& all the children are insane

THIS JOURNAL will be used for...

☞ Occasional commenting in the poly_chromatic game in lieu of 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 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 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

I decided that festivity of the dorky sort was in order this year. And thus? Dex-ing the halls...



Detail pics below! ♥
( Ornaments... )

[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.

[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.