Nothing But Mistakes

Lexi/Kira ● RU ● She/Her ● Occasional Writer ● 30 y.o. ● MDNI ● Patrick Bateman is my CEO 🪓 Masterlist ● Navigation ● Ko-Fi & Commissions My header was drawn by the amazing @iron-flavored-lipgloss! My PFP was drawn by fantastic @dooubts!

[makeyoumine69]

Lexi/Kira ✦ 30 y.o. ✦ She/Her ✦ Russian ✦ Software Quality Engineering Lead ✦ Aspiring YouTube and Twitch content creator ✦ Patrick Bateman's wife ✦ 🖤🤍💜🩶

Links:

✦ Masterlist ✦ AO3 ✦ Ko-Fi & Commissions ✦ Inbox ✦ YouTube ✦ @makeyoumineagain / side-blog ✦ Spotify

Latest stories:

Updated July 10th

✦ Sub!Patrick Bateman x Dom!Fem!Reader ✦ Patrick Bateman x Fem!OC (The Creature) for @urlocalyachtrockr ✦ Sub!Patrick Bateman thoughts ✦ Random silly HCs about P.B.

[swirlyheart48]

another little drawing of patrick …. let the brainworms eat away a bit more then ill be able to do more proper drawings of him 😇

[makeyoumine69]

Had to get this brainrot out. I love my terrifying, deranged man. No, I won’t be fixing him. Yes, I will be kissing him on the mouth.

Being Married to Patrick Bateman Means…

Listening to his gym rants every time he sees a guy with more defined muscles. (“He’s probably on steroids, babe. I could get that cut if I really wanted to.”)

Being woken up with his crotch in your face because he doesn't care that you're asleep—he wants head now, and he’s not shy about it.

Calming him down at restaurants when someone shows up wearing the same suit. (“Yes, Patrick, it looks better on you. No, you're not being copied. Please sit down.”)

Nodding along (again) as he launches into his 100th monologue about Phil Collins, pretending you're absolutely blown away by his perfect, sophisticated musical taste.

Keeping your mouth shut when he buys duct tape, zip ties, or very sharp cutlery and says it’s "for something practical." (He’s your husband. You… trust him. Mostly.)

Not blinking at his collection of ultra-hardcore porn, because somehow this man finds the weirdest, most aggressive stuff—and he wants you to watch it with him. Bonus: He sometimes films your sessions like you're his personal porn star.

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes when he flexes during sex—and not laughing when he says he wants a mirror on the ceiling "for another perspective."

Cooking for him because the man can’t even slice a salad. (Though that doesn’t stop him from offering "expert advice" since he once tried cooking… something he probably shouldn't have. You don’t ask.)

Ordering his McDonald’s milkshakes while he waits outside, because the staff recognize him, and he insists it’s “too crowded with common people” inside.

Finding him crying into the phone, leaving voicemails for his lawyer at 2 a.m. Or discovering strange DIY dildos in the apartment that he definitely denies belong to him.

Apologizing to homeless people—or people he thought were homeless—because he tossed money into their drinks thinking they were panhandling. (“I was being generous, okay?”)

[makeyoumine69]

Husband material...

[vinesmooncore]

𝐈 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬. 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟.

𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐞? 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝! 𝐀𝐀𝐀! XD

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐄.

𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐚 𝐃𝐞𝐥 𝐑𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥. ₊˚⊹ ᢉ𐭩

𝑷𝒔𝒚𝒄𝒉𝒐 𝑺𝒘𝒂𝒏 𝐛𝐲 𝐕𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 ⋆.🩰🪓˚⋆

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬 (𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥): @american-lover @callmesiren00 @makeyoumine69 @ratszombbie @saisbesitos @smokedouthorror @urlocalyachtrockr

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮! .✦ ݁˖

[urlocalyachtrockr]

"You know I love you, but I just can't take it..."

They'll never kiss in canon theyll be tortured

[makeyoumine69]

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.

I NEED HIM SO BAD!😭

[makeyoumine69]

ᴘᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴋ ʙᴀᴛᴇᴍᴀɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇꜱ ᴛᴏʏꜱ

NSFW Headcanons (Fem!Reader edition), Modern AU, Part 1

✦ Patrick has never been the type to feel threatened by sex toys. If anything, he enjoys them. He likes researching new models, ordering the latest ones, and being the first to try them on you. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a package arrive and knowing he gets to see exactly how you’ll react to whatever’s inside. He’s imagined it more times than he’d admit—the way your body would tense, the sounds you’d make, how wet and overwhelmed you’d get.

✦ He finds it pathetic when men online complain that toys will replace them. If a toy can replace you in bed, Patrick thinks, then you were never that good to begin with.

✦ But it wasn’t always easy for him.

✦ For a long time, Patrick was quietly insecure about toys. Not that he would’ve ever said it out loud. That changed the first time he let you use one on him.

✦ He still remembers how it felt—the slow press of the butt plug against him, the way his breath caught the second it started to push inside. The stretch. The fullness. It knocked something loose in him. He came harder than he expected, and the feeling stayed with him for days. Sometimes, when he’s alone, he still thinks about it. Still wants it again.

✦ He tested it further after that. One night he tried a vibrating egg, just to see. He came three times without touching his cock once. His ass ached for days afterward, but he didn’t regret it. If anything, it only made him want more.

✦ With you, his interest shifted into something more deliberate. He became obsessed with remote-controlled toys. He bought nearly every new Satisfyer model the second it dropped, downloaded every app, and tested them all. When you once asked why he kept buying new ones when the others still worked, he simply said:

“I need to know I have the right one for you.”

✦ He treats the collection like everything else in his life—with quiet, meticulous care. At first he organized them by brand. Then by size. Eventually he gave up and sorted them by color after you kept putting them back in the wrong places. It was easier that way.

✦ When he’s away on business trips, video calls become routine. He’ll sit in whatever overpriced hotel suite he’s staying in, blinds drawn, laptop open on the desk. Half-undressed, cock already hard and visible through his boxers, he’ll start first—letting you watch while he touches himself. Only after he’s satisfied does he tell you what to do.

✦ Show him your tits. Spread your legs. Finger yourself until you’re ready. Suck on the toy he picked for you that night. Sometimes it’s a simple vibrator. Sometimes it’s something much larger. He likes watching you struggle with it. He likes setting a timer too, just to see how long you can hold out before you break.

✦ And he always makes sure not to make a mess on his laptop. Most of the time, anyway.

[makeyoumine69]

18+ | Patrick swears he hates it when you grind on his lap. He’s lying

You’d been sitting on his lap, watching Halloween with him, and he already didn’t like it. It felt too cheesy. Too romantic. Too casual and human. But the moment you started fidgeting on his lap, your ass grinding against his groin with every little shift, he started to hate it—because he loved it way too much and couldn’t admit it to himself.

“Can you just sit still?” Patrick hissed, fixing his tie out of habit.

You froze, but only for a second. “I’m just scared, okay?”

The louder the screams came from the TV, the harder you rubbed yourself against him without even realizing it. You didn’t notice how hard he’d already gotten beneath you. Your breath hitched when his cock throbbed—thick and hot. You could feel the heat through the expensive fabric of his trousers.

“I’m sure you’re doing this on purpose,” he murmured against your ear, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts. “You don’t like it when my attention isn’t on you, do you?”

You gasped as his large palms squeezed your tits, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened against the blue silk of your blouse. Patrick tilted your head to the side and nipped at the skin just below your ear. A moan almost slipped out as you ground down against him on purpose now. He dragged one hand lower and hiked up the hem of your skirt.

God, he was lucky you’d worn a skirt today. Lucky to have you at all. You always seemed to know what he wanted before he even said it. It was like your minds were already connected, running on the same depraved fuel.

You shifted between his spread legs as he unbuckled his belt, the quick rustle of fabric following right after. His cock sprang free, already leaking. You let him push your panties to the side. The movie was forgotten, though it kept playing, the screams still echoing through the room. Soon your moans drowned them out.

“So nasty,” he growled, voice low and rough with need, still somehow controlled. “So fucking nasty for me… yeah, just like that. Grind on me.”

He held you firmly with both hands, guiding your movements as his thick cock slid between your thighs. You pressed your legs together, tightening the friction. Every so often the tip brushed your clit, sending a jolt through your whole body, but you kept moving. Grinding on him like this felt like survival.

Patrick groaned, the sound dangerously close to a moan. He was close—you could feel his cock pulsing between your legs as you squeezed him with your hips, milking him until he couldn’t hold back anymore. He came hard, thick ropes spilling across your skin. You didn’t let go even when his grip on your waist turned painful, his head thrown back against the couch as he gasped and shook.

In the end, he could pretend all he wanted. He could tell himself you’d done it on purpose and that he hadn’t liked how it started. He could be delusional enough to believe he hadn’t planned it exactly like this.

[makeyoumine69]

I need someone to draw their OC with Patrick like that, or anyone with Patrick. I just need more of him...

Please?🥲😭

[vinesmooncore]

(𝐖𝐈𝐏) ⋆.🩰🪓˚⋆

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 + 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐚 = 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐚

🩸+ 🪽= 𝐏𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨 𝐒𝐰𝐚𝐧

𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐠𝐨 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐦 𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐦. 𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐝𝐥𝐲.

𝐔𝐠𝐡! 𝐒𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫. 🙌

[makeyoumine69]

OMG!

This is so gorgeous!🥲😭💘

The way he frowns!

[makeyoumine69]

18+ | MDNI • Patrick cums so hard while eating you out that it scares the shit out of him.

Patrick couldn't help it.

He kept lapping at your pussy like a man possessed; his cock pulsed in his grip, and he literally groaned into your flesh every time he felt his orgasm looming too close.

“You taste so fucking good,” he kept repeating, voice muffled and raw against your skin.

You moaned and arched, legs resting possessively over his broad shoulders, one hand fisted in his soft hair. His face was buried between your thighs—already a wet, filthy mess. You loved how he always lost control when he went down on you, but this time he was absolutely ferocious. Like an animal.

“I’m so close—please, don’t stop—”

He tightened his lips around your clit, fingers probing your entrance, hot and dripping. When he pushed them inside, black dots danced across your vision. His breath was scalding against your skin. You clawed at the bedsheets with one hand, pressing his head harder against you until his nose rubbed directly against your swollen bud. He plunged deeper, slurping at your folds, fingers stretching you wide. He curled them exactly where you needed, pads dragging against that perfect spot over and over.

“Yes—yes—that’s it! Please—Patrick—” Your words slurred together, heels digging into the mattress. “Oh—fuck—fuck—”

Your whole body tensed like a drawn bow. Your face froze in a delirious, open-mouthed smile as your walls clenched around his fingers and tongue. Patrick kept licking you through it, stroking himself with feverish, almost desperate speed. Your taste, your sobs, your warm skin—everything about you consumed him. His balls ached from how intoxicating you were; he was completely lost in you.

“Mmm,” he hummed into your slit. “Baby—fuck—”

His loud, guttural groan vibrated along your skin like a second wave of pleasure. You were still shaking, every nerve lit up and oversensitive. His cum gushed over his hand, the bedsheets, your legs—hot and messy.

It took him a full minute to come back to himself. When he did, a flicker of something like fear crossed his face. He was scared—genuinely scared—of how much he liked this. Nothing else had ever made him combust so completely.

“Holy shit,” he gasped, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against the mattress. “I thought I’d see Jesus.”

You chuckled, still breathless. “Not too fast. You still need to fuck me.”

He wanted to reply—opened his mouth to try—but nothing came out.

His whole body went limp. Eyes glassy and unfocused, cock still half-hard and throbbing. Your taste lingered vivid on his lips, but he brought his slick fingers to his mouth anyway, cleaning them slowly, like he couldn’t get enough. Because he truly couldn’t.

[makeyoumine69]

Damn, I miss him like this...

[makeyoumine69]

ᴘᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴋ ʙᴀᴛᴇᴍᴀɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇꜱ ᴛᴏʏꜱ

NSFW Headcanons (Fem!Reader edition), Modern AU, Part 1

✦ Patrick has never been the type to feel threatened by sex toys. If anything, he enjoys them. He likes researching new models, ordering the latest ones, and being the first to try them on you. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a package arrive and knowing he gets to see exactly how you’ll react to whatever’s inside. He’s imagined it more times than he’d admit—the way your body would tense, the sounds you’d make, how wet and overwhelmed you’d get.

✦ He finds it pathetic when men online complain that toys will replace them. If a toy can replace you in bed, Patrick thinks, then you were never that good to begin with.

✦ But it wasn’t always easy for him.

✦ For a long time, Patrick was quietly insecure about toys. Not that he would’ve ever said it out loud. That changed the first time he let you use one on him.

✦ He still remembers how it felt—the slow press of the butt plug against him, the way his breath caught the second it started to push inside. The stretch. The fullness. It knocked something loose in him. He came harder than he expected, and the feeling stayed with him for days. Sometimes, when he’s alone, he still thinks about it. Still wants it again.

✦ He tested it further after that. One night he tried a vibrating egg, just to see. He came three times without touching his cock once. His ass ached for days afterward, but he didn’t regret it. If anything, it only made him want more.

✦ With you, his interest shifted into something more deliberate. He became obsessed with remote-controlled toys. He bought nearly every new Satisfyer model the second it dropped, downloaded every app, and tested them all. When you once asked why he kept buying new ones when the others still worked, he simply said:

“I need to know I have the right one for you.”

✦ He treats the collection like everything else in his life—with quiet, meticulous care. At first he organized them by brand. Then by size. Eventually he gave up and sorted them by color after you kept putting them back in the wrong places. It was easier that way.

✦ When he’s away on business trips, video calls become routine. He’ll sit in whatever overpriced hotel suite he’s staying in, blinds drawn, laptop open on the desk. Half-undressed, cock already hard and visible through his boxers, he’ll start first—letting you watch while he touches himself. Only after he’s satisfied does he tell you what to do.

✦ Show him your tits. Spread your legs. Finger yourself until you’re ready. Suck on the toy he picked for you that night. Sometimes it’s a simple vibrator. Sometimes it’s something much larger. He likes watching you struggle with it. He likes setting a timer too, just to see how long you can hold out before you break.

✦ And he always makes sure not to make a mess on his laptop. Most of the time, anyway.

[makeyoumine69]

As I mentioned, I work for a fintech company and am struggling to get my photo approved for the corporate portal. A woman from the HR department keeps saying that I look unprofessional and too vulgar, while all my male colleagues don't have any problems getting their photos approved, even though they don't meet the official criteria. I even had a proper photoshoot with a white background, but she still says I don't look professional enough.

I actually feel targeted.

[makeyoumine69]

18+ | Patrick swears he hates it when you grind on his lap. He’s lying

You’d been sitting on his lap, watching Halloween with him, and he already didn’t like it. It felt too cheesy. Too romantic. Too casual and human. But the moment you started fidgeting on his lap, your ass grinding against his groin with every little shift, he started to hate it—because he loved it way too much and couldn’t admit it to himself.

“Can you just sit still?” Patrick hissed, fixing his tie out of habit.

You froze, but only for a second. “I’m just scared, okay?”

The louder the screams came from the TV, the harder you rubbed yourself against him without even realizing it. You didn’t notice how hard he’d already gotten beneath you. Your breath hitched when his cock throbbed—thick and hot. You could feel the heat through the expensive fabric of his trousers.

“I’m sure you’re doing this on purpose,” he murmured against your ear, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts. “You don’t like it when my attention isn’t on you, do you?”

You gasped as his large palms squeezed your tits, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened against the blue silk of your blouse. Patrick tilted your head to the side and nipped at the skin just below your ear. A moan almost slipped out as you ground down against him on purpose now. He dragged one hand lower and hiked up the hem of your skirt.

God, he was lucky you’d worn a skirt today. Lucky to have you at all. You always seemed to know what he wanted before he even said it. It was like your minds were already connected, running on the same depraved fuel.

You shifted between his spread legs as he unbuckled his belt, the quick rustle of fabric following right after. His cock sprang free, already leaking. You let him push your panties to the side. The movie was forgotten, though it kept playing, the screams still echoing through the room. Soon your moans drowned them out.

“So nasty,” he growled, voice low and rough with need, still somehow controlled. “So fucking nasty for me… yeah, just like that. Grind on me.”

He held you firmly with both hands, guiding your movements as his thick cock slid between your thighs. You pressed your legs together, tightening the friction. Every so often the tip brushed your clit, sending a jolt through your whole body, but you kept moving. Grinding on him like this felt like survival.

Patrick groaned, the sound dangerously close to a moan. He was close—you could feel his cock pulsing between your legs as you squeezed him with your hips, milking him until he couldn’t hold back anymore. He came hard, thick ropes spilling across your skin. You didn’t let go even when his grip on your waist turned painful, his head thrown back against the couch as he gasped and shook.

In the end, he could pretend all he wanted. He could tell himself you’d done it on purpose and that he hadn’t liked how it started. He could be delusional enough to believe he hadn’t planned it exactly like this.

[makeyoumine69]

[makeyoumine69]

I've been thinking about how Patrick wants to take you to the most extravagant boutique and buy you a fur coat—just to flaunt his wealth.

The second the fur touches your shoulders, you’d freeze. You can’t stand the thought of animals being slaughtered for something like that. You’d excuse yourself, bolt from the store, and probably start crying before you even reach the street.

Patrick would be mortified. He’d chase after you, catch up, and demand to know what the hell was going on in your head. “You humiliated me,” he’d hiss, completely shocked. He’d never understand why you were so upset over “something like that.” In his mind, you should’ve been thrilled—ecstatic—to receive such an expensive gift.

Everyone would want this, he’d think.

That moment would make it painfully clear just how detached from reality he really is. How little he actually sees you. And how, no matter how close you get, there’s always this chasm between what he offers and what you can accept.

[urlocalyachtrockr]

Can't explain it, won't, don't think I need to. (This is a slightly older piece of mine)

My Wife💋

[makeyoumine69]

Till Death Do Us Part 3 | Patrick (1970)

Patrick Bateman x Fem!OC (Rebecca Rice) / AO3

"He learns what makes her stop crying."

Tags: POV Patrick Bateman, childhood flashback, first meeting, injury, blood, crying, hurt / comfort, internal conflict, emotional numbness, childhood friends to lovers, pre-canon, mental health issues (early signs).

A/N: In this chapter, we will explore Patrick's thoughts and feelings from his childhood. I hope you enjoy it! Also, a quick reminder that English is not my first language! Many thanks to my friend who made this banner for me!

Summer 1970

I knew they were coming because Mother said so three times.

That meant they mattered.

When people mattered, I had to come downstairs and be polite and not embarrass anyone, which usually meant standing still and pretending to listen. I stayed at the top of the stairs instead. It was easier to see from there.

The boy was loud immediately. Kicking things. Talking too much. Not interesting.

The girl stayed close to her mother. She kept looking around like she thought she might get lost.

Then she looked up at me.

“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “My name is Becca.”

She hiccupped.

I leaned over the railing a little. She went smaller when I looked at her. Her hands disappeared behind her back.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

She already knew. They always did. Adults repeat names like it makes things better.

I didn’t answer.

She asked again.

I clicked my tongue.

“You already know it,” I grumbled. “Don't waste it.”

She blinked like I’d said something complicated.

“Waste what?”

“My time.”

That wasn’t complicated.

I started down the stairs. Slowly. The marble made a good sound when you stepped on it right.

She watched the whole way down.

When I got close, I stopped in front of her and looked at her properly.

"You're small," I remarked, smirking with feigned mockery.

Her face went red right away.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

She looked away.

She smelled like soap and something sweet. Her tights looked uncomfortable. She kept shifting her feet like she didn’t know where to stand.

“I’m Becca,” she said again, quieter.

“I heard you.”

She didn’t leave.

That was strange.

Most people leave if you don’t give them anything. She didn’t.

“What are we supposed to do now?” she asked.

“I don’t care.”

“Play?”

“No.”

Her brother was yelling somewhere and running. I could hear something fall over.

“Your brother is so loud,” I complained, shaking my head.

Then I turned and left.

If she wanted to follow, she would.

I went down the long hallway with all the doors. People always got turned around there.

Her footsteps came after a second.

“Patrick! Wait!”

I didn’t.

I turned the corner and stood behind the big plant and waited.

“Patrick?” she called out.

Her voice was smaller now.

I stepped out.

“Are you following me now?” I almost laughed at her expression. "Like a lost kitty."

She started to talk, then stopped.

I took a step closer.

“This is my house,” I said, my voice full of authority. “You don't get to follow me.”

Her face changed.

Not scared.

Mad.

That was better.

She picked up the ball and threw it at me before I could say anything.

It hit my chest hard.

I didn't expect that.

For a second, I just stood there.

Then it started to hurt.

“You little—"

“Patrick Bateman!"

Mother!

Of course.

She came in like she always does, already annoyed.

I pointed at the girl.

“She threw a ball at me.”

“He started it,” the girl said. Fast. “He called me a lost kitty and ran away on purpose.”

My mother sighed as if we were both an inconvenience.

“Patrick, be nice to our guest. Her name is Rebecca Rice. Rebecca Rice.”

Rebecca.

She said it like I was supposed to remember it.

She put her hands on both of us and pushed us closer together.

“Why don't the two of you go outside and play properly? The gardens are lovely. Patrick, show Rebecca the boathouse. Make her feel welcome.”

I looked at Rebecca.

She didn’t look away.

Still.

“Yes, Mother,” I said.

An hour later we were at the boathouse.

Mother had made us go. “Fresh air,” she said, like that solved anything.

It was hot on the dock. The wood burned through the soles of my shoes if I stood still too long. The water smelled like salt and something rotting underneath it.

She kept talking at first. Questions. Suggestions. Trying to decide what we were supposed to do. I showed her the boats so she would stop asking.

She sat on one of the coiled ropes and watched everything like it mattered.

That was still strange.

Most people got bored.

She didn’t.

She found the old wooden box near the wall and started pulling at the lid. It stuck. She pulled harder.

Then she made a noise.

“Ouch!”

I looked over.

There was blood immediately. Bright. Too bright. It welled up along her finger and then spilled over, dripping onto the floorboards.

She started crying right away.

Loud.

Her shoulders shook. Her face went red. It was messy and sudden and completely uncontrolled.

I didn’t move for a second.

It didn’t look like much. Just a cut. But there was more blood than there should have been.

“It hurts… it really hurts…”

I stepped closer.

“Stop crying,” I urged, quieter than before. “It's just a cut.”

She didn’t stop.

I took the handkerchief out of my pocket.

It was folded exactly the way it was supposed to be. Father had given it to me last year. I wasn’t supposed to ruin it.

I hesitated for a second.

Then I took her hand.

She let me.

Her skin was warm and damp. She didn’t pull away, even though she was still crying.

I pressed the handkerchief against the cut.

The blood soaked into it almost immediately, spreading through the white fabric in a slow, uneven bloom.

That was… interesting.

I wrapped it around her finger twice and tied it the way I’d seen it done before.

“There,” I said. “It’s fine.”

I kept holding her hand.

Her crying slowed. She was watching me now instead of the blood.

That was better.

Her eyes were wet and wide, but focused. On me.

“Thank you, Patty,” she murmured, smiling wearily.

I looked at her.

“It’s Patrick,” I said.

She nodded quickly.

I didn’t let go right away.

The blood was still seeping through the cloth, darker now. The initials were almost covered.

I pressed my thumb lightly against the knot, checking it.

She made a small sound—not pain this time. Something else.

“You’ll live,” I said briefly, keeping my eyes on her.

She sniffed. “It still stings.”

“Then don’t touch things that aren’t yours,” I warned, my voice calm. “Rice.”

I let go of her hand.

The handkerchief stayed where it was.

I didn’t ask for it back.

We sat there for a while without talking.

The water moved against the dock in slow, quiet sounds.

She kept looking at her finger.

Then at me.

Then back at her finger.

She looked different now.

Quieter.

Paying attention.

That was better.

Later, the storm started without warning.

The windows rattled first. Then the sky went dark all at once, like someone had pulled a curtain across it. Thunder followed a few seconds later—loud enough to shake the glass.

Mother said we should stay inside until it passed.

We ended up in the sitting room off the main hall. It was quieter there. The kind of room no one really used unless there were guests.

The lights were on, but they felt dim compared to the flashes outside.

She sat on the edge of one of the sofas, her legs tucked under her, still wearing the handkerchief around her finger. 

She kept looking at the windows.

Another crack of thunder.

She flinched.

I noticed that.

“You’re not supposed to jump every time,” I said this with a hint of irritation. “It’s just noise.”

“I know,” she replied quickly. “I just don’t like it.”

Lightning flashed again, brighter this time. It lit the whole room for a second—sharp and white—and then everything dropped back into shadow.

She shifted closer on the sofa.

Not all the way. Just enough that I could see it without looking directly at her.

I didn’t say anything.

The rain got heavier. It hit the windows in uneven bursts, like someone throwing handfuls of pebbles.

She was very still now.

Another flash.

Then thunder, closer.

She reached for my hand.

It was quick, like she thought I might move away.

I didn’t.

Her fingers were warm. Slightly damp. She held on tighter than she needed to.

I looked down at our hands.

The handkerchief I’d tied earlier was pressed between us, the cloth darker where the blood had soaked through.

She didn’t look at me. She kept her eyes on the window, like the storm might come inside if she stopped watching it.

“You’re scared, I can feel it.” I commented, but I didn't mean to jab her.

“I’m not,” she shot back, too fast.

I let that go.

The thunder rolled again, longer this time.

She squeezed my hand.

I didn't pull away. It didn't hurt. It didn't do anything.

Her shoulders settled. Her breathing slowed.

I watched her for a minute. Then I looked back at our hands.

She didn't let go.

I didn't make her.

Another flash of lightning filled the room. She leaned a little closer, her sleeve brushing against mine.

Still holding on.

I stayed where I was.

Then she put her head on my shoulder.

I went completely still.

I should have said something. I had something ready—the right word, the kind that makes people move away quickly. It was right there.

I didn't say it.

I turned my head slightly instead. Her eyelashes were moving. Then they weren't. Her breathing changed—slower, deeper. Her weight settled against me like she'd decided something.

She had fallen asleep.

I didn't understand that. I kept looking at her, waiting for it to make sense.

She sniffled once, quietly, against my shoulder.

Something happened in my chest that I didn't have a name for. I started counting to try to get rid of it. I got to ten, then kept going. The number got very high.

I don't know when I stopped counting.

I don't know when the room went dark.

The storm was still outside when I stopped being there. She wasn't there either. We were somewhere else—nowhere I recognized, nowhere anyone else was. The voices that were usually there were quieter.

I didn't want to leave.

...