#patjohan

Finally, using my free will. I will go back and render Johan's armpits since I ran out of ink. More of my crackship, PatJohan... I'm using a book binding I did in college to draw. 😼

Johan and Patrick pfp's, I made for myself! I had to do an Usagi one since they're both so cute! Feel free to use them since I made them for funsies!

Drew my crackship PatJohan, aka Patrick Bateman from American Psycho×Johan Liebert! I made Patrick a yearner since bro can't handle all that. Maybe I'll draw someone similar for the fic I'm working on but it's an acquired taste. I just think it's entertaining with the whole sigma and dark triad edits. Also Patrick wanting to fit in and constantly misnamed to the point he's insignificant to his social circle. While Johan is in the completely different spectrum and trying to erase his existence. It's an interesting dynamic! 😼

Uncropped version

Summary: The notorious Monster has been observing the yuppie killer who's never been caught and intrigued by his unremarkable presence. A man in a suit who's easily dismissed and shrugged off for fitting into the American dream. Johan wanting nothing more than to consume and take his name.

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟷: 𝙰 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕

It was supposed to be a mundane evening at Yale club. The droning of his social circle and McDermott’s never-ending rambling of his sex escapades, Van Patten and him nodding while ordering more drinks.

“A JB scotch on the rocks,” Patrick uttered, his own twillbi Hermes tie interesting all of sudden, the silky material distracting him from Paul’s presence in the back of his mind. He’d much rather be fucking a hard and tight body or watching his recording of the latest football game.

The room is full of suits and skirts that practically blend against one another. If one moved, they could be easily replaced with another vain body. All their pleasant conservation that amounted to nothing. Patrick had stopped his own crude and violent comments because of how many times it’s been laughed off. He wasn’t trying to be hilarious at all; he was dead serious.

He rated their fuckability, attractiveness, net-worth, being on the other team, and lastly being a potential victim. He spots a young blond man with stormy cerulean eyes directly facing him, piercing, and knowing. An ethereal appearance to him that could rival a cherub angel. He gently pressed a glass of whiskey to his lips, the smallest hint of a smile as he had a penchant for the classics. Was he a prostitute? That’s the only rational explanation. Maybe a foreigner? He can tell that suit came from East Berlin by the cut. The black turtleneck makes him look distinguished at the very least. Patrick scrutinized him, scoffing when the blond smirks at him.

A hard body with a full face of makeup, teased hair, and a grabbable set of bosoms approached them. If Price was here, he would’ve wolfishly whistled at her. Van Patten only leaned closer, making direct eye contact with her full chest and making an obscene suckling sound. McDermott in turn giggled boisterously and high-fived Van Patten.

“Stop that will you? Are you both five?” Patrick growls, turning back to the bartender, flashing an impeccable grin at her. Maybe if she didn’t have crooked teeth, he might’ve fucked her. Each to their own.

“That kind gentleman., over there bought you a drink,” She replies curtly, her voice soft and with a hint of amusement. She points at the same blond who’s been eyeing him. Does she have no manners? You never point at others, it’s the first rule of polite society. Patrick only grits his teeth as he forced a smile.

“Is that so? Thank you, sweetheart.” He dismisses her with the wave of his hand. His hand straining to not crack the glass while imagining it was that little fuckers head instead.

“He’s pretty, right?” She haughtily giggles before heading to the next table. Patrick is left speechless as he grimaced. What could she possibly be insinuating?

“Aww, what’d you get Patrick?” McDermott is already quick to tease him as he croons. His hand over his shoulder, snatching and inspecting the drink to make sure it’s not spiked. “Oh, Luis has some competition,” Van Patten comments in a flat voice. The other man already waving the blond over. Patrick immediately shoves him back in his seat. David makes a small “tch” sound from clicking his tongue in annoyance.

“Don't,” Patrick hisses through his teeth. His fingers running through his hair in frustration. They had more than enough drinks on their table, six to be exact there was barely any elbow space to lounge on.

Luckily the blond was more focused on some children's book he’s holding onto, an unreadable expression on his face. Getting up from his seat in a polite and brisk manner he heads upstairs, the only restroom at Yales. This was his chance to give him hell for embarrassing him in front of those two doofuses.

Patrick gets up to follow him, mumbling something along the lines of needing to wipe his Oliver people's glasses. Van Patten and McDermott are wise enough to not push his buttons anymore. Although there’s the smallest mischievous glint in their eyes while they let his pass through.

Bateman takes unperturbed and patient steps trailing behind the lither man. The blond is in no rush either when he gracefully enters the restroom and approaches a urinal. A small sigh escapes his lips. His porcelain hand slowly unbuttons his trousers before unzipping the rest. He doesn’t fully pull down his woven baby blue boxers, using the neat hole provided to carry out his business. His cockhead is as pale and rosy like the rest of his body. He has a bored expression, his eyes narrowed akin to a feline before closing them, his lashes long and curled. Patrick listened to the stream of urine, a pleasant tinkling sound that lands directly into the urinal.

That’s his cue. His leather gloves had already slipped on. Desperately itching to squeeze that pretty neck and crack it before his massage appointment. This should be easy, he’s completely vulnerable with his cock and balls hanging out. Patrick smirks at the idea of the little bastard dying with a hard-on, like those who got hung as execution. He’s not gay but he’d make a perfect collection to his home-made video tapes, all hard body blondes succumbing to an orgasm before he tortured them. Fuck, he really regrets not having his camera on him!

He’s inches away when he firmly squeezes his neck, his neck appetizing and elastic as he barely flinched. The blond man already buttoning his trousers. He merely glanced up, those wide eyes and parted doll-like lips on display. Although his expression of surprise quickly dissipates back to his neutral and calm guise.

“Your activities in the back of the alley were rather unorthodox. who knew a banker such as yourself engaged in such deviant behavior?” He spoke with the slightest German accent, retrieving a soft tissue to wipe his cockhead, his delicate and nimble hands working with such precaution.

Patrick only scoffs in disbelief, snatching the tissue with his larger hand in disgust and throwing it to a distant trash bin. Not at all caring if he missed or not. He reached underneath his suit for his most favored knife, the steel a comfort to his shaking hands and the undying blood thirst he craved to inflict to this supple flesh.

Then the barrel of a gun pressed against his chest, the blond making a small hum of amusement. The younger man pressed against him. A lithe but lethal one. Patrick grunts in frustration.

“If you think your piece of junk gun is going to-” Patrick begins to protest.

Another amused soft laugh from the man in the tan suit. How adorable to think this serial killer had any self-autonomy in his presence. He’d see the ever-present monster Johan had been festering as he pressed his forehead against the slicked back yuppie. His cold hands enveloping and cupping that warm and chiseled face, angled bone cheeks and all, while Johan’s cerulean eyes bore into the emerald ones. Forced proximity that made the Yuppie recoil. His eyebrows furrowed in pure disdain, with futile attempt in writhing with the gun now trailing up and down his chest. He was nothing but useless muscle.

Johan gently, almost tenderly lifted his face. “Can you see me now?’ He inquires in a languid and serene tone, his thumb grazing the brunet's lip in an analytical manner. Patrick is stunned, his rebuttal gulped down from the others at the examination done with such intimacy he’s never been given.

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I finished my first chapter of my crackship although it's based on how'd I imagine both of my favorite characters interacting. I'll write them getting it on when my wrist is less sore. I also uploaded this on my AO3 account SaiBesitos for earlier updates. I recommend listening to Rabiosa by Shakira to set the mood. >:)

Reoccurrence at Yale Club WIP (NSFW)

Content warning: chloroform, dubious intimacy, forced taming, restraints, ass eating, gunplay

The cool texture of the barrel and the front site’s curved fin had Patrick grunting between a moan and whimper. It wasn’t enough. He needed it inside. His hand instinctively reached for it until Johan seized it. Slowly dragging it against the muscular tan thighs between him, earning a sharp gasp.  

“M-mngh,” the yuppie whines, his head falling back. Gun tracing becomes small circles and transitions to long drags as a thumb soothes the aching cock’s head.  

“Still this needy, are you?” Johan croons, leaning closer to Patrick, his breath tickling his nape.  

“You humans are never satisfied with anything, not with the silver spoon you were fed, the hookers you’ve murdered, the men who pitifully address you as their own. You’re pitiful Patrick,” Johan emphasizes this with a harsh squeeze to his cock. 

“Like I’d take it personally from a f-faggot with a gun-” Patrick squirming uncomfortably and teeth gritted uncomfortably to nails pressing down his sensitive cock. 

“Ack! G...Get it off! Get it off! I SAID GET IT THE FUCK OFF!” Patrick lashes out. His form aggressively attempts to buck the nails off him. Johan straddled him akin to an angered bull and finally having enough pressed a chloroformed rag against his mouth. Patrick’s shoulders spasming and reluctantly forfeiting his own will. 

“Shh, that’s it. Mhm, are your eyes getting heavy? There’s no need to fret this won’t have you losing consciousness so quickly Mister Bateman.” Johan set the gun aside and took off Patrick’s tie as a makeshift restraint. His body now behind Patrick while he kept his palm still firmly pressed against his face. A muffled protest drowned after another while those olive-green eyes fluttered like a trapped butterfly. Futile.  

Once his hands were firmly tied and his body relaxed and cock still throbbing and hardened Johan crawls on top of him. Soft skin and curves open to invitation but to the bearer of a muddled mind. Johan dutifully unlatches his trousers and shimmies off his boxers, making sure it's plopped while still grinding against him. A weak grunt from Patrick who can only watch with clouded eyes. 

“I’ve heard you’re rather skilled with your tongue. Eating someone out? Is that what such obscenity is called? I doubt you’ll have trouble with another sex organ such as mine, besides you’ve been eaten out too, yes?”  

Patrick's POV

“Paul Allen, was it?” Johan speaks as he flips to a particular illustration of a man’s head cut off. The ink smudged from what assumed blood of his struggle. The inactive body is rigid as if glued onto the chair, and newspaper print is scribbled with tiny columns.  

“Envy is telling this one in comparison to your faceless victims. It’s much of a novice’s work, but it emphasizes the grotesque nature of it, Patrick. You even went out of your way to render his suspenders,” Johan can’t help his soft and breathy laughter. He’d usually not mock other serial killers, but this one would be difficult to contain through flattery.  

Patrick let out a growl, finally lunging onto the lither man. Johan attempts to fling himself to the right, but Bateman’s larger hand easily grips his shoulder. Both landed onto the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. No matter how much the under-paid janitors deep cleaned it, there was still the smallest amount of coke sprinkled around. Johan scrunched his nose in distaste as he was face to face with it. The gun is a far reach from him. If he tries to grasp it, he’ll be susceptible to Bateman. 

“What?” Patrick scoffs, now straddling his legs wrapped around the blond and pinning down his wrists above his head. They’re so thin he could easily snap them like those bones of chicken rotisserie at Erewhon that he’d stolen one Thursday afternoon.  

“Of course, a pussy like you has never done any,” Patrick tempted to scoop some of it and rub it onto the smaller man’s nose. He smirks before remembering his own gram. He’s bought from Ricardo again despite the man having scammed him for sweet n’ low last time. He’d taken the real deal recently after gutting him. The dumbass having fallen asleep mid-deal. Surely Johan could handle such a delicacy.  

“You feel that? All muscles I work out at Xclusive, located at the Upper West Side,” He makes a show of planking himself. His hard toned body flexed.   

“Membership runs up to five thousand dollars. Maybe if you went to a biceps curl machine at Exeter you wouldn’t have noodle arms,” He hauls Johan up by his hair and forces him to kneel. His hand already working to form a line onto his black Amex card on the bathroom sink as he brought it up to Johan’s nose.  

“Sniff it,” Patrick commands.  

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