➥ he likes it rough / catching you trying to escape / playing with your pussy / helping you after walking in on you using your toy / ghostface x2 / spanking your cute ass~ / cutting your panties off / partners in crime / red lights / fucking your thighs
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷... ➥ PATRICK BATEMAN:
➥ helping him out at work / certified munch / filming you / drilling you deep / (dat ass doe) / watching you in the mirror / using you like a toy / spanking you raw / doggy ft. your plushies / choking you
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷... ➥ HANNIBAL LECTOR:
➥ waking up together / hanging you up / fingering your pretty pussy / using his belt / eye contact + eating you out / maneuvering you like a doll / tying your hands behind your back / riding his foot / pussy spanking / clothed
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷... ➥ BUBBA SAWYER:
➥ teasing his cock / belly bulge / his eager hips / breeding you over and over / maaajor mating press / throat-fucking / fucking you from underneath / he's so strong~ / tits = oral fixation / chased you down in the woods
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?”)
author’s note: i had an incident yesterday and forgot to post, so sorry, but here it is. i feel like this is so fitting for Patrick when he gets worked up over little things. he’s such a drama queen!
• episode 2 of kinktober 2025 • showing jealous sex
It’s 1:07 a.m. when you’re standing in front of the marble vanity, working La Prairie night cream into your cheekbones with small circular motions. The cream smells faintly of caviar extract and pharmaceutical sterility. The cream is thick, opaque, expensive enough to almost erase the three glasses of Krug you downed earlier at dinner. Almost.
Your robe, pale pink silk from Saks, clings lightly to your shoulders. The bathroom lights, halogen-bright, reveal every pore, every faint line. Patrick insists this lighting is “unforgiving but necessary.” You agree.
Behind you, through the half-open door, the sounds of Patrick moving through the apartment echo, measured footsteps across the glossy black floors, the whisper of wool trousers, the faint clink of glass against countertop when he poured himself a drink. The apartment smells faintly of sandalwood candle and dry champagne.
You haven’t spoken since leaving Evelyn’s party. That isn’t unusual. Sometimes Patrick retreats into himself after these nights, after too much champagne and not enough recognition. You assume he’s still replaying the evening in his head: worrying if the Armani suit he wore appeared a shade duller than Halberstam’s Brioni, if people noticed the subtle hand-stitching on his lapel, if they cared about the story he told, again, about his latest acquisition, the Twombly painting he’s convinced no one appreciates enough.
You swipe toner along your jawline, Chanel cotton pad white against your skin, and sigh quietly. Patrick is like this at least twice a month. Maybe more.
In the mirror you catch him entering the doorway. His shirt is unbuttoned, hair slightly out of place. He raises one finger like he’s about to deliver a correction. His lips part, his brow furrows. Then he closes his mouth, pivots, and leaves.
You roll your eyes.
“Patrick,” you call after him, fixing a strand of hair in place, “it’s okay, you can tell me if it’s one of those days.”
You mean PMS. Mood swings. Hormones. You sometimes joke when he is like this that he is on “period”. You don’t expect him to laugh, because Patrick never laughs when the joke is on him. But you do expect some snide retort about how you are ungrateful over the expensive robe you have on or how you shouldn’t drink champagne with caviar. Instead, there’s silence. His footsteps fade down the hallway, then nothing.
You go back to your serum, unbothered.
“Not now,” Patrick says from the hall, his voice sharp but clipped, as though he’s answering a question you never asked. Then, more pointedly, “I’m thinking.”
You hear him still moving around the apartment long strides on the black granite tiles, a cabinet door opening, the sound of liquid poured into crystal. His thinking always comes with movement, with pacing, as if he’s rehearsing an argument in front of an invisible audience.
You dab eye cream under your lashes but skip the last couple of steps, because suddenly you’re too distracted by him, his silence, his vague evasions. You cap the jar with a sharp twist, push away from the mirror, and walk toward the bedroom.
He’s already there, a glass in his hand, Macallan. You tell him lightly, “Have another. And then maybe some water. Wash your face, put something on it, and come to bed.”
The suggestion is practical, even affectionate. But when he turns toward you, on his glossy forehead, a vein bulges visibly. His shirt is still unbuttoned, collar askew, tails untucked. For Patrick, it’s a disarray bordering on catastrophe.
He sets the glass down a little too firmly, amber liquid sloshing. He straightens slightly, launching into one of his trademark speeches, words fast and precise, as if he’s delivering quarterly earnings to an audience of hostile shareholders.
“At Evelyn’s,” he begins. “At the party. Paul Allen—Paul Allen—didn’t take his eyes off you. He kept leaning in as if what you were saying was so profound it couldn’t possibly be ignored.” The hatred cracked over his face as he said the name.
He paces once, twice. “And you, sitting there, letting him talk to you, laughing, with your head tilted. Don’t deny it. Don’t play innocent. You enjoyed it. You enjoyed being at the center of his orbit for five minutes. You loved it. It was obvious.”
His hands slice the air as he speaks, his voice rising, polished vowels sharpening into something almost ugly. The whole thing sounds rehearsed, as though he’s been replaying it since 10 p.m., cataloguing every detail, waiting to deliver it here.
When he finishes, he stands rigid, chest rising hard, eyes fixed on you like you’re a chart he’s trying to read.
You blink at him, only listening to half of what he said and not taking it as a problematic behaviour . “So… what does that mean, Patrick?”
His lip curls angrily, face frustrated. “It means you liked Paul Allen’s attention.”
For a second you just stare at him. Then you laugh bubbling, girlishly. “Patrick, he’d had too much champagne. He was talking too much, to everyone. Don’t twist it.”
Patrick doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even twitch. His jaw tightens, the vein throbs again. “And you,” he says, voice like ice, “had too much champagne yourself. That’s why you think this is funny.” He sneers faintly. “Vintage Krug ʼ85. Typical.”
You can’t help it, you giggle again, watching him, his perfect composure cracked open just enough to let something raw bleed through. The sight of him like that, creased, undone, his perfection slipping, only makes you chuckle more.
If Patrick saw himself now, he would bolt and button his shirt, smooth every line, adjust every angle. Patrick Bateman would never allow himself to look like this. And yet here he is, disheveled, angry, more appealing to you than ever.
You perch at the edge of the bed, silk slipping across your thighs, eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the vein throbbing insistently along his temple.
Patrick’s voice picks up again, low and precise, almost clinical, every word measured, catalogued. “You laugh, but do you understand the architecture of perception in these situations? It’s not merely that he spoke to you. It’s the way he positioned himself, the subtle gestures, a nuanced display of territorial dominance. And you—” His chest rising slowly, “you respond, drawing him in with the sort of body language that implies interest yet maintains deniability, which is the most infuriating combination.”
You bite your lip, stifling another giggle, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Patrick,” you say, the word drawn out, “I’m just imagining the poor man’s face when he realized it wasn’t working.”
A flicker crosses his eyes, dangerous, the vein on his forehead throbbing in protest. He sits up slightly, shirt falling further askew. “It’s not amusing,” his tone clipped, but the tautness in his limbs betrays him. “It’s an examination of hierarchy, of social mechanics. One cannot simply laugh at this and move on without consequence. You—” he gestures vaguely toward you, accusatory finger pointed at you, “You think humor absolves it. It does not. Do you comprehend the implications?”
You can’t help yourself. The edges of your lips twitch. “I do comprehend, Patrick. Really, I do. I’m just… amused. He probably had too much champagne. Or maybe he’s always been a little tedious.”
His eyes narrow, a glitter of steel in the halogen glow. “You trivialize again,” he says. “You reduce a sophisticated observation of interpersonal negotiation to a flippant remark about inebriation. You are, in essence, mocking the very architecture of… of—” he pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose, exhaling, then continues, voice low and deliberate, “—socially codified displays of attention, and control. You are mocking it, mocking me.”
You let out a breathy giggle, perched on the edge of the bed, silk brushing the edge of the mattress. “Patrick, I’m laughing because you’re so frustrated. It’s adorable when you’re mad.”
The vein on his temple pulses faster. His hand hovers, the other tightening on the mattress. His shirt slips lower, exposing the smooth planes of his chest. He tilts his head, eyes locked on yours.
You laugh again, teasing, high-pitched and whiny, almost childish. “Come on, Patrick. Don’t be like that. You know I didn’t mean anything. It’s funny. Isn’t it funny?”
Something snaps. The vein jumps, his jaw tightens, the slow, controlled rhythm of his movements now a taut wire stretched to its limit. Without warning, he grips your leg, pulling you toward the edge of the bed, close, impossibly close. Your breath catches. His eyes hover over yours. His hand stills just inches from your face, fingers curling like he might touch or dominate.
“Is it really funny?” His voice is low and venomous, testing the boundary your own boldness.
You’re caught in the tension, in the heat of the moment, perched at the boundary of his fury and his need. You can feel the storm coiled inside him, contained by decades of precision and control, and you can’t help but shiver slightly, thrill crawling along your spine.
And that’s where it hangs. Breathless, sharp, ready to tip into something far darker, far more indulgent.
Patrick’s grip on your leg tightens, dragging you until your silk nightgown hikes up your thighs. The movement is unceremonious but practiced, as though he’s pulling a chair into place. His palm slides up the curve of your calf, fingers pressing in too firmly to be tender.
You look at him, Armani label still visible at the collar, hair slightly mussed from the humid night air.
“Funny,” he repeats, his hand gripping your jaw now, holding your face steady. “You think this is funny.” His eyes flicker with something dangerous, though his voice remains eerily calm, too calm, like he’s still moderating. “You must have enjoyed it, having Paul Allen’s champagne-soaked mouth this close to yours.” His thumb presses against your bottom lip until you part it, soft breath spilling out.
Your pulse skitters, but you laugh again, your voice tipping into a whine. “Patrick—”
The sound seems to set something in him alight. He moves fast, with a precision that feels orchestrated, like a line of action executed exactly as rehearsed. He shoves you flat onto the bed, silk sliding up, hair fanning across Egyptian cotton sheets so white and crisp they could have been laundered in Perrier.
His knee forces between your thighs, holding them apart. His shirt dangles open, cufflinks still attached, one corner brushing your collarbone. He leans down, teeth grazing your ear before his voice cuts sharp: “I don’t want Paul Allen’s name in your mouth ever again.”
You gasp, half-smiling still, even as his hand finds your wrists, pinning them above your head. The sheets crumple beneath you. You think of the detergent, imported, discreetly branded, the one Patrick insists on ordering because it leaves no “cheap floral residue.” It smells faintly of white musk and static control.
He kisses you then, rough, bruising, all pretense gone. Not the carefully staged pecks he gives in public, but punishing. His teeth scrape your lower lip, his tongue invades, claiming space.
When he pulls back, your mouth is swollen, wet, parted. His eyes drop to it like it’s a mark of ownership. “You laughed at me,” he says, tone flat, analytical, though his breathing betrays him. “Do you realize how humiliating that is? To laugh. To act as though my analysis is a joke?” His grip tightens on your wrists. “Unacceptable.”
You arch into him, deliberately, and whisper with a smile, “You look even better when you’re mad, Patrick.”
The vein in his forehead pulses harder. He yanks your wrists down, forces your hands against his chest, dragging them across his skin until they catch on the edges of his shirt. “You don’t deserve me to be generous,” he mutters, almost to himself, words spilling fast, jagged. He exhales sharply, leaning close, breath hot against your cheek. “We are going to see who’s gonna have the last laugh.”
His belt is undone in one smooth motion, the metallic click loud in the silence. The zipper follows. He pushes your thighs wider, fingers leaving imprints where they press into flesh.
There’s no gentleness when he puts his cock inside, forceful and quick. There’s precision. He moves like he’s proving a point, every thrust a correction, having you squirming under him “Is it funny now?” every sound you make both vindication and provocation.
Your whines fill the apartment, high and breathless, echoing against glass and marble. His hand clamps over your mouth, muffling, his palm pressed firm against your lips. He leans close, eyes blazing. “Not so funny now, is it?”
You shake your head, wide-eyed, breath hot against his skin, but you smile under his palm, whimpering into his hand like you can’t help it. And it only drives him harder, rougher, his rhythm sharp and punishing, expensive cologne and sweat mingling in the air, the night air heavy with leftover champagne fizz and violence.
Can’t stop thinking about Patrick Bateman and a pregnant reader… how wld he look after you and wld he be controlling or just not care
Bateman Junior
(Patrick Bateman x Pregnant! Reader)
‘Patrick had always wanted an heir to his excellent genetics: it’s what normal people his age do. Thanks to his strict routine, he’s sure his heir will be perfect.’
The penthouse gleamed under the cool halogen lights, every surface polished to an impeccable mirror-like sheen that reflected Patrick’s own impeccable form back at him. He had insisted on the cleaning service coming twice a week now— once wasn’t enough, not with the faint scent of impending chaos that pregnancy seemed to introduce; chaos he would not tolerate. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, his reflection superimposed over the twinkling grid of Manhattan like a god surveying his domain. In his hand, a glass of Perrier with a precise twist of lime; alcohol was off-limits for both of them these days. He had decreed it so.
She was in the living room, reclining on the custom Roche Bobois sofa that cost more than most people’s annual salary. Eight months along, her body a testament to his careful orchestration. The black Alaïa dress clung to her curves in a way that was still elegant, still controlled— no sloppy maternity wear for her. He had curated her wardrobe himself, flying in pieces from Milan and Paris because American designers didn’t understand restraint. “You represent us,” he’d told her that morning, adjusting the hem before she left for her prenatal yoga class, the one he had vetted personally, ensuring the instructor was certified in exactly the right methodologies: nothing too strenuous, nothing that might disrupt the symmetry he envisioned for their child.
Patrick turned from the window, his Oxfords silent on the floor as he turned. He watched her for a moment, hand absently rubbing the swell of her abdomen. She was reading a book— something innocuous, a first-edition of Bonfire of the Vanities he’d selected from his library. No trashy novels, no self-help drivel about motherhood. He controlled the inputs: the media she consumed, the conversations she had. Her mobile phone was monitored via a bug an ex-FBI friend had installed, filtering out any calls from someone that didn’t meet his standards. Old friends from college, any friends of yours he didn’t like? Call declined. They were too pedestrian; too likely to fill her head with suburban banalities about strollers and playdates.
An heir, he thought, the word echoing in his mind like the closing bell on Wall Street. Not just a child—a continuation. A perfect extension of Bateman lineage. He imagined the boy (it had to be a boy— he’d paid for the genetic screening to confirm it) inheriting his jawline, his drive, his unyielding precision. No weaknesses, no deviations. The world was a slaughterhouse of mediocrity, and this child would be the blade. Patrick felt a rare surge of something almost like excitement, tempered by the cold calculus of legacy. He’ll attend Dalton, then Yale, then inherit Patrick’s own role at Pierce & Pierce. Or perhaps something more elite— my connections will ensure it. No room for error. If there’s any flaw… The thought trailed off into darker territories, visions of returns and exchanges that weren’t possible in biology— but he pushed it aside. Control was key. He would mold this heir like he molded his own body at the gym: relentlessly, perfectly, and without mercy.
Approaching her, he placed a hand on her shoulder, fingers tracing the line of her collarbone. “Did you take your supplements?” he asked, voice even, though he already knew the answer— he’d set reminders on her phone.
She glanced up, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Yes, Patrick. The omega-3s, the prenatals, the calcium…all of them.”
His jaw twitched when she didn’t say anything about the Vitamin D tablets, but he decided not to start a fight about it today. He’d just crush them into her dinner, later.
“Good.” He sat beside her, his posture ramrod straight even on the plush cushions. He had overhauled her diet weeks ago: no caffeine, no refined sugars, nothing processed. Meals were prepared by a private chef he interviewed three times, menus approved daily via fax. Organic kale smoothies in the morning, grilled salmon with quinoa at lunch, lean proteins and greens for dinner. He’d even calculated the caloric intake to the decimal, ensuring she gained exactly the recommended weight— no more, no less. “Excess is vulgar,” he’d explained once, measuring her waist with a tailor’s tape as if fitting her for a gown. And the exercise: mandatory walks in the park (she found it romantic; he thought it was much needed supervision), Pilates sessions with a trainer who reported back to him on her progress and weaknesses. He tracked her steps via the Apple Watch he’d synced to his own device, intervening if she fell short.
She thinks it’s care, his internal voice mused, cool and detached. It is, in a way. But more than that—it’s investment. This body is the vessel for my empire’s future. Flaws in gestation could mean flaws in the product. I won’t have a defective heir. No learning disabilities, no physical imperfections. I’ve read the studies—stress hormones affect fetal development. So I eliminate stress. For her. For us. He pictured boardrooms in twenty years, the boy—named something strong, like Hunter, or something Greek, like Alexander— sealing deals with the same predatory smile his father flashed. He’ll eclipse me, but only because I designed him to. For Patrick, legacy isn’t accident; it’s architecture.
The baby kicked then, a sharp jab that made her wince slightly. Patrick felt it through her dress, his palm pressing firmer against the fabric. “Active,” he noted approvingly. “That’s the Bateman spirit.”
She laughed softly, setting the book aside. “He’s probably practicing his mergers in there.”
“Acquisitions,” Patrick corrected, his tone light but his eyes intense. He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “I’ve scheduled the 4D ultrasound for tomorrow. We’ll see his features more clearly. Ensure everything’s… optimal.”
She nodded, accustomed to his micromanagement by now. But he caught the flicker in her eyes—the one that said she knew this was more than protectiveness. It was possession. He controlled the doctor’s appointments, too: only the best obstetrician at New York-Presbyterian, one who’d signed an NDA because Patrick didn’t trust discretion without legal teeth. No group classes, no mommy blogs. Isolation was safety, and outside influences were contaminants.
What if he’s not perfect? The thought intruded again, unbidden, like a glitch in his otherwise flawless psyche. Genes are a gamble, even with screening. But I’ll fix it. Surgery if needed— early interventions. He won’t be like the others, the sheep bleating through life. He’ll be a wolf. My wolf. Pride swelled in him, mixed with a possessiveness that bordered on the obsessive. This is immortality. Flesh and blood carrying my name, my methods. No one else gets this— Evelyn couldn’t have handled it, Jean would have crumbled. But Y/N… she’s strong enough to bear my heir.
He straightened, glancing at the Rolex on his wrist. “Time for your evening routine,” he said. “The infrared sauna, then the meditation. I’ve made a new CD for you— more Bach, less Mozart. Studies show it enhances neural development.”
She rose with his help, her hand in his feeling small yet vital. As they moved toward the master suite, Patrick allowed himself a rare, genuine smile. The city below may have been indifferent and chaotic, but up here, in his controlled orbit, everything was aligning. The heir was coming, and with him, perfection incarnate.
you’re kneeling on the polished oak floor, jerking off your fiancé as he studies your hand, captivated by the engagement ring he’d bought for you. his thumb slides over the warm, polished 18k rose gold of the cartier panthère ring, and you can see patrick’s face contort slightly when you swiped your thumb over the bulbous tip, admiring the rosy shade of pink. you make a mental note of the colour; perhaps you can buy some nail polish of the exact shade.
“this isn’t just any ring,” patrick mumbles suddenly, as if justifying his choice to himself. “it’s designed by aldo cipullo—the same guy who created the love bracelet...” his voice trails off, noting the way the delicate pavé diamonds sparkle against your skin, then looks back up at you, cheeks flushed.
“two carats of vvs clarity diamonds. high colour, princess cut. they don’t make them like this anymore,” he rambles on, tongue poking out between parted lips. “each one’s hand-finished in their paris atelier. twenty-five grand without tax,”
“thank you, patrick. they’re really beautiful, i love them,” you say as you gently squeezed the head, a droplet of clear liquid oozed from the slit — glistening like the diamonds you’re wearing. his cock twitches in your hand and patrick frowns. “these trousers are ermenegildo zegna. i’d hate to go to the dry cleaners, so don’t get them dirty.”
cw: rough oral (m receiving), light pet play, patrick being sociopathic
“Does puppy want a treat? C’mere girl.” Patrick grips the base of his cock, wagging it from side to side as he beckons you forward. You crawl to the space between his tanned thighs, you peer up at him as he smacks the wet tip of his cock against your cheek. You’ve gotten so accustomed to his freakish habits that you don’t even flinch. You turn your head to the side, trying to catch his heavy cock in your mouth, Patrick keeps his hand around the base, keeping your bone away. His expression slips for a moment, looking with slight annoyance, like the fact that you’re so willing to participate in this degradation is simply disgusting. However, it had been him waiting for you with a pair of fluffy ears and a collar.
Patrick uses his free hand to grab a firm fistful of your hair. “Stick out your tongue.” He grunts, taking a breath to calm himself. “Patrick…” You murmur, “Shhh, puppies don’t talk, remember?” Patrick doesn’t want to hear whines, he’s already having trouble with his clarity. He’s not controlling himself from shoving his cock down your throat, instead, he’s controlling himself so he doesn’t bash your head into his bed frame till your skull is dented. Although he’s sure you’d look pretty all bloodied.
You’re dutiful, sure he has a weird vibe, but you’ve never really known him to be pleasant, so what can you do other than stick out your tongue? Patrick slaps his cock down onto your tongue, giving your tastebuds a surprise with his pre. He keeps you chin turned upwards, he’s viewing all this in third person, this is disgusting, your mouth fucking feels great though. “Down the hatch.” Patrick coos in a way that’s just plain mean. He guides his cock into your waiting mouth, pushing your head down on him till your nose is tickled by his neatly trimmed pubic hair and your chin is smushed against his balls. You sputter, rivets of saliva dripping from the corners of your lips, he keeps your head down, the gagging feels good around his dick. “There we go, just swallow it all down.” He sighs, scooping your hair more firmly, pulling you up and down his dick. Patrick is satiated by the suction and spit of your mouth. He lightly slaps your cheek with his hand, looking down at you with mostly arousal mixed with a little disgust.
Patrick tenses, guiding your head down with little regard for your air intake or comfort. “Oh—” He tenses, holding you down so he can glue your throat shut with his jizz. He pulls out of your mouth with shiver, cupping his hand over your mouth and pinching your nose shut till you swallow. “That’s a good girl.” Patrick murmurs giving your head a scratch before shoving you away. A not so subtle ‘find something else to do’.
Your snotty snively appearance doesn’t make him feel bad, better, it makes his now sensitive cock twitch. “Don’t mope, what’re you doing?” He mumbles with slight annoyance when you don’t get off your knees. “Nothing…do I have to go…?” You ask, pressing your cheek against his thigh. Patrick squints at you, what the fuck are you doing. He doesn’t like it, but he’s already half hard. “C’mere puppy, you’re gonna learn how to sit.” He mumbles, he could go for a nap, and well, your cunt is probably all leaky, perfect to keep his dick warm and it’ll be enough for your achey little heart, isn’t he so normal?
Non-con!! MDNI! Substance use❄️ Patrick Bateman is a warning alone.
Music was blaring loudly in your ears. Even away from the crowd, you could swear your heart was going to vibrate out of your chest. You weren't the one to party but your friends dragged you here because apparently you needed to "get a life." Reluctantly, you showed up.
A party was the last thing you needed. Therapy would probably sound more like it. But now youre here. Leaning against the wall in front of the bathrooms, a drink thats way too sweet and really isnt doing its job aside from giving you a headache. At least the salted rim was yummy.
Two men begin heading your way, probably headed for the bathroom. One of them is tall, a handsome brunette. He's dressed in a charcoal double-breasted wool suit by Armani, a pleated cotton shirt from Brooks Brothers with little gold cufflinks. A silk tie from Valentino, black cap toe Oxfords from Allen Edmonds, and a Rolex Datejust with a gold band.
He seems like every other rich, snobby guy in New York. But man was he handsome. The dim lights illuminating his sharp features.
He seems to not give a shit about what his friend is drunkenly yammering about. You paid them no mind, until you noticed the small folded envelope flips casually through the nonchalant man's fingers.
Thats what I need. Where did he get... you trail off. You're way too nervous to ask this stranger where he got a gram.This is your only chance just ask. You internally fought with yourself.
"Who's your guy?" You cut in, your voice way higher pitched then you intended. You cringed internally. Oh god, shut up. why did you ask? Your hands are trembling now for some reason. You never realized how bad your anxiety was. This is stupid.
The man's dark eyes meet yours and they seem to immediately brighten. Like he finally is cured of the boredom from sobriety. "Wouldn't you like to know sweetheart," he studies you for a moment, utterly amused.
You pull your hand back from its awkward outreach for his attention. Flustered and embarrassed you even asked. "Relax, honey," he says "Im kidding," he gestures with the small envelope, laughing. Oh my god i can breathe now, you think, beginning to laugh shyly with him.
"Tell you what, I'll share it with you if you'd let me buy you a drink, pretty." He teased. You hesitate, glancing at the little envelope in his hand before looking back up at him. Suddenly very aware of how ridiculous the whole interaction feels. "Why not," You half smile at him.
His friend makes some teasing remark about the man's game, leaning obnoxiously on his shoulder. Hes quick to step back, flinging his arm back like he's repulsed. "God Bryce, do you mind??" He scoffs before reaching for your free hand.
He pulls you into the men's restroom as his intoxicated friend stumbles in muttering something about him needing to lighten up. You're now facing him in one of the small stalls as he fumbles through his pocket for something. He pulls out a sleek, gazelle skin wallet branded "ESCANADO." "It's only a gram so forgive me," he says, pulling out a gold AmEx card. Normally you couldnt care less, but it was attractive.
You shake your head, signaling that you didnt mind as you gave your drink a swig, grimacing internally at the slight bitterness. His friend is now leaving against the open stall door like an awkward third wheel. He's drunk out of his mind so you hope he doesnt care.
"You mind?" He taps a small line onto the edge of his American Express and holds it out towards you, watching your reaction more than the card itself. You quickly glance up at his eyes looking for any sign of malice.
"Relax, sweetheart," he says mildly with a tight smile. You brush your hair out of your face and lean forward, forefinger pushing your right nostril closed. Your sinuses burn instantly. Ouchie, you rub you nose as he digs for another line.
"It's Patrick, by the way... this is Bryce," he introduces himself and gestures to the man who's now fascinated with watching his just swirl after spinning it. "Y/n," the fingers on your free hand play with the hem of your dress. The rush of adrenaline causing you to fidget insatiably.
He brings another bump towards your face and you repeat. That sharp burn hitting you that you can feel throughout your skull. You go back and forth slamming the gram until all thats left in the little envelope is white residue. You're a little embarrassed since he probably intended to share that with this 'Bryce' guy. But honestly, you're to wired to be bothered.
"Still up for that drink?" Patrick questions, rubbing his nose a light pink hue. Yours probably looks the same.
With your newfound, chemical-induced confidence, you push yourself off the stall wall, grinning stupidly at him for no reason but your face just wants to. Bryce slides off the door and backs up allowing you to leave while Patrick follows.
His hand hovers inches away from your back like gently guiding you back through the crowd. Your confidence seems to subside, replaced by a twisting feeling in your tummy. Nauseating and wrong. But you deal with it. Only so much you can do after the drug 's already in your system. Doesn't it feel so helpless?
You reach the bar and he orders himself a J&B Rare Scotch and for yourself a sex on the beach figuring you were a lightweight with a sweet tooth. You can barely hear the pretty bartender over the loud music, instead just zoning out and wondering when the nausea would subside. You could feel it in your throat.
You're snapped back to the present as a pretty orange ombre drink is pushed towards you. You take it from him immediately going for the maraschino cherry floating in the glass.
"Everything okay, sweetheart?" He smiles almost earnestly, leaning in slightly so you can hear him over the music. "Mhm," you manage before realize he probably cant hear anything and nodding.
The two of you lean against the bar for a while. People watching... chatting about his dumb friend, and maybe an occasional compliment. You're kind of bummed you can't feel the funny feeling of drunkenness. Damn coke. You joke as if you would have even turned down the substance.
Its funny how cocaine can either make your thoughts race with anxiety or creativity and made your mind completely blank within a second. You dont even realize youre staring. His illuminated features are so alluring. But something just feels... off.
Again, he asks if youre feeling okay. You kind of aimlessly nod as you cant seem to focus on anything. You do a quick look over everyone in the club as much as you can, realizing your friends had probably left now. You lean forward on your tippy toes even in your heels, urging him to lean down. "My tummy hurts," you slightly pout as you pull away.
He laughs dryly. Your childish statement is charming. He sets his empty glass on the bar and takes yours out of your hands and does the same. Youre confused as he begins to guild you with a gentle but firm hand back towards the quiet hall where the restrooms are. But what could happen? You don't resist. He probably cares youre hurting, you fabricate, smiling to yourself.
The music turns into distant thudding once the hallway swallows you again. Youre grateful for a break from the crowd. Patrick's hand hasn't left your back.
"You really shouldn't do cocaine with strangers," Patrick's says casually.
He smiles when he says it. As if its funny.
Theres a long silence before he finally cuts in again. "Jesus, loosen up a bit." "You look so scared. You'll feel better in a minute, hon," he says, voice getting softer. Despite his attempts to comfort you, you can't shake the feeling. Trying your best to blame it on the coke and bad decisions.
You suddenly realize how close he’s gotten. His face is just inches from yours now, the dim hallway light catching on the sharp line of his cheekbone.
The sick twist in your tummy flips strangely warm instead, the nervous nausea melting into something softer, fuzzier.
Before you can second guess it, you lean forward the rest of the way and meet his mouth.
The feeling is so liberating. Making out with the pretty boy who gave you coke. You cant bring yourself to pull away no matter how wrong it was. You were never the one to kiss a stranger but your brain was fuzzy and you just couldnt care.
He tastes like bitter scotch whiskey and smells like a $500 cologne. You couldnt get enough. Apparently he couldnt either as his tongue peeks out to graze your lower lip, asking for entrance.
His hand finds your waist, circling with his thumb before finding the small of your back and steadying you against the wall. You shiver at the touch, the combination of the drugs and the thrill making your chest flutter.
He tilts his head, leaning in deeper and you find yourself melting into it, not pulling back. Hands playing with the fold on his suit jacket. He smiles into the kiss, "you taste real sweet," he murmurs, you cant help but laugh against his lips, dizzy and giddy.
His other hand finds place on your hip, together, rubbing against the soft material of your dress. They begin urging lower and lower until hes fingering the hem and rubbing your thighs.
Your brows furrow, and you awkwardly shift your legs to pull away to give him the hint. He doesnt budge. His hands are gripping your thighs to stop you from running.
You step back from the kiss, "Patrick- let go!" You snap, pressing your hands against his chest, "I dont like this anymore." He pushes his lips back onto yours and pushes back until youre fully pressed against the cold wall.
You keep moving back, trying to put space between you and him. The hall feels narrower by the second, the muffled thrum distant but heavy in your ears. You flail, trying to kick your legs and push him off you as he continues to thumb your waist line. He finally pulls back, scoffing and rolling his eyes. "And I don't like how much of a bitch you're being," he curses.
With a firm grip on your arms, he pivots you toward the restroom. The door swings open and he leads you forward as you trip over your feet, stopping when your back meets the cold wall of the stall at the end.
"Patrick!" You try to yell before him firm hand meets your mouth. You eyes are red and filled with fear. His other forearm is flat against your chest, pressing you into the wall. "Would you shut it already?" He bites. Youre crying now, he couldnt give a shit though, his attention now focused on your panties.
He fingers the hem before hooking a finger over the waistband, dragging them to your ankles. Hand still firm against your face. He lightly slaps your leg, telling you to lift them. Hesitantly, you obey. He rips them off of you, crumpling them into a ball and removing his hand just to shove the cloth in your mouth. "Now you can't cry, doll," he coos mockingly, giving your cheek a light slap.
His lips find the soft curve of your neck, you let out a whimper, muffled by the makeshift gag. His tongue flicks out, licking a long, slow stripe against your carotid artery. Like a threat.
He kisses down your cleavage, tugging down your dress to allow him to kiss further, finally leaning back with one exaggerated kiss to your soft breast.
Hes grinning maliciously and you hate how handsome he is. You hate how your body betrays you and heat builds in your tummy. Your eyes follow his as he dips until hes face to face with your heat. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your head to face the wall.
You're met with a slap to your thigh causing you to jerk and curl tighter in on yourself. "Open your eyes, baby," he teases. You half heartedly meet his eyes as he begins to thumb the reddening patch on your thigh.
"You're so cute." He mutters as he presses kisses to your trembling thighs, each one getting higher and higher until his lips meet your mound.
You shudder, the tension making your pulse skyrocket. Your arms flail, trying to find something for stability as his warm tongue slides up your slit, agonizingly slow, but theres nothing in reach. Begrudgingly, your fingers tangle in his pretty, chocolate hair, tugging softly.
He groans into your intimacy, the vibrations making your tummy flip as you moan. He fingers for a moment, just enjoying your vulnerability before flattening his tongue against your sensitive bud.
You curl in on yourself again and one of his hands comes up to press your tummy back against the wall. Instead of returning to your thigh, he finds one of your breasts, rubbing at your sensitive little peaks until your back arches off the wall in overwhelming pleasure.
His ministrations dont stop even when you're bucking your hips into his face, his nose pressed up against your slit as he tongues your hole like a mad man. Until you're trembling and your muffled cries single to him you're so close. He doesnt stop. He wants you to see how much you enjoy it.
You peak with a broken sob, your hips jerking away instinctively from the sudden wave of oversensitivity. But he follows, not letting up until youre squirming and your legs tightening around his head.
He leisurely pulls away, face covered in slick, delivering another playful slap across your soft thighs. "You're so reactive. You like that, huh?" He teases and you swear you could throw up. You refuse to give him what he wants.
He doesnt take kindly to your stubbornness. "I asked you a question, y/n." His voice now low and stern, like a scolding. The way he says your name sounds more like a warning than anything else.
You nod reluctantly. You're vibrating, but its not because of the pulsating music behind the wall.
He finally stands to you height, kissing your cheek tauntingly. You're suspended nervously waiting for him to be done having what he wants. You push yourself off the wall and reach for the now covered in drool panties in your mouth, gaging in realization. "What're you doing, sweetie? Got somewhere to be?"
Panic surges through you yet again, your pinched eyebrows making you look like a scared little animal. Its pitiful. He wants to laugh.
You stumble back into the furthest corner and pull the cloth out of your mouth to scream. He acts swiftly, one arm loops around your waist and the other back over your mouth before you can even get a sound out.
You kick wildly but the man doesnt budge. Hes waits until you tire yourself out from fighting. "Stop being so dramatic," he says dryly.
You have no choice but to listen, knowing it’s useless to waste your strength on a man twice your size. You manage to steady your breathing for a moment, only to be thrown right back into panic at the harsh sound of his belt unbuckling.
"Patrick please don't!" You try to cry but its all muffled behind his firm hand. "What was that?" He sneers, he pulls his hand back just to shove two fingers down you throat, other hand leaving his belt to grip your waist.
He toys with you for a second. "Talk to me, doll," he mocks, giggling to himself as he fingers your tongue purposefully. "You're- a.. thick asshole," you manage. His face drops. His fingers leave your mouth to shove your face harshly against the wall.
Hes not playing games any more. Prodding at your sensitive slit quickly turns into bottoming out completely. "God- you're tight, little bitch," he groans loudly over your little cries.
He pulls back for a moment before surging forward again, the sudden movement stealing the breath from your lungs. Instead of a moan, all that leaves you is a silent gasp, your mouth falling open as the sensation hits in a dizzying rush of pleasure and pain.
Your skull aches as he forces you to keep pressed against the wall as he abuses your hole with such harsh thrusts. Youre sure you'll be bruised for weeks. Your hand weakly reaches back to steady his hips to little avail.
He ignores your little plea and reaches around to find your clit. Thumb gliding over your slick to collect your wetness. Your hips jerk uselessly away from him and his thumb starts rubbing tight circles on your sensitive little bud. He smiles to himself knowing how disgusted you'll feel knowing your body loved him.
He leans forward, groaning in your ear, "mmm... baby you feel so good," he nuzzles into your neck. "Let go." He spurs, pressing harder and faster to your nub. You're clenching around him so tightly, back arching further away from him.
You mewl helplessly as another orgasm takes over. Tears pricking at your eyes at the sheer sensitivity.
"God-" Patrick's breath catches sharply. "You're squeezing me, doll," he rasps as he follows you over the edge.
His breath stutters, grip tightening for a split second before he lets out a rough groan. Warmth follows as ropes of cum fill your spent heat as the tension finally drains from his body.
His hand still keeping you shoved against the wall.
