some kind of abstraction

my step-dad died. my ex/roommate bought a brand new car and expects me to pay half the payments each month and oh lmfao i don’t have a drivers license but i still have to help pay. my managers demoted me without telling me or giving me a reason.

Mun: No we gotta ask the other mun nicely if they maybe wanna ship with us.

Muse: BUT I WANT IT

Muse: NOW

THOSE PICTURES  were currently at the forefront of cassie’s problems.  whilst none of them were overly INAPPROPRIATE ( bar the few snapped when she was getting changed ) - they were personal to her and the thought of people seeing them left an unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach, even though nobody knew it was her. at his compliment a small, disbelieving smile formed on pink lips, shaking her head as she sipped at her own identical drink and glancing over to the stranger beside her. 

             “thank you. but - - i’m not               so sure i’d WANT to be.”

HER EYES ARE full of pain, and Patrick wants to eat her right up. a shift in his position, and the man props an elbow up on the bar counter, a S M I L E painting his features. it feels foreign on his lips each time he flashes a grin, but in order to win this precious girl over, he’d have to take out all the tricks. a gentle nod. a sip of his gin & 7up. the young man rolls his shoulders in a quiet shrug.

                   ❝ fair enough. tough job, modelling. very demanding. ❞ 

a thought, and the man leans in a bit in order to speak low enough for only HER ears, but loud enough to be heard over the booming music of the club.  

{@xdorsia liked this for a starter}

         “I do not need an investment           banker, but you do look quite           familiar otherwise, I must say.” The doctor purred as he looked at the young man on the other side of the glass. All they told him was that an investment banker was here for him, nothing more, nothing less.

SO HE LIED. of course, he had told the guards the simplest truth. he was an investment banker, and he was here to see the man in the glass cage, but he wasn’t here to HELP. he was here to learn. though normally Patrick would feel threatened by other killers, as he has often felt in regards to studying cold cases and watching a documentary or two about other killers... ones he deemed far more experienced than himself -- Pat was FASCINATED by Hannibal’s case. && in a cocaine induced delusion, he had been told by varied sources ( his VCR and road signs ) that he must meet with Hannibal.

                            ❝ truth be told, Mister Lecter, ❞                     he starts, adoration filling his dead eyes.                                         ❝ i’m a big FAN. ❞

It was becoming easier and easier to drift in and out of his own nightmares.  Nightmares that he was getting accustomed to. Nightmares that were slowly becoming not nightmares anymore. It was easier to look at crime scenes, obscenely so. He knew Jack would be horrified to know that he looked forward to the new scenes he could pick apart.

Snapped out of his daze, Will looked to the sick looking man. “I don’t smoke.” He stared for a moment before averting his eyes, “Do you need help?” 

JUST HIS LUCK. of course the only person he manages to grab on the street doesn’t smoke. not that Patrick was a regular smoker, but he liked to INDULGE once in a while. at the other’s question, the man finally turned his attention on the other-- a scruffy looking young man with a lackluster gaze. Patrick SQUINTS. clears his throat. stands & fixes his tie. oop... standing too tall. nausea takes him again, and he shifts himself to sit on the cool cement. he had put his suits through WORSE. quirking a brow, the killer heaves a sigh, glaring at the floor..  

MUN DIRECTED QUESTIONS | NOT ACCEPTING

honestly? i’m fascinated with killers and the psychological aspectto characters ( and irl ppl ) that can’t control this sort of... PRIMALand EVIL side to them. everyone has it-- i believe it full-heartedly.we all have the ability to kill and we all have the ability to do terriblethings. i suppose, through Patrick, i wanted to experiment with thisside of myself. without, you know... actually going out and, well. youknow. living vicariously through our muses is what a mun DOES. 

sometimes, i’m actually shocked with what i can think of for Patrick’sreplies or drabbles. they’re morbid and grotesque. macabre. disturbed.