pftt… You’d be convicted too! You fucking watched!” Yes, she did. And she enjoyed it. It was sick, it was perverted, but nothing in their lives came normally; god forbid peacefully. Patrick wasn’t wrong, but that was the goddamn problem. “You have no evidence,” Liz replied quickly, a hint of amusement in her voice. “No?”

“No.”

“Pumpkin… I was filming us. You looked so beautiful all splayed out, blood and every other liquid dripping off you. You wouldn’t want that plastered everywhere, would you?” Patrick leaned back in his chair, the black material of his button-up stretching over his powerful biceps. “But you and I both know you can’t live without me and seeing me locked up would crush your precious little heart; even if it is black with rot.” Patrick’s lips curled into a soft smile as Liz looked him up and down. Dare say, he considered it ogling. “I heard you got stood up, by the way. So we will go out tonight. It Looks nice. Wear that tight red dress I got. It makes your ass look like a heart.” Patrick handed her his credit card, the letters P.B engraved on the backside in titanium shimmered under his lights. “Get your hair and nails done too… My treat. Simply because your act was hilarious.”

She snatched his card like a viper. “As if I wouldn’t have blown your money regardless…”

In truth, she’d never throw Patrick under the bus. She was too emotionally involved, invested in his life. Patrick was a constant, one thing she could always rely on. Apart from the never-ending drugs, Patrick was her system, her habit, her vice. Needless to say, his grip on her was monstrous. But she wasn’t the only one wrapped around a finger. Patrick was a slave to her whims, her wishes, her desires. Everything she could want, from the world to a blood diamond, she could have it all.

She gathered her things and just before leaving, she stood still in her tracks. “Don’t get too comfortable, Bateman. I have my ass on the line for you.” That… was an understatement. She was in deep, but Patrick was even deeper.

There was nothing like having a fresh set of gel nails and a new hairstyle. While she was perfectly within her ability to do these things herself, it was nice to use Patrick’s money for a change. It made him feel needed, something he’d never admit. All he wanted was to feel desired like he was a capable man. God knew he was, but Patrick still felt plagued with doubt.

The infamous red dress made an appearance. Strapless and covered in sequence, the red gown draped over her body like a sea of blood. Wrapping, enveloping her skin like a hungry beast. Patrick picked it for her, imagining himself ripping it off like a demon in the night. She stood in the mirror, black stiletto high heels shaping her lean calves. Tight fishnet stretched over her skin, each mole and birthmark adorning her skin visible. Luscious blonde curls draped over her shoulders, body glitter donning her skin like a rare gem. Men would carve her out of the most dangerous and feared mine in the world - just to get a taste of the sweet magnolia perfume she wore like her own skin. Patrick would peel it off like the tender skin of ripe fruit, stripping her down to the bone marrow just to get a small taste.

Her mirror image looked back at her, admiring the life she built for herself. A queen, a she-caligula looked back and laughed at all the times she showed pity on those smaller than her. Patrick was a horrible influence, enhancing the dark heart that slept beneath. Vermilion adorned her lips like blood, with earthy tones on her eyes. Patrick would drop fucking dead when she walked out the door. She was certain Patrick would look just as ravishing.

Chapter 3

Patrick pulled up to her luxury apartment, his driver mentally preparing for the horrors that would be the ride to Dorsia. It was never about the restaurant or the money it took to get in. It was yuppie bragging rights. Even for Liz, it was the ability to brag. She looked down at him from her window, a distance seeming infinite. Never close enough, just on the edge. The space felt liminal, empty, and cold. Her eyes shot down like bullets but the air was bulletproof. She’d kill him by now if the consequence wouldn't be everlasting loneliness that felt more like a punch to the gut. Patrick was the only person on earth who she could tolerate. People were meaningless or a nuisance. Bateman wasn’t a person - rather an entity to walk through life as a shadow. Casting darkness like a stormcloud, he walked.

Liz trekked down the steps, her dress held tightly in her hand. Her heels, a war drum, a tune imitated by many, but mastered by none. Imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Many aspired to be like the woman, her energy wicked, yet influenced by Patrick. He was even more sick than she could hope to be.

The door was already open for her, the only thing missing was a red carpet. Rolled out before her was only Patrick, her feet could crush him like a bug if given the chance. She smiled, her red lips curling. “You look gorgeous, Pumpkin.”

“Thank you, Patrick. Not so shabby yourself, hm?”

“Of course.”

---

“I’ll have your lobster bisque and a side salad. The lady will have the salmon mousse and NY Strip. Oh, add dessert while you’re at it. Whatever the chef’s special is.”

The waiter took their order, moving quickly to the kitchen. Patrick was a regular and was painfully critical. If the food wasn’t perfect he’d throw a fit - much like a child. Elizabeth leaned her cheek on her palm, the supple skin pushing up gently. “So,” she began. “What trouble are you in now, Pat?” She shifted hands, using her free one to gently grasp him across the table. “The only trouble that I’m in is the trouble you caused for me, Liz. My dear. My ever-so-sweet darling. You’ve put me in a world of hurt.” He replied, leaning in. His eyes were deep - soft even. He was gentle if only for a moment. “And what do you want me to do about that?” Liz pulled back, looking at the table sitting just behind them. They’d ordered the menu special - funny. The woman sitting behind Patrick looked eerily concerned. “All those men… dead? Gone? I can’t… I hope they catch who is behind these horrific killings.”

Liz smiled. “Horrific?” She repeated quietly, biting her bottom lip. Bateman smiled. “Seemingly so.” That urge came back, fuck. The urge to hurt, the urge to BE hurt. Patrick’s hands began to sweat, and his brow furrowed. Liz knew that look anywhere. She knew that woman’s fate had been sealed the moment she thought of Patrick. Sick, perverted, he was - but god, Liz was just as sick. If she’d sat with Patrick knowing he was this way, there would be two murderers sitting together. She gave him a nod, sealing this stranger’s fate.

Their food arrived and Liz began to dig in. It was perfect, the steak bloody and juicy. The salmon mousse was salty and creamy. Sharp cheese was served on the side with crackers, handmade by the chef’s loving hands. Patrick’s soup was warm, bursting with flavor. They exchanged bites, almost as if sharing a kiss. The act of sharing food was pure, even if it was rotten all the same. A bottle of wine was brought to their table, the waiter pouring glass after glass. The warm fuzzy feeling began to overtake them, the food richer, the air warmer. Everything was bright. Patrick turned to look at the table behind them, spotting another woman gossiping about him. Well - so he thought. He was guilty as charged, blood on his hands could only drip so much until they stained.

“Excuse me, but I’d love to pay for your meal,” Patrick spoke to them. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it seems like your conversation had brought you ladies down. It would make my day to treat you.” Liz smiled, that was her Patrick. “Oh!” They exclaimed. “You are so kind, sir.” If God only knew…

Upon checking out, Patrick added the other table’s meal to his bill. “Thank you so much, sir. It appears angels do exist.” Liz remained quiet and listened intently. The two women were middle-aged, appearing naive but adventurous enough to come home with them. “Perhaps, I could be one, you never know.” Patrick chuckled. “Are you two ladies up for some fun, perhaps? My girlfriend and I…”

The air became thick with suspicion. He was too bold. “I... I’m not sure, sir.”

“Oh, you’ll love it.” Liz chimed in. “We love company.” Patrick had never seen her like this before. “We would love to have you.” Having a woman’s touch never hurts. Liz seemed trusting, and knowing Patrick, this aspect only made his cock throb. Liz could be very convincing when she wanted - and now - she needed this. This release, this ecstasy from the pain and pleasure. She batted her eyelashes across the table and that delicate look seemed to be all it took. “Mhmm… Fine. I like meeting new people anyways. I’m Marion.”

“Marion. This is my boyfriend, Patrick. I’m Elizabeth.”

Chapter 4

Patrick’s apartment is a tomb for many, a chamber of death and destruction for all. “Take a seat,” Liz cooed, slipping off Marion’s jacket. “Wine? Beer? What’s your fancy, sweetheart?” Liz’s fingers trailed over Marion’s shoulder, pushing back her strawberry-red hair. It smelled faintly of a developer and an almond hair mask. Patrick couldn’t contain his excitement. “Would you like something… stronger?” Liz pulled a small baggie of cocaine from her chest, dangling it in front of Marion like a bone to a dog. Marion’s cheeks turned deep pink, her skin hot, the hairs on her neck standing up. “I’ve… never done this.” Liz smiled before laying it out before them. “It’s easy. TOO easy! Just…” She made fine lines on the silver tray in front of them, giving Marion the thinnest line. “Just snort, move along quickly. It’s fucking amazing.” She ran her fingers through Marion’s hair, guiding her head down. She looked behind them, seeing Patrick standing in the hallway, a small hammer in his hands. She gave him a nod, gently scratching Marion’s scalp. She moved her hand to the back of Marion’s neck, leaving space for Patrick to swing.

Crack. Wet matter hit the table, a tooth following after. He hit her again, this time in the side of the cranium. Again. Again. Again. Until blood spattered on Liz, a chunk of brain rolling down her chest. “Finally!” Bateman shouted. “Fucking FINALLY!” He grabbed Marion’s neck, pulling her close to him. He pulled fragments of her skull off, dropping them at his feet. Her heart had long since stopped, the blunt impact deadly enough to end her life on the second swing. Dare - you could say she didn’t know what hit her. His hands were shaking from the thrill. Blood covered his face, his hair stained and now crusty with the fluid. Cold, nothing but cold air filled the room. The brain matter on Liz’s chest was now on the floor, along with an ocean of blood and flesh.

She grabbed her boyfriend’s hand, stopping him for only a moment. She ran his hand down her face, leaving a trail of blood behind. He smelled like crushed bones and cologne. Liz felt the blood dry on her skin. Patrick’s hand ran down to her breast, the blood following. “You’re so damned hot,” he spoke. He pressed his other hand into the pool of blood, gathering a small amount in his hand before smearing it all over Liz’s chest and neck. His handprints tattooed her skin, from her cheeks down to the now exposed flesh on her back. “Take me, Patrick,” She begged, running her sticky fingers in his hair. The blood was horrid, the stickiness, the smell. They didn’t give a shit, all they needed was each other. Patrick peeled off her underwear, his following shortly. He laid her back in the ever-growing pool of blood on the floor. Her heart raced, her body excited with the idea of being fucked next to a corpse. Patrick dove into her pussy, lapping at her like a man starved. He gave her no warmup, the anticipation driving them both insane. He reached up to tease her nipples, her skin aching with the pain of his grip, but his skin was so sweet against her. She planted herself in the pool of blood, wrapping one of her nimble legs around his head as her orgasm approached. He ran his tongue in sharp, rough circles over her clit. Her hands slipped in the blood, her body writhing in the intense pleasure. She sang his name like a symphony, an orchestrated show for the wicked. He brought his bloodied hand to her clit, his mouth leaving her sex for only a moment. His mouth was covered in crimson, a perfect mix of her juice and Marion’s blood. He smacked her clit before rubbing it how she liked it. He knew her body like the back of his hand. Liz writhed like she was being tortured, the pleasure intense it almost hurt. “Fucking cum for me, fucking cum for me. Look at all this blood and cum at the thought of it. That’s my sweet girl. That’s right.”

Liz swatted his hand away, seconds away from her climax. “I want to fucking ride you as we look at the mess you made. My Patrick.” She pushed him onto his back, grabbing his gorgeous cock in her hands. She planted her mouth on him, taking him to the back of her throat, swirling her tongue over his swollen tip. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, pushing her head down to his pubic hair. He cursed a thousand curses before pulling her head up. Her face was strung with tears, her lips swollen and her nose bleeding from the cocaine use. She crawled on top of him like a fucking terror from hell. She positioned herself on his perfect cock, leaving a bloody handprint on his chest, right where his beating heart was. She rode his cock, grinding her clit against him in the process. “Fuck, fuck. Yes. Ride my fucking cock, Liz. Fucking ride me, my darling.” She used his chest as support, her nails flicking over his nipples, sending him into a fucking frenzy. “Such a sensitive boy, eh? Like having your nipples played with? Oh, my sweet, sweet Patrick.” Her other hand wrapped around his supple neck, her grip much stronger than he anticipated. He bucked his hips like a madman, his vision slowly blurring. She was drenched in blood but damn - she never looked better.

Patrick whined as he climaxed so hard he thought his eyes were going to pop out of his skull. “Cum for me, Patrick. Cum for me, please, oh please.” She brought her fingers to her clit, rubbing frantically in an attempt to cum with him. She continued to bounce on his cock, their skin slapping together, much like that hammer smacked into Marion’s head.

They collapsed next to the corpse, its eyes still open and cold. A gray cast overtook the lifeless eyes. Liz swallowed, her naked body on display for the corpse. Patrick caught his breath, pulling Liz next to him. “If you ever tell anyone about this,” he began…

“I’ll kill you myself, but I’ll keep your body to fuck.” He smiled softly, kissing the top of her head. “Likewise, Bateman. Fess up and they’ll never find your body. But like you, I’d ride your corpse into the afterlife. Lots of women used to attend hangings just to see a hard cock.”

Patrick smiled. “Well, you don’t need to hang me to see my dick hard. Trust me.”

Author’s note: HAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!! IM INSANE!!!!!! <333

#american psycho #patrick bateman #commisons #patrick bateman x oc

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chicagoanpsycho · 2 months ago

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Sneak peek of my Patrick Bateman x Ridley Morozov fic, from the chapter "I Touch Roses." :

TRIGGER WARNING FOR SLURS AND INTERNALIZED HOMOPHOBIA PATRICK SUCKS AS YOU KNOW

Ridley Morozov is my Toreador neonate vampire character, from Vampire: The Masquerade V20. In this fic, he is Patrick Bateman's secretary. This scene takes place at Pat's apartment. Ridley is showing him the song "This Is The Shirt" by Two People.

rose divider by animatedglittergraphics-n-more here on Tumblr

His auburn hair is perfectly, almost too perfectly, styled, a controlled wave that could rival any of the models I saw in the latest issue of Details.

He pauses, jabs a spindly finger in my general direction. "They're uh, signed to Polydor Records. You ever heard of 'em?"

The butt of his clove cigarette sputters uselessly, a blight on the perfect geometry of my Fortunoff crystal ashtray, and I briefly entertain the idea of seizing that offending object and grinding it to dust between my teeth like a rabid ungulate. Perhaps it is the violation of my personal space. His saliva is, undoubtedly, still clinging to that filter.

This conjures up the image of that bloated, vulgar Camel mascot that assaults the perfection of my wide-screen Panasonic television every 5 seconds and I wonder if Mr. Camel takes it up the dumper like a fucking faggot.

Ridley's Adam's Apple bobs nervously to the hilt, the bespectacled fruit basket unnerved by my sudden silence. I observe his nervous feet shuffling within those pedestrian Bruno Magli Milo Moc Toe Penny Loafers in the Brown colorway.

I briefly consider garroting him with his faggy Bugle Boy tie when a dizzying spell washes over me and localized tumescence tents my Joseph Abboud classic straight leg high rise dress pants in the black colorway, 69% POLYESTER 29% RAYON 2℅ ELASTANE, the effect of which is deeply unsettling.

The coiffed faggot pretends not to notice.

"You likin' it so far? It's a shame they never took off. Utter commercial failure in the States, and shit they weren't much luckier elsewhere."

The crooning continues emanating from my Duntech Sovereign 2001 Speakers in Brazilian Rosewood, encircling my cochlea like shadowy tendrils.

"This... Is the shirt... That she wore..."

I palm myself through my pa—

I crack a good-natured smile, the muscles in my face feeling unnatural, strained, but it rings hollow as a cardboard-cutout minxy little hardbody with soggy papier-mache tits and I laugh because the gall, the fucking gall this sodomite has to be here schooling me on this Polydor Records band I had never heard of, as if he has the authority to speak to me on such matters, that turns out to be shockingly decent much to my manicured chagrin when I should be showing him the ropes

When I could be making him cum rop—

The image of his bared neck, exposed for just a moment as he readjusted his tie, suddenly takes hold of me, and I find myself staring blankly at my hand. Unacceptable. His movements are a distraction. They must stop. Ahem. I clear my throat before speaking. “Morozov, while you are here, did you get all those reports printed out?” My voice is colder than I intended. I watch as Ridley flinches, a minuscule movement that I find myself dissecting like a scientific marvel. I read disappointment in his eyes, surely at the lack of a first-name basis.

Needless to say, I'd make his pert little ass work for that.

Wait—

#vampire the masquerade #patrick bateman x oc #american psycho #first fic ever actually

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s0apshipping · 2 months ago

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one of my first selfship commissions of my fursona vic (they/it/he) x patrick bateman!

vic gives patrick a lovebite on his neck while the two of them are smoking and drinking >:3

done by the incredibly talented @leoblooms ! go check him out and commission him, especially if youre an american psycho fan!

#art for me #owo stuff #patrick bateman #american psycho #furry #selfship #self insert #oc x canon #cw smoking #cw alcohol #mine

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killingthecoast · 3 months ago

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I actually love these two I am sick

#onepiece #fanart #patrick bateman #roronoa zoro #zoro #oc #one piece oc #one piece fanart #zoro x oc #oc x canon #im mentally unwell #im just a girl #pls dont flop

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oneandonly-triple-b · 7 days ago

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this is just what patrick sounds like to him all the time

#art #digital art #oc #oc x canon #patrick bateman #american psycho #flamingo reference lolll #me the THOUSAND me the BIG

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makeyoumine69 · 22 days ago

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Promises Meant to be Broken

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Patrick Bateman x Fem!OC (Ekaterina Lebedeva aka Kate Swan) 🦢

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: A lonely Russian ballerina, chasing Broadway dreams, collides with New York’s harsh reality—then meets Patrick Bateman, a mysterious Wall Street financier, and plunges into a chaos darker than any stage tragedy.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: NSFW, enemies to lovers, innocent and corruption kinks, angst, gaslighting, misogyny, toxicity, dark themes, Patrick being Cold War baby, Kate speaking Russian sometimes.

𝐀/𝐍: Co-writen with amazing @creepybeanie!💕

The sun had begun to rise, revealing itself to the world and striking each high-rise building with its scorching rays. Just between slightly parted curtains, the morning sun introduced itself to one of New York’s striking bachelors, Patrick Bateman, with an inviting warmth that awoke him. His luxurious apartment overlooked the scenic view of the bustling city streets. Sitting high above the Upper West Side of Manhattan, Patrick’s bedroom was still and quiet, apart from the sounds of the rustling sheets as he began to rise from the bed. Checking his costly gold watch, he notices the time and begins his strict morning regime. He was highly attentive to his appearance, starting the day with a meticulous workout routine. Crunches, push-ups, and sit-ups. Beads of sweat began to drip down from his hairline. His disheveled brown hair became drenched with his perspiration as he pushed himself further and harder, making a new personal record with the amount of sets he could do for each workout. Finally, feeling somewhat fatigued, he stops his workout and heads towards the shower.

He ran through the future events of the day while the water pressure from his fancy shower head lightly massaged his body. He despised sitting through work meetings and tedious phone calls, wishing he could cut the throat of the person on the other end. The angelic feel of the blade from his knife slicing swiftly across the person’s neck like their skin was warm butter. Then, he had lunch later with his colleagues.

Like a winding river, the suds from the lavish body wash streamed down Patrick’s toned physique, rippling over each of his muscles. Rinsing away the intrusive thoughts that occupied his mind and finally leaving the foggy bathroom, he covered his body with the finest fabrics. His Valentino suit was tailored to perfection. Its subtle shades of navy made his crimson-red tie stand out. The color reminded him of the blood that splattered across the face of a homeless guy he once gutted one late night. Feeling complete with his flawless appearance, Patrick reached for his Walkman to listen to his latest music hyper fixation while he headed to work.

“I'm sorry. I had to return some videotapes.” Patrick said to Jean before he briskly walked inside his office, arriving only a few minutes late.

Jean had worked as Patrick’s assistant for quite some time and even liked his charismatic charm. She sometimes watched Patrick from her office desk, peering through the pristine glass that stood between them. Her honey-blonde hair flowed behind her as she walked behind Patrick, inhaling the expensive cologne that clouded his presence. She watched him remove his trench coat that shielded him from the cool breeze that chilled the air of New York. She couldn’t help but stare at his beautiful stature as he removed his blazer. His eyes met hers, and he grimaced at how she had occupied his space without saying a word.

“What is it, Jean?” He asked, sitting down in his chair. Observing Jean’s attire, he uncontrollably scowled at what she wore today. He knew she was far prettier than slacks paired with a button-up and a blazer. It cloaked her most outstanding features, he thought—her legs. Patrick favored a stunning pair of legs on a woman. Not too short and not too tall. Somewhere in between, where she was still beneath him, just as he had imagined her to be. His finely shaped brows pinched together whilst his wandering eyes descended Jean’s body. He imagined her clothes to be that of a citrus orange, yearningly wanting to peel them back and sink his teeth into her for wearing such an unsightly wardrobe. Her blood…like the tangy juices of the orange dripping sloppily down his chin.

“Patrick?” Jean said softly. “Your lunch with McDermott today. Did you want me to cancel?”

Patrick had drifted into his barbarous thoughts of punishing Jean for her taste level.

“No.” He replied.

Jean nodded, writing in her notepad. “Okay, and you have a call in 15 minutes.”

“Thanks, Jean.” Patrick said without making any eye contact with Jean, refusing to look in the direction of her attire.

Jean began to exit his office, but Patrick spoke to her condescendingly before she could open the door. “Don’t wear that outfit again.”

“What? I didn’t hear you.” Jean’s eyelids fluttered with utter confusion as she believed she misheard what Patrick had said.

“I said do not wear that outfit again.” His menacing eyes looked out the outfit again. “Wear a dress, a skirt, or something.”

Jean nervously tucked her silky blonde hair behind her ear, looking down at the floor. “You don’t like this, I take it.”

“Come on. You’re prettier than that.” Patrick said with his lips curled up into a toothless smile.

Jean nodded her head and shamelessly left the office. Patrick opened his briefcase, and the clicking sound of the locks echoed in his simplistic modern office. He reached for a nearly complete crossword puzzle he’d been working on. Strangely, each answer to the questions was ‘meat and ‘bone.’ While Patrick fought to adapt to the ways of a normal human being, he fantasized about what it’d be like to indulge in his homicidal urges.

The rain pounded against the stained windows of the Bronx apartment, reflecting the tempest in the woman's soul. Every drop seemed to echo the relentless drumbeat of her anxieties—the exorbitant rent, the dwindling savings, the gnawing fear of failure. A former prima ballerina from Moscow, Katya, now known as Kate, had fled her homeland in search of a brighter future in the vibrant yet unforgiving metropolis of New York.

But reality fell far short of her dreams. Her grace and artistry, once celebrated in the hallowed halls of the Bolshoi, now found little appreciation in the cutthroat world of American ballet. The auditions were endless, the rejections crushing. The city, once a beacon of hope, now felt like a cold, indifferent cage.

Kate gazed at the worn pointe shoes scattered across the floor, relics of countless hours of grueling practice. Each one whispered tales of sacrifice, of dreams deferred, of a life that had taken an unexpected and perhaps irreversible turn. The lure of Broadway, of dazzling lights and thunderous applause, had faded, replaced by the harsh glare of fluorescent lights in dingy studios and the constant hum of city traffic.

A wave of homesickness washed over her. The familiar scent of birch trees and damp earth, the comforting rhythm of the city's heartbeat—it all seemed like a distant, cherished memory. In this alien landscape, she felt lost, adrift, a lone swan struggling to find its way in a sea of indifferent humanity.

Yet amidst the despair, a flicker of defiance remained. The woman knew she possessed a strength forged by years of rigorous training, a resilience honed by the challenges of her past. She would not succumb to self-pity. She would find a way, even if it meant reinventing herself, even if it meant taking a path she had never imagined. As the rain continued to beat against the windows, Kate made a silent vow. She would not let the city break her. She would rise again, even if it meant spreading her wings in a different, unexpected direction.

David Van Patten, one of Patrick’s Wall Street colleagues, had secured a spot for lunch at Le Bernardin. It is one of New York’s finest restaurants, bringing a taste of Paris to the Big Apple. It was remarkably embellished with floral arrangements and ambient lighting, adding to its elegant atmosphere. Sitting around a beautifully decorated table filled with extravagant tableware, Patrick, Timothy Bryce, and Craig McDermott conversed as they'd just finished their lunch. They were partially high from stealthily taking a hit of coke in the bathroom.

Timothy brushes his nose with his thumb, ensuring he leaves no residue behind. “Even the fucking bathrooms are much like Paris.”

“Bryce, have you ever visited Paris?” McDermott laughed. “Far too exquisite for your taste.”

Bryce smirked at the ineffectual joke that questioned his taste level. The waitress approached the table, gently setting down the bill. Observing her slender physique, Bryce inappropriately gawked at her body, watching her hips sway as she parted ways from the table.

“If the women in Paris are like that, I’d be open to enriching my tastebuds.” Bryce chuckled.

Van Patten joins in the laughter, pushing his glasses onto his nose. “The women in Paris are phenomenal. They don’t call it the City of Love for the hell of it.”

“Maybe that’s why all the women are so easy. They believe it’s love.” Bryce reclined back into his chair.

“That’s manipulative, don’t you think?” Patrick grimaced. However, he couldn’t care less about how his colleagues spent their time with women since they all fell under the definition of promiscuous. Even Patrick contributed to such a description by having relations with a married woman, Courtney Rawlinson, the wife of another colleague of his, Luis Carruthers.

“Bateman, since when do you care about love?” Bryce laughed.

“I don’t.” Patrick paused. “Besides, I have no interest in the women in Paris. The only reason Paris matters is to be our country’s ally.”

Van Patten groans, holding his hand out towards Patrick. “Bateman, are you the fucking President of the United States?”

They all collectively laughed at the table. Bryce continued the conversation. “Bateman is upset that Mademoiselle won’t blow him in the bathroom.” He teased.

Patrick flicks the straw that was in one of the drinks towards Bryce, hiding his feelings of annoyance.

“She did have a nice rack.” McDermott added. “And her legs…”

McDermott whistles like a songbird in the wee hours of the morning.

“That reminds me of this group of hardbodies I saw lined up at the New York City Ballet,” Bryce says. “Like fucking models.”

“The ballerina beauties.” McDermott chuckled, taking a sip of his drink.

Van Patten nods slowly, entertained by the idea of having a night with an angelic ballerina.

McDermott continues. “Supposedly, Russia has the finest ballet dancers. Rigorously trained…”

“In many areas.” Bryce joked.

Patrick rolled his eyes as if some demonic spirit was possessing him. He despised even the faintest remarks about Russia, even if they only spoke of how attractive their ballet dancers were compared to the ones here in America. Patrick was filled with the wicked propaganda that their existence was only to threaten and jeopardize American democracy and their freedom. His blood ignited in his veins, sending an instantaneous heat wave through his body.

“Uh oh, Mr. President here has something to add.” Van Patten smiled.

Patrick’s face turned to stone, taking the subject matter much more seriously than it needed to be. “I don’t see the appeal to people who wish to annihilate our economy. The communists are waiting for us to lie on our backs and fuck us with their ideologies.”

“Jesus, Bateman. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?” Bryce chuckled.

“Maybe he believes someone from the soviet union will disguise themselves as a ballet dancer.” Van Patten’s head collapsed while he laughed at such a ridiculous theory.

Patrick imagined shoving his fork into Van Patten’s eyes, forcibly breaking his frames underneath the extravagant silverware, and continuously piercing it into his eyes. Until the last thing he saw was his blood coating his mutilated pupils.

While the laughter settled down and Patrick tried to contain his spontaneous rage, McDermott kills the tension by directing a question towards Bryce.

“Anyways, Bryce, were you looking to trap another woman on your web?” McDermott chuckled. “Why were you at the New York City Ballet?”

“Ballerina’s are your choice of women now?” Van Patten also asked Bryce.

“Maybe after tonight, they will be. Evelyn is dragging Bateman and me to The Ballet.” Bryce says. He wasn’t entirely bothered by the idea of sitting in a crowded room watching classically trained dancers, but Patrick was on the verge of tears at the thought of sitting through such an event.

“I’d forgotten all about that.” Bateman lied, pulling out his sleek leather wallet to set his American Express platinum card on the table for payment.

Bryce does the same carelessly, tossing his card next to Patrick’s. “Can’t get out of this one, Bateman. Evelyn will scold the hell out of us.”

Patrick loathed the rest of this dreadful day while the others at the table pulled out their cards and placed them on the tray for the waitress to grab. Dissociating from reality, he tried to conjure up different excuses to avoid attending The Ballet. However, Patrick hated to admit to himself that Bryce was right, and if either one of them decided to bail on Evelyn, she would bitch about it until the end of time. Patrick’s upper lip curled like he’d gotten a disgusting whiff of a vile smell. The thought of hearing Evelyn’s nagging voice made him wish he were deaf. Lost in his manic mind, Patrick hadn’t realized Bryce was speaking to him.

“Bateman?” Bryce waved his hand in Patrick’s field of vision, attempting to grab his attention.

Patrick blinked himself back to reality, looking toward Bryce. “What?”

“I said Evelyn and I would meet you later tonight at the theatre.” Bryce’s eyes found the waitress, who came back to grab their payment.

“Fine.” Patrick sipped the last bit of his drink, slamming the glass onto the table. He had hoped that the coke he saved for later would be enough to tolerate the overbearing sound of a live orchestra and highly formalized theatrical dancers.

The cavernous lobby of the New York City Ballet buzzed with pre-performance activity. Its sleek, modern design, all glass and polished marble, felt a world away from the ornate grandeur of the theaters Kate had known in Russia. Tonight that lobby would be filled with New York's elite, the kind of power players who populated Wall Street, their names whispered with a mixture of awe and apprehension. The director's casual mention of their presence had sent a new wave of anxiety through her. She was the only Russian ballerina in the New York City Ballet, a fact that made her feel both uniquely positioned and acutely vulnerable. The weight of expectation was immense.

Her dressing room, a small, utilitarian space backstage, offered little comfort. The walls, painted a drab beige, were decorated only with a few faded posters from past performances. It was a far cry from the richly decorated dressing rooms of the Mariinsky. The woman stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror, her face pale under the layers of stage makeup. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped bird. She meticulously tied the ribbons of her pointe shoes, the familiar ritual a small focus in the swirling chaos of her mind. Her costume, a delicate, shimmering white tutu, lay draped over a nearby chair, waiting to be inhabited. Breathing heavily, she closed her eyes, trying to block out the noise and pressure, trying to summon the strength and grace that had brought her to this stage. But the faces of the Wall Street titans, their sharp eyes and demanding stares, kept intruding on her thoughts. Tonight, she wasn't just dancing; she was performing for an audience that demanded perfection, an audience that could make or break a career with a single, whispered comment. And the thought terrified her.

"Kate? Can you hear me?" A sudden voice pulled the brunette ballerina out of her tormenting thoughts, and when she turned her head to see the intruder, it was Gloria, the beautiful ballerina almost three years her junior. "Everyone's looking for you!"

With a shaky exhale, Kate placed the makeup sponge on the vanity before taking one last look in the mirror. "Give me a few minutes...I still have to change."

Gloria couldn't believe what she'd just heard. "For God's sake! Mr. Wilson's going to kill us," she blurted out, but didn't insist that Kate hurry. "We're going backstage. You only have five minutes."

After she left, Kate felt relieved, but not for long.

The dark-haired woman was on the verge of panic because she didn't even know what to expect from this show and why the director had chosen her for it in the first place. Maybe there was some political motive in this whole story as there were some rumors that the Cold War might be coming to an end soon. But Kate was not the one who could easily believe in such things. Standing on her slightly supple legs, the woman carefully picked up her white tutu and it took her a few minutes to put it on, her hands constantly shaking throughout the process.

What am I so afraid of?

The woman continued to ask herself complex questions as she finished the last of the ropes on her outfit. She could hear a faint buzzing behind the door—a mixture of sonorous female laughter and rather loud footsteps—it was all so distressing that for a moment Kate felt herself suffocating. Perhaps she had tied the ropes of her corset too tightly?

But there was no time to change anything.

Leaving the dressing room was like leaving your safe place where you used to hide from the world and prying eyes—it was not easy at all, and every time she walked down the corridor leading to the backstage area, Kate's memories of her former life flooded back. Moscow, her parents, the ice ring on Red Square and shimmering snowflakes flying around her because it was New Year's Eve.

Did she make the right decision to leave her homeland and come here to the foreign land of her country's biggest rival? How many times did she ask herself this question? Thousands? Maybe a billion? And what if it was all for nothing? The thought of returning home defeated haunted her in her worst nightmares.

I'm so afraid of failing that I don't feel... myself.

When she reached backstage, all the ballerinas were waiting for the show to start. Everyone seemed a little nervous, and that made Kate relax a little, realizing that she was not the only one feeling the pressure on her fragile shoulders.

"Girls, listen to me," Mr. Wilson came literally out of nowhere, his hands clasped over his chest, followed by several middle-aged women who were dressed very formally. "I hope everyone is ready to slay tonight, because tomorrow you'll be reading about yourselves in the Times..."

"The Times," Gloria repeated the director's words mockingly. "Who fucking cares!"

Although Kate never expected to become friends with someone like Gloria, one day it happened and their friendship was so natural that they both felt they had met in a previous life. But unlike Kate, Gloria was born and raised in New York; she graduated from a very prestigious school of choreography and Kate could only imagine how much that education cost.

"I hope they decided to put some guards on this time, because last time," Gloria paused and leaned down, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Remember the story I told you about how one of our girls almost got raped?"

Slightly confused, Gloria just nodded in response, running her hands behind her back and looking completely unconcerned in order not to attract anyone's attention.

"Sometimes I think people don't come to watch us for the art." Gloria added before shifting her gaze to the director, who was still yapping about something while his assistants made notes in their little leather journals.

"Listen, we really shouldn't be thinking about this," Kate muttered without looking at her friend. As the first notes of the music began to play, everyone around them froze for a fleeting moment before the huge red curtains began to move, revealing a stage where the dazzling soffits shone. "We have to survive this first."

"Oh, don't worry, sunshine," Gloria winked, taking Kate's hand as they followed the other ballerinas to the stage. "You got this, malyshka (baby)!"

Every time Kate heard the Russian language after moving to America, something would nag at her heart, but not in a sad way. It was not even nostalgia, but the realization that she had gone too far to go back. The stakes were high, and tonight Kate had to be brave, and maybe it would help her get a little closer to her dream of becoming the ballet star she had always dreamed of.

The New York City Ballet Theatre was astronomical. The luxuriously soft red velvet seats began to fill as each formally dressed person entered the room. Patrick scanned the vast space, looking up at the subdued lighting that added a subtle warmth to the celestial atmosphere.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Patrick?” Evelyn asked.

He couldn’t deny that the space was divine, but he wouldn’t entertain the idea of conversing with her about the beauty of this infrastructure. Instead, he looked at her, giving her a closed-mouth smile with no signs of elation in his eyes. Impatiently waiting for the production to begin, Patrick observed the program they were handed at the entrance, inspecting the beautifully photographed dancers displayed on the cover. He recalled his conversation with his colleagues, agreeing on the term ballerina beauties.

Sitting on Patrick's other side, Bryce noticed his steady gaze on the photograph of the ballerinas. “I told you they’re like fucking models.”

Patrick ignored Bryce, who had upset him before their arrival. Hating the idea of sitting next to the compulsive conversationalist that Evelyn was, Patrick was hoping he could convince Bryce to sit between them, but he had the same idea of sitting as far away from her as possible. However, there was another reason behind Patrick’s avoidance of Bryce. He was stuck in a trance as he fantasized about one of the women elegantly posed on the cover.

Her movement was precise and poised, like her body was the weight of her feather. She stood out from the other dancers as she was the only one with deep brown hair pulled back into a faultless bun. Patrick grimaced at his compulsive thoughts that found her attractive despite not being interested in brunettes. He was, in fact, a gentleman who preferred blondes but was willing to make an exception for her. Opening the laminated card, he scanned the production summary and read the dancers' names, wondering which name matched the anonymous ballerina on the cover.

The lights softly begin to dim, and hushed whispers conclude as the heavy curtains reveal the stage. Patrick’s murderous eyes scowled at the dancers, picking out which ones he would kill if given the chance to. The euphoric feeling he would obtain driving his sharpened axe into their elongated limbs. His heart pounded passionately at the idea of reaching a barbaric high as he went on a killing spree. The picturesque scene of their blood splattering along their pristine white tutus. Each distinctively splattered blood stain would add a uniqueness to how each of them was killed. Suddenly, his imaginative homicidal thoughts ended when a woman fluttered majestically onto center stage and held an elegant pose. The audience clapped momentarily, delighted by her presence. It was her. The breathtaking brunette who was on the cover of the program. She was one of the production leads.

“See, guys I told you it would be absolutely stunning.” Evelyn excitedly clapped her hands before going on an uninterrupted ramble about the beautiful storytelling. The production had concluded, and people were beginning to head towards the exit. However, Bryce spotted a woman in the show and was eager to find his mystical ballerina backstage. Although Patrick couldn’t take another minute of this prolonged outing, he was keen on seeing the dark-haired woman he wished to make the star of his show. He also needed to get away from Evelyn before he entertained the idea of slashing her throat open and adding another layer of red to the velvet seats.

Taking one last glance at his leading lady, Patrick tucked the program into his trenchcoat. He was sure he wouldn’t need to memorize the details of her photograph since, throughout the show, his eyes continuously found her. Both Bryce and Patrick arose from their seats before Evelyn could complete her sentence.

“Where are you two going?” She frowned.

“Restroom.” Bryce said with a sly smile.

The two of them scooted past the row of seats, finally making it to the walkway filled with people leaving the theatre. Bryce scanned the entire room and hoped to find a disclosed area leading them backstage.

“All this trouble because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.” Patrick frowned.

“Lighten up, Bateman. I’m sure there’s a prima ballerina back there willing to put on a show for you.” Bryce playfully nudged Patrick’s arm.

“Possibly.” Patrick replied. Also scanning the room, Patrick tries to devise a plan to get backstage. “We can’t get back there from this room. Besides, Evelyn might see us and nag us about leaving her for other women.”

“Let’s go towards the entrance.” Bryce said while he pushed past other people. They stood in the vast entrance, contemplating what to do next. Bryce forcibly taps Patrick's arm and hastily walks to a secluded area where a modelesque woman with a high bun emerges. Patrick couldn’t believe within this large crowd of people, Bryce was capable of letting his dick lead the way to where they needed to be.

Reaching a door that read ‘Personnel Only, ’ Bryce carelessly opened it as if walking into his expensive high-rise apartment. There was no denying that they both appeared out of place, but when in doubt, they could accumulate a tale of lies as to why they were backstage. They walked down the grim hallway that was far more depressing than the inside of the theatre. They began to reach a curvature in the hallway, and on the other end, they could hear subtle laughter. While the distance between the cheerful laughter and their steady footsteps grew tighter, Patrick eventually found himself in front of his leading lady.

Bryce, who was beginning to smooth talk to the ballerina he was searching for, had managed to shmooze his way into getting her name. Patrick, however, was motionless as he surveyed the unique details of his leading lady’s face. He astonishingly fought the urge to pinch his eyebrows together and pout like a grumpy old man who discovered kids playing on his freshly mowed lawn when he found her hair was darker than he expected compared to its appearance underneath the studio lights. Her eyes frantically looked away from Patrick’s as he rudely stared at her without acknowledging her existence. He was fascinated by the richness of her brown eyes. Their warmth was like a spoonful of cinnamon swirling in the milkiness of her sclera.

The woman’s body language changed vividly the longer Patrick gawked at her. She crossed her arms, watching her friend converse with Bryce in a thought-provoking conversation. She bit her lip nervously, probably anticipating the end of this awkward encounter. Unashamedly, Patrick continued to create a photographic memory of her face. Noticing the intricate spots on her face that were her freckles. Like a spotted ladybug on a bright summer’s day, she was fascinating to look at. Patrick’s eyes descended on her body, entirely bewitched by the slender build of her physique, imagining her towering legs that he yearned to wrap around his waist like a hula hoop.

He had gotten so lost in her enchanting physique that he hadn’t realized she was a few inches taller than him until he lifted his head to look over at her friend, who was laughing hysterically at a cheesy joke Bryce had told her. Patrick’s lip twitched at the idea of being the one who was now beneath someone, even if it was only by a few inches.

“Well then, I hope you and your quiet friend here enjoyed the show.” Her friend said as she leaned onto the wall, folding her arms.

Bryce laughed, patting Patrick on the back. “Oh, Bateman here just has a little social anxiety.”

Patrick rolled his shoulder desperately, trying to get Bryce’s hand off him. “Do I look like the kind of man to have social anxiety?”

“You haven’t said a word and were being rude, staring at my friend here.” The blonde woman smirked as she side-eyed her timid friend, who was possibly the culprit of having actual social anxiety.

“The name’s Patrick Bateman.” Patrick sulked, becoming impatient with the woman, who seemed to be the more extroverted friend.

“Nice to meet you, Patrick. I’m Gloria.” She rose from lounging against the wall. Gloria gently caressed her reserved friend's back, who nervously exchanged glances with Patrick and Tim. Gloria continued speaking, trying her best to ease this cumbersome encounter. “This is my lovely friend Kate. Kate Swan.”

She held out her hand as did Patrick, and he cherished the softness of her skin. Despite her unassertive first impression, she had quite a confident handshake.

“Nice to meet you.” Kate spoke softly, and although her voice was awfully low, Patrick quickly caught on to the thickness of her accent.

“Where are you from?” Bryce asked promptly. Also, grasping her broad accent.

“Russia.” She said, looking towards Bryce.

Patrick instantly broke contact with her, tucking his hand into his trenchcoat. Without hesitation, he turns on his heels and walks away from the group. As he began to create a distance between them, he could hear Bryce asking Kate and Gloria to excuse his behavior. Just before Bryce’s words became unintelligible, Patrick could hear Bryce requesting Gloria’s number, which he succeeded at receiving from her. Patrick stormed out of the building, deeply displeased at himself for being mesmerized by the woman he now knew as Kate, the Russian ballerina.

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