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THIS JOURNAL will be used for...

☞ Occasional commenting in the [community profile] poly_chromatic game in lieu of [personal profile] cold_dry_pieces due to curses &c, to avoid having to change userpics, because I am lazy.
☞ Play of young Brian in other games and venues as the player sees fit
☞ Assorted private RP that doesn't fit anywhere else.
☞ Fic snippets I've written and will write. In particular, I've mirrored everything from [livejournal.com profile] all_in_pieces because I no longer need that particular alternate journal.

CREDITS AND Disclaimer...

☞ I am not really Brian Moser or Brandon Killham (or Christian Camargo for that matter) and I don't own any of them, or Dexter. Nor am I affiliated with Showtime, Jeff Lindsay, or anyone else with a monetary right to all this jazz. This journal is a work of fiction, I make no money, I just amuse myself 'cause I'm odd like that. Plz don't sue me.

☞ This journal is maintained by Alms, who is also the player of [personal profile] cold_dry_pieces. Anyone who needs to contact me can do so through the crit/contact post on that journal, or the other usual methods.

☞ Icons are mine~ I don't mind if you use them but I'd be much obliged if you'd credit me-- and if you don't mind, drop me a comment here to let me know :3
all_he_saw: (Default)
PLAYER
NAME: Alms
IM: [REDACTED]
E-MAIL: [REDACTED]

[CHARACTER INFO]
CHARACTER NAME: Brian Moser [sometimes uses the alias Rudy Cooper]
FANDOM: Dexter [television canon]
CHRONOLOGY: End of the first season, just prior to his death-- after having been captured and rendered unconscious by Dexter.

BACKGROUND: )

PERSONALITY: )

HERO STUFF: )

COMMUNITY POST SAMPLE: )

THIRD PERSON SAMPLE: )
all_he_saw: (Seeing red)
I decided that festivity of the dorky sort was in order this year. And thus? Dex-ing the halls...



Detail pics below! ♥
Ornaments... )
all_he_saw: (I don't usually work this way.)
[Notes: mnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnrandom. precanon. idk.]

Voyeurism is a sick thrill. All his thrills are. There's something delightful in shameless wrongdoing, in acknowledging one's own immorality. Accepting and perfecting it. He has no delusion of righteousness, no justification for his desires; he is what he is and though he lies to everyone else about it, he will not lie to himself.
He's no peeping Tom by habit; has no interest in watching strangers in their homes. He does it, from time to time, as a matter of necessity, a part of stalking his prey; but he's not some dirty little bastard getting his jollies by watching naughty things through the windows. Filthy and childish and unpleasant, the thought of it. But this is something special, something worth watching, and here his surveillance is not the crime of the evening.
He can understand, though, why someone might take pleasure in observing unobserved. The sense of power that comes with such knowledge. His curiosity has burned and this evening of satiation is worth the blurry view through the plastic sheeting, worth the uncomfortable pose beside the garage window.
He can't make out the low murmur. Doesn't care. It's ritualistic, he expects, and personal-- and though he wants, he needs to watch this, he doesn't want to intrude too far. There should be a little mystery, a little uncertainty-- something to work through together, some distant day. He just needs confirmation-- undeniable proof. Not that he doesn't know already. Things don't add up when you look deep enough. But he needs to see.
The scene before him is hazy; poorly lit and garbled by the tarp. It's not meant to be seen, by him or anyone else, and he's keenly aware of that. Delighted, and regretful; he wouldn't want to interrupt, after all; to spoil the moment. That awful intimacy, the breathless silence that comes after.
A shadow moves across the light; he's stalking around the table, still speaking. The tone communicates eagerness, though the words are lost; light blazes above as the figure bends, and then--
cotton strangled scream and red. Only a little visible, only where the light hits it right, and inwardly he cringes. Exults. It's the answer to a question he never dared to ask. He goes then, slipping off; back home to plan and perfect. Too soon, too near; he knows everything important, but he doesn't know everything. What Dexter knows. What he remembers. What he might be reminded of.
And he wants it to be perfect, their family reunion. Wants to impress his little brother, to make up for his long absence. He lacks a social schema for this; killer to killer, brother to brother, how do you meet? How do you bridge thirty years of lies? Get past that awful moment of separation? Forgotten, how do they become brothers once more?
Brian wants to be a family; he knows better than to expect any degree of normalcy. But he wants to be the heroic big-brother; wants to be looked up to and loved. He doesn't want to meet as strangers. Cheated out of his life, he wants to make up for it. And-- the thought, of course, is never far from his mind-- he wants to be what he is as well; a killer. They both are. And some day, some distant day, they will take a life together. Unwatched, two flashes of steel in holy harmony. Brothers by blood and by blood.
He has been patient a long time; he can be patient now, though it grates against the pounding of his heart. Rushing would spoil the surprise. Ruin the game.
The rules have yet to be defined.
all_he_saw: (Seeing red)
[Notes: Here, have some non-canon information I've made up in the course of roleplaying. :D]

I've always disliked violent literature. Not, of course, because I have some aversion to violence, but because I find it eminently unsatisfying. It reaches for something that cannot be accomplished in words, raises the desire and fails to sate it.

Horror films are a different matter, though often equally disappointing. I like them in principle but rarely find them worthwhile. Most lean more on graphic sex than graphic violence, which bores me; and they rarely manage to catch the right colors, the right consistency, when they do show matters of interest. Blood is always too dark, too viscous, on camera. Romanticism of some sort, I suspect; it's more dramatic, more appealing to the audience. I find it lacking in gravity.

I can't stand blood; but neither can I do without it. There's nothing more captivating than the burst of spray; or that final, swelling bead of it, slowed by the chill. Red on white, steaming in the cold; that awful mess splashed over my immaculate workspace. Half fantasy, half nightmare; the only thing in my world. The only thing that matters.

Hmn, that's less of a quirk than a compulsion, I suppose. Back to lighter matters. I like classical music when I'm driving and classic rock otherwise, though of course some moments require perfect, pure silence. I'm particularly partial to The Doors, which might not be a surprise; certain things stay with you, I guess.

I consider myself an artist, and though I enjoy working in many mediums, I have an intense distaste for crayons. At first, I refused to touch them when they were offered me, because of the memories they brought back-- a life too close and yet untouchable, irretrievable. When I grew a little older, a little number, a little more inured to loss, drawing became a source of trouble. As with so many things I learned there's a double standard to sanity; when they ask you to simply draw, to express yourself, there's a tacit command to express yourself in the right way, the whole way... People are disappointed by the truth when the truth is not what they want it to be.

I'm prone to fidgeting with small objects; I like things to be... orderly. Silverware perpendicular to the edge of the table, parallel to the other pieces. Randomness takes effort; it's worthwhile to seem normal, but I'd prefer to be neat.

I dislike taking medication unless absolutely necessary-- the reasoning behind that one should be obvious. I tend to be fairly healthy, fortunately, so it's rarely an issue. I won't take aspirin, on general principle-- it's a blood thinner. Childish, I know.

Although I prefer to kill women, I don't consider myself a misogynist. It's not a matter of hatred, but of artistry; the female form is lovelier, and makes a better canvas for my work. Besides, kind women-- compassionate women-- are an absolute joy; easy to guide, to manipulate. Easy to bend before they're broken. Beautiful.

On that note, although I've clearly got my preferences, I really don't care who I kill. It's simply an aesthetic choice. Whores don't deserve death, any more or less than anyone else. I'm more concerned with the presentation than the product, the moment rather than the matter. I like the convenience, too; half the time, they're not even reported missing. Not that there isn't an appeal to doing something flashier, someone more in the public eye.

I lie about most things, to most people. It's an integral part of what I am; a necessity as well as a pleasure. I like deceiving people. I do it well; and there's something satisfying about passing oneself off as whole and human. I digress a bit, though. I was going to say: I prefer to come close to the truth, whenever possible. Not because it's any easier, or even because it's easier to remember what one has said, but because a small twist takes more skill than an outright falsehood. It's more... exciting, more interesting, to be so close to the surface.
all_he_saw: (You could be that way too)
[Notes: Purely random. Mmyep. Faintly inspired by my recent musings on the lackluster third book but honestly not related to it in the least.]

He'd long since reached an easy peace with it... )
all_he_saw: (This is not the way)
[Notes: it's an old prompt but this is my #1 Deb/'Rudy' song, ahaha, and I was bored. Less violence than usual, more sex, but still pretty PG~]


i didn't want to hurt you baby
i didn't want to hurt you
i didn't want to hurt you
but you're pretty when you cry


Her body inspired a curious passion in him; more artful than lust, more aesthetic than love. Akin, perhaps, to the pride one feels in a treasured possession; fondness motivated by avarice, placing less importance on the object than the reaction it garnered. He didn't love her. It went without saying. Her body was an object to him; a work of art, and he had to admit he enjoyed their time together, knowing how it would come to an end.

i didn't want to fuck you baby
i didn't want to fuck you
i didn't want to fuck you
but you're pretty
when you're mine


Her face twisted in pleasure so acute she seemed to ache, and he barely kept from laughing. Everything was a game; sex most of all. A challenge; creating the illusion of intimacy, of emotional attachment, even as he foresaw their fine final moment. He longed for it, burned with need, with the desire to pierce her, to watch her look of betrayal fade into the glassy dullness of death. Pressed against him, she gasped-- a desperate sound she tried to hide, and couldn't. It sent a sick thrill down his spine. He ran his hand down her side and watched her shiver.

i didn't really love you baby
i didn't really love you
i didn't really love you
but I'm pretty when i lie


She curled around him in exhilarated exhaustion, clinging to his shoulders and to his words. So desperate for love. It was almost too easy to sway her, to guide her quietly with his words. I love you. I love your body; and he did, each perfect inch of flesh that curved beneath his searching fingers. And soon-- oh, not soon enough-- it would be still and cool, and he'd love her all the more.
all_he_saw: (This is not the way)
[Notes: I know it's a stupid premise, but I like it. No one reads this stuff anyway, ha. :3]

I won't tell you everything will be right in the end. )

scraps

Oct. 16th, 2008 01:41 am
all_he_saw: (Default)
[Notes: I write a lot, when I get bored, that I don't actually intend to finish. I never do anything with it, so in the interests of forcing myself to share, have some scattered bits and pieces. Warnings for language, sex, violence, etc. yey.]

ad te omnis caro veniet )

I - initiation )

[untitled] )
all_he_saw: (You're gonna have to face it eventually)
[Notes: call this an unspecified AU, idk. I almost never write AUs but I was bored and wanted to write some arguing. :/ Cut for discussion of violence, etc etc.]

'Don't get me wrong,' he said. 'It has its advantages.'  )
all_he_saw: (♟ belly of the beast)
Mun Name: Alms
Mun LJ: [livejournal.com profile] gossamerrain
Email: [REDACTED]
AIM/MSN: [REDACTED]
Character: Brian Moser
Series/fandom: Dexter

Role in canon )

Sample post )

Profile

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Brian Moser

February 2010

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