THIS BLOG IS ON PERMA-HIATUS. Find me on: @aston1sh1ng, @hatt1tude & @uplus003f.
( #𝐃𝟒𝐑𝐊𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐙 ) An independent, plot-based and HIGHLY selective portrayal of 𝐃𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐍, as seen on Showtime Television. Butchered by Gray ( he/him. 19+ ). An intensive dive into the depravity of mankind, complex moral dilemmas, and governing instincts with stern codes.
Please read the rules & bio segments of the 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐃 before interacting.
Note that this portrayal follows the first four seasons of the show, with influences from Early Cuts, Original Sin and, lightly, the original book series.
. . . This blog also features 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑 & 𝐉𝐎𝐄𝐘 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 as side muses. Any unspecified asks/ starters will be presumed for Dexter, and the blog's primary focus will be him.
I return from the dead with bad news and good news. Bear w/this long ass post, please, I'm sorry.
So, bad news first. Because of the past period as well as irl engagements, along with the fact that I will admittedly fail to sustain an insane number of blogs for the unforeseeable future, I have to curb my constant interest in a billion muses and stick to those I feel can be sustained long-term. This means that I will be perma-hiatusing most of my blogs, except 3. The rest of my muses will be on discord as always, so you're welcome to hmu on that if we have deeply plotted dynamics or if you're looking to build any, but I most likely can't keep the cyclical way I run my blogs anymore due to some personal long-term circumstances.
So, the muses I've decided to keep are Haru, of course, ( you're here, hi, it's @hatt1tude ) along with Scott Lang ( @aston1sh1ng ) and Adrian Chase ( @cr4zedgunz ). The rest of the characters on this semi-multi will have to descend into discord hell. *Except for Onyx, who will be here scarcely and only by request. Query, a reworked version of the Riddler's henchman that I couldn't bear either to leave behind, will also be here by request.
I feel like I owe the reasoning for that choice: Haru is my soul, really. You KNOW why he's being kept if we have ever spoken. Scott has grown with me over the years in a way no other muse has (especially through discord, hi lani ), and Adrian comes most naturally to me in his prose and dialogue. Onyx & Query follow similar rules to Scott, albeit do meander at times, so I'll be tentative in taking up too many threads for them.
I value all of the connections I've built on every single one of my blogs, and again I'd be eager to continue them on discord if possible, but I also need to be a little more realistic and restrained going forward. I'm very sorry. I could not have foreseen a certain development irl that will prevent me from cycling my activity as fairly or as effectively without feeling like I'm holding everybody hostage waiting for replies. Going forward, I won't be making any other blogs ( my personal hell, really ), and I'll archive the ones not mentioned here instead of deleting them because, very simply, I can't bring myself to.
The good news is uhhh I'm?? back??? if that's?? good news?? I plan on keeping most of the plotted/ plot-heavy threads I have, but just in case, if you feel like there's something specific you want to continue, or if you feel like starting something fresh instead please communicate w/me!
Spoilers for Dexter: Resurrection but god I do just love how Harry is initially a representation of both the code and human consciousness, coming off as more of a police force true to what he used to be like with Dexter, but has now become more of a stand-in for his conscience. This isn't the same Harry. He's fatherhood and empathy now. Dexter's speaking to him more casually this time around and it's funny to think he doesn't realize it's his own guilt talking him down like that.
[ .... ] lila always enjoyed having brian just like this. naked, bare, underneath her. she knew it never lasted for long, though. the constant fight for dominance and power between them was enough to light a roaring and deadly fire, one that lila wasn't afraid to reach out and touch, feel. she loved to see just how close she could get to brian's fire without getting burned, mostly because he continued to challenge her despite her misbehavior or disobedient attitude at times. she wasn't afraid to test him, to push him, just so she can see just how far he was allowing her to go.
lila was straddling @d4rkpassengerz, hands placed on his broad chest with her fingernails subtly imprinting into his flesh. she cants her head, a sly smirk playing on her lips as she mesmerized the lines in his face, ❝ you know, i could easily kill you right now ... ❞ she whispered with a silky voice, palms sliding from his chest to clasp around his neck but, fairly loosely, just wanting to — test him.
❛ you? kill me? that's funny. ❜
a chuckle emits from lila's lips, leaning down to press her lips against his ear, ❝ do you trust me ... ? ❞
He lets her come impossibly close to him - trickle words right into the graze of his ear - and FIGHTS the urge to close his eyes. Not yet. Not today. This moment, he only allows himself a lean. A minute sway of shoulder to keep her weight steady on his form, and fingers used for cutting fiddling with the tips of her dark, DARK hair.
"Of course." As much as a kitten can trust its lunch. POISON is always a silent threat, but with every bite and long, grueling chew, the trust simmers and lasts until the meal is well-consumed. He trusts Lila, because the proverbial SCALPEL keeping distance between them, however she may endeavor to stray his way, keeps him steady.
In fact, it keeps him CONFIDENT. In some lethal sense of knowing that though he may extend the courtesy of TRUST today, he is quicker to breach it than any man in his standing can. She gets to stay there, untouched. But the minute he senses a shift ... well, he's always thought windows were meant to be broken and lunged beyond. Her misbehavior only beckons him to peer through, for now. A show to be watched and, somewhere within those quiet depths of him, EMBRACED. Cautiously, with no sign of dropping guard.
He takes her hand, pulling it from where it lies on his neck so fingertips snake their way along its form, landing more accurately on throat with chance to sink their nails. "I'd trust ya with a knife to my throat." He says, thumb caressing circles 'round that hand. " ... but I'm not so sure you should do the same."
[ .... ] lila matched brian's dark, cold gaze with her own longing, gullible one. as much as she fantasized brian, allowing her lust and obsession to cloud her judgement and the toxic truth of what their relationship is like, she knew behind those deadly eyes that she could never fully trust @d4rkpassengerz. he did make it easy, though, to let her feel she can bring her guard down. she chuckled sarcastically at his words, canting her head with her brows raised inquisitively, ❝ i hadn't thought that until you colored me a deadly picture. now m' not so sure m' willing to try your little experiment ❞ she responded, still grinning despite her words. the game they played was a careful game of chess, it felt like, and she was addicted to it. she was addicted to the not knowing, the adrenaline he continuously made her feel, the fear that overtook her every time they were together. the mention of debra changed her tune a bit; annoyed, jealous. she rolled her eyes aggressively, ❝ must you bring up that woman ? ❞ she sighed deeply, but instantly distracted from her insane jealously when he reaches and caresses her lip with his thumb. she turns slightly to bite down just a bit on his thumb, giggling a bit, ❝ fine. but, would it be so terrible if you cooked something only for my beautiful mouth ? ❞ she stated then amuses him by taking the small bite he offered. she chews, deliberates, and moans at the wonderful taste coating her mouth and tickling her tastebuds. ❝ now that is something to die for, brian. ❞
Clay loses its purpose upon hardening. As long as it remains loose and delicate to the touch, it can be MOLDED to its holder's content - shaped and scraped around the edges beyond recognition.
LILA WEST happens to come in his favorite color. WORN VELVET. Bold, yet missing just enough saturation to ever truly STING the eyes upon contact. Something not so boring as to be benign, but not yet alluring enough to be declared a THREAT. He must let her simmer, observe the minuscule bumps pale skin makes as it gently kneads the surface to the shape of his fingertips.
It would be a shame, Brian thinks, to let futility befall such magnificent clay.
But a BUMP never hurts, and so he POKES. With a smile so SWEET you'd think him nestled in the clouds of heaven itself. "And why would I do that?" Tilt of head, CHALLENGE to voice something with the blatant threat to tear it into the littlest of pieces. He'd do it one by one, with a scalpel in one hand and some cotton in the other.
she watches him far too closely for just a girl working at her parents store. no , she watches him like his opinion on that bread is going to mean something monumental. there is so much focus in love's gaze that she doesn't even notice how she's leaned in &* mimicked his expression like she's the one trying the bread herself for the first time. she wants to understand -- to replicate what he is feeling so that she herself can grasp his true opinion. DIFFICULT TO JUDGE , THIS ONE. something about his demeanor feels ... well , it leaves her dissatisfied without really knowing why. nothing malicious comes to mind , just that nagging feeling that if it were truly magical , he'd be on his knees in praise. ( * PERFECTIONIST ! )
❛ fancy . . . but not it. ❜ she tsks gently as she leans back &* squints at him , gaze flickering over him quickly as if trying to get a read on him. ❛ savory or sweet ? which do you prefer ? ❜
TO TELL OR NOT TO TELL. Always the question with the blood brothers. Hum, hum, hum. Keep it long. Stretch it for its worth and appear CONTEMPLATIVE - maybe even HESITANT, simple Rudy Cooper. Perhaps she's deserving of some truth, this alluring Love Quinn. To spot a smidgen of what's beneath his mask is to earn the privilege of his respect.
He looks at her as though to say please don't hate me, though he knows she wouldn't dream of it. Not when he is the gentle prosthetist with eyes so earnest, sweet and now so profoundly SAD.
" ... Honestly?" The word is foreign, yet swift on his silver tongue. Practiced, though this time around there may lie truth in it yet. "I can't answer that one without lying. I - well, I haven't had an appetite for anything for a very long time. Almost ... too long." Background is not hers to have, not yet. Hope is instead tossed like the afterthought that it is, though it's wrapped in the neat scent of despair for her to cling to. Poor, poor him. Whatever might have happened to prompt such dismay. Such aversion to the most basic of needs? His wound is open, crimson pouring. The unspoken question is whether she'll thread the needle and stitch it shut. "I don't want it to be that way, but it is ... I'm sorry. After you went through all that effort to share, I didn't want it to seem like you were wasting your time."
Can you phone them?
Kurt froze a moment. Looked down at his satchel, knew his phone was in there. Knew his fathers number still resided in his contacts. Knew it would be useless to dial that number ever again. Felt it convulse in his chest as his eyes stayed glued downwards for much too long a time. The cop would know, he'd be able to tell. He's a professional, after all, Kurt can't just lie here --
"I-I don't --. . . I can't. I'm here alone. I can't call them because there's no one to call." He finally admit, never looking back up. Feeling it twist like a knife right through his heart as he finally admit those words out loud. He had no one. . .
The rabbit has lost its herd and stumbled into the lion's den. The lion, it seems, is the only one with the privilege of choice. Eat the rabbit whole, abandon it, or cradle it as though you could ever substitute for one of its own.
Dexter believes he is a man of reason, even at his worst. That, tangentially, is true. But what REASON entails might sometimes evade him in the realm of HUMAN CONVENTION. What should and shouldn't be done to offer comfort, an instinct he severely lacks.
To watch the boy in such a vulnerable state does little to move his sentiment, yet it instills something. A responsibility. A FIRM DECISION to take charge and rescue the little rabbit. It doesn't deserve to go through what he had. Doesn't deserve to risk becoming him.
"Okay." He says, breathing deeply from his nose. "I'm done with my work here. Wait a moment. Don't move." It's a firm order, though he slights it with a concerned web to better cradle the boy's reservations. "I'm going to talk to Detective Batista over there about taking you to the station. You'll be safe there, and you can tell me why it is that you're alone."
Lucifer immediately likes her based on her reaction to his name. She's already far more entertaining than her serial killer father figure. Perhaps children aren't all that bad. A laugh falls from his lips. "Mhm, my father isn't a fan of me." Small bit of an understatement given his circumstances, but still not really a lie. "What's your name? Can it compete with 'Lucifer'?"
Bishop, meanwhile, has taken interest in Dexter. She sits in front of him, eyes curious. Her head tilts to one side and then the other, trying to make sense of the energy radiating from this human. She moves closer, sniffing him. He's bound for Hell.
"Looks like she's a fan of you." Lucifer comments, dragging himself away from the conversation. "Lucky you, once Bishop becomes attached, it's hard to get rid of her."
A FAN of him. More DISTURBING to Dexter than being chased. To be liked by something is to either TRICK it, which he cannot a dog, or to have something for it to RESONATE with. It's odd at best, and adds to his suspicion of Lucifer a heap.
"... Well, that's not good." He tries to keep his voice up to the MASK's standards, giving Astor a glance and a smile before he gestures to his car. "Come on, let's go." He gives Lucifer a look - it's blank, really, but there's something hard to read behind it. Astor is quick to speak, though.
"Uhmm, where are we going, though?" Home, he'd hoped. But the way she turns to Lucifer tells him it won't be that easy. "What didya have in mind?"
THE SPEECH PATTERN OF YOUNG HUMANS IS HARD TO UNDERSTAND SOMETIMES, mainly because Castiel doesn't interact with them a lot. He never had any reason to; they're largely uninteresting for Heaven's plans, and it's frowned upon among the Heavenly Host to take a child vessel under the age of five. So Castiel appreciates Dexter's translation, and he also appreciates the compliment.
Looking at his trench coat and smoothing a hand over the fabric, a hint of a smile can be seen. "Thank you, Harrison," he says very seriously, "I like this coat quite a lot." It has amazing pockets. Pockets that hold candy for whenever Dean's blood sugar gets too low and the hunter too cranky to deal with. Castiel finds a Hershey's kiss. "Can he already eat this?"
Dexter watches keenly as the other interacts with his son. It's like a TEST. So far, he's passing, especially with how casually he speaks to Harrison. No demeaning baby-talk or assumption that he's too simple to understand. Earnest words, from what Dexter can tell. That counts for something, intense as his STUDIOUS gaze may be right now.
"Well, I try not to introduce caffeine to his diet often, but ... " He looks the thing over. Small enough. "Let him decide if he wants it." He takes a step forward, putting Harrison within reach of the chocolate. "What do you think, Harrison?"
The answer comes in the form of a babble and a grasp at the Hershey's kiss, five little fingers wrapping around it until it's secure. Dexter smiles. "Guess that's a yes." He looks back to Furtado. "Thanks, man. Sorry for the, uh, inconvenience, I guess." Gaze returns to Harrison, SOFTENING. "Not too sorry."
[ .... ] lila was deeply and darkly enthralled by brian and who he was. there was a cold, lingering darkness about @d4rkpassengerz that terrified her; not only because she was afraid what he might do to her or what he was thinking but she was self-aware enough to realize that that same darkness he held matched her own. she wasn't sure what emotions he experienced, if any at all, but she knew she could be obsessive and possessive, wanting to mark her territory and hurt anyone that might get in her way; even if that may be the person she so desired.
so, yes, every time she gazed into brian's eyes, she felt a sense of terror wash over her, consuming her thoughts. and yet, she couldn't tear herself away from him. was it because of dexter? or was it because she was lusting after the wrong brother? she swallowed thickly out of pure nervousness, unable to tear away her gaze from him as he speaks and twirls a strand of her hair. she feels herself frozen in place, too scared to move because she might make the wrong move. the last thing she wanted to do was upset him. her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, holding in her breath, ❝ do you want to ? hurt me ? ❞ she asked, barely above a whisper, a shakiness to her voice. ❝ truthfully, if you were to, m' not sure how i feel 'bout that ... ❞ she added.
Soft, soft. In his cruelty, everything BRIAN MOSER does is painfully soft. Implications, he finds, THREATS all bundled up into a gentle graze against skin over bone, are much more satisfying to produce than physical harm. Indeed, it wouldn't be wise to spare Lila the troubles of being alive. It wouldn't be all too precious, that way, not as much as drinking the solid gold inflection of her gaze and the tremor in her whisper. She's one of those you keep. To watch, to taunt, and deep within him he very well knows it's to ENJOY.
"Well, isn't that the question of the week." Smile is wide, sure in itself, curled like a snake's skin as it sheds. "I don't know, Lila. You tell me. Do you think I want to hurt you?" His cold, dark eyes following the trail of her form would suggest he does. He's telling her, with every fabric of his collected countenance, that he wants to HURT HER. But that he won't. It would be too simple to do, dearest Lila. Simple isn't right. Simple is boring. And he doesn't like to be bored.
[ #4O77 ] An independent, mutuals-only portrayal of M*A*S*H's very own prankster - meets - surgeon : BENJAMIN FRANKLIN "HAWKEYE." PIERCE. A study in post - traumatic stress, coping through juvenile humor, and the never-ending battle against The Man. As stitched up by Gray ( he/him, 19+ )
𝑨𝑻 𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑬 𝑷𝑶𝑰𝑵𝑻, 𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑬𝑮𝑨𝑵 𝑻𝑶 𝑺𝑼𝑺𝑷𝑬𝑪𝑻 𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑳𝑫𝑵’𝑻 𝑫𝑰𝑬. And not in the poetic sense; in the godless way that worms keep living long after they've been spilt in two. Stabbed. Violated. Puppeted and paraded around inside his own mind like a carcass full of wires. And yet still breathing.
⸻Maybe he mistook that for invincibility.
Now, here, in the cold, rust-wet dark he realizes he’s miscalculated again. The trap was more literal this time. But still a game & a body lies between them. Or beside them. He can’t tell anymore. It’s hard to look away from the flickering monitor, the voice on the tape, the pressure in his skull.
He deserves a choice, the voice had said. Choice. What a cruel fiction that was. Every moment of his life had been orchestrated, maneuvered, warped by hands he couldn’t see. Hannibal. Jack. God. Himself. And he should save himself first. That would be rational. That would be fair. But Will Graham doesn’t get to be fair. He gets to be responsible.
"Let’s break out of these chairs. We will both find our keys."
Where is his key? Where is his strength? ᅳ The chair groans beneath him. He shifts; violent, sudden. Like an animal throwing itself against its cage. The legs snap. Wood and rust scream as the structure collapses into splinters. The ropes strain. Then loosen. His breath catches in his throat. His hands claw at the bindings, and he feels them give way.
When the recorder plays, Dexter shows no sign of DISTRESS. That is, simply, because he doesn't bother with fretting. If it came to be that he had to die at the hands of another monster, the only feeling present - if he were ever to have one - is a simmering JEALOUSY at not being on the other end. Killing killers belonged to him. The perfect irony of that fate would be both EARNED and rather HUMILIATING. He wouldn't want it, but his fate lies in the hands of a man he is yet to know.
He decides, in the moment he is saved, that the now-named WILL is a good man at heart. Harry's CODE is not for him. But when they are free and ready to pounce, it is for the man who DARED confine him like it was ever ALLOWED. A new mark. A new start. His focus, which already falls so precise, is doubled.
"Thank you." He says, gathering the tape at his feet and placing it into the television with the assumption that Will would have already begun digging into the corpse. The CORPSE which he now recognizes as ALAN WAKE - a STOLEN plaything of his own, ROBBED so viciously from his table. This is personal, now. His possessions are not to be trifled with.
The tape plays, and he heads to the body in steady calm, readying himself.
Hello, Dexter Morgan.
I know you’re fond of full names, but you won’t be getting mine. If you’re listening to this, then Will has made his choice. It’s in your favor, but was it in his? … You share your companion’s device, but your key lies in what you’ve always curbed. Find it before the timer runs out, then make a choice of your own. I’d tell you what it is, but you like puzzles so I’ll hint instead: your companion has a keen psyche, and you won’t stay unobserved for long.
Sorry for the theft, Dexter, but you’d better hurry. There’s not much time left. There are choices to make.
Curbed. An organ. A knowing look exchanged, then a mirthless one given Graham. There is one part of Dexter that will always remain out of function - as far as he believes. THE HEART.
@d4rkpassengerz : ∗ 33﹕ sender hovers over receiver’s shoulder as they complete a task .
VISITING unsightly sites in complete solitude was not out of the ordinary for the investigator. He preferred to work alone if he had the choice to do so. The absence of company often gave him far more freedom when investigating. No one was there to interrupt him, or tamper with the crime scene. Incompetence was a quality that he couldn’t stand in others. Incapable of completing the task properly, they were nothing more than a burden in his eyes — deadweight. Besides, working on his own accord meant he wouldn’t be met with criticism towards his methods. Not a soul there to bother him, to call his ways unorthodox or ridiculous. He was free to do as he pleased without people around.
But he wasn’t alone at the moment.
SUDDENLY hyper aware of the presence hovering behind, brought him out of his thoughts. Eyes immediately abandoned the ghastly scene of gore and what he assumed were remains of a struggle between a perpetrator and their victim. His head whipped around, and fingers wrapped around the handle of his cane tighter as if to steady himself. “Oh- what the fuck, are you trying to send me to an early grave?” heart hammered against his chest, taken aback by the sight of the other man. Had he been paying more attention, he would have noticed HIM, hovering. Watching. “Don’t look at all that… it’s a little gnarly.”
Oh how pretty an early grave would be. The thought is pleasant, tickling the gentle countenance of the LETHAL BROTHER like a sweet scent in the breeze. The smile is blatant, but he gives it an affectionate edge fashioned purely to FOOL. As far as his companion should believe, Brian RUDY COOPER's mirth comes from seeing him. A sentiment rooted in EARNEST friendship and INNOCENT curiosity.
"I work in prosthetics, remember?" He gives a tilt of head, dismissive hand flicked up then settling over the investigator's shoulder. "Nothing I haven't seen before, man." A beat, calculated, but not so much that it would be clocked. "Besides, I saw you going in and figured you might want some company to keep you steady. What with how terrible this all looks." A smile veering on innocence, offered WARM and pretty like the center of a rainbow. "You shouldn't be alone so much, you know."
joe's gaze lingers , trailing after the other as he moves around , admiring the craftsmanship of the glass cage. it's a thing of beauty &* darkness -------- a controlled environment once used for punishment that joe himself controls now. he knows the ins &* outs of this box better than he knows his own apartment. no one could trap him in here the way he could trap them. cat &* mouse ; rigged in the end.
❛ it was built for handling money safely. once you're in here , the door locks from the outside. that little window only opens from one side. ❜
he walks over to it , opening up the interior door before pushing on the side dexter's on to show how is does not budge. ❛ my step father owns this place. he was a former russian soldier , so ... his methods are pretty intense. i don't see why a lockbox isn't adequate , but ... well , his store , his rules. if anyone is coming to buy one of our special editions , all money is handled here. ❜ not lies ---- half truth. they rarely sell those books. this place is a cage for joe &* mooney himself ; those with ... predispositions that needed to be disciplined. it has been so very long since he was put in here ---- he does not need it anymore. but one day he would find someone who did. maybe he could pass on the wisdom of it's confinement.
Dexter takes his time, hollow hazels spraying their death-driven gaze across every inch of the enclosure as though to melt it. A glass box that doesn't break. A perfect CONFINEMENT CHAMBER. It's a little alluring, as much as it echoes terrors of old in the back of his mind. Harry slides into his subconscious to remind him that the MASK must not express too much of that awe. Be impressed, but steady.
"A lockbox isn't foolproof." He reasons, turning to Joe. "This, though." He thinks for a moment. Could one ever enter without a key? No. Wouldn't be able to leave, either. "I imagine no amount of kicking and slamming could make the glass budge, yes?" He forces an awkward expression after that, a sheepish smile curled onto stone lips. "Weird question, sorry. It's - " Little shrug, hand moved to the back of his neck. "I spend most of the time away from my kids working so my mind just works this way." Two things that are separately true coiled and twisted into false causation. "Even my foster father was a police officer, so it kind of ... chases me." Shame is infused into the plastic smile, eyes following suit. "Weird. I know."
