I Love When Tragedies Are Like “the Love Was There. It Didnt Change Anything. It Didnt Save Anyone.

[...] I'd let my mind wander back to the newest murder; the clearness of the flesh the improvisational quality of the cuts, the complete dry spotless immaculate lack of blood.

~~~~~~~

'Like meat-packing cold,' she said. 'Why would he do that?'

Because it's beautiful, I thought.

~~~~~~~

I took a bite and turned my thoughts to Deborah's problem. I had to try to think of it that way, Deborah's problem. Not 'those fascinating murders.' Not 'that amazingly attractive MO,' or 'the thing so similar to what I would love to do someday.'

~~~~~~~

He was out there, feeding his Dark Passenger, and it was talking to mine. And in my sleep I had been riding with him, a phantome remora in his great slow circles.

~~~~~~~

I wanted to see this body stacked in the net on the ice more than anything else I could think of, wanted to undo the neat wrapping and see the clean dry flesh. I wanted to see it so much that I felt like a cartoon of a dog on point, wanted to be there with it so much that I felt self-righteous and possessive about the body.

Daily reminder that before Brian, Dexter didn’t really wanna get freak in S1

Until he saw what his brother had left him

This is the kind of deep-rooted, blind love I talk about when I talk about Brian. The devotion. The care. The willingness to forgive in the name of a love that itself can't be named.

I had to reread the first paragraph multiple times for the "as rich and deep and crimson as the blood that once bound us in a cradle of death" alone. That quote alone is so perfect I'd get it tattoed all over my body if it were a sensible thing to do.

This is the kind of poetry I hope scholars will study and be in awe of in 100+ years. This is the kind of writing that needs to be remembered for the centuries to come.

an ode to the unnameable devotion of brian moser

mosercest

by atticus

I do not think of him as my brother. How could I, when the word itself rings with such tame domesticity, such sweet, pale innocence, and what I feel for him is neither pale nor innocent, but as rich and deep and crimson as the blood that once bound us in a cradle of death?

There are some names that do not belong to language. Dexter is one of them. His name was never meant to be spoken in the dry syllables of men, it belongs to the pulse beneath my tongue, to the marrow in my bones. I do not utter it as others do, I pray it. And when I dream, it is not the dream of a brother for a brother.

To call it love is a heresy, but to deny it is an act of soul-murder. And I, who have spent my life amidst the stench of mortal fear, will not be cowed by the moral whimperings of the world that once turned its face away while I wept in the blood of our mother. No, I shall not pretend.

He is mine.

Not in any ordinary sense of the word, not by law, nor by name, nor even by that fragile thing called brotherhood.

Dexter was born of the same blood that soaked my shoes and seared my memory, he was shaped by the same hands that carved hollows into my chest where joy should have lived. We were sculpted in the same womb, and later baptized in the same bloodbath.

What, then, is there between us that is not us?

From the moment I saw him, truly saw him, beneath the mask of smiles and plastic humanity. I knew he bore the same abyss inside him that I did. That same hunger. It was like looking into a mirror that had bled and wept and somehow survived. He did not know it yet, but he was already mine by design, by destiny, by a thread so tightly wounded around our throats that it choked us both with longing.

I do not desire him carnally—though perhaps I would, if I believed it would draw him nearer, if I thought it would bind him to me in a tangle of limbs and breath and pulse. But that is not the love I speak of. Mine is the kind of love that would slit its own wrists just to stain the earth where the beloved walks, the kind that would crawl through grave-dirt just to lie beside him in death.

There is a cruelty to fate, I was the elder. I should have protected him. Should have taken his hand and led him out of the blood and into the light. But instead, I was torn from him like a limb from a body, and I have been phantom-limbed ever since, aching and gnawing at air, trying to feel whole. Every kill, every echoing breath I took in the decades that followed, they were not acts of malice.

And when I found him , oh, when I found him, it was resurrection.

My baby brother had forgotten me. I forgave him for that. How could he have remembered? He was raised in whitewashed homes by men who feared the darkness in his gaze, how could he know the taste of obsession when all he has known is mimicry? They taught him how to eat, to drive, to love in the petty plastic ways they understand—and yet they could never touch the thing within him that was mine. That had always been mine. He knows, even if he denies it. He sings the same song I do, only in a lower key.

He kills. And oh, how beautifully he kills.

I watched one of his works once, and I wept. Not for the victim. But for the beauty of it.

If he would only come with me. If he would step into the truth and shed the skin of the false self he wears, we could finally be whole. He does not yet see the freedom in it. But I would show him. Not with violence, but with care. With patience.

And if he refused?

Then I would weep again. And then I would forgive him, for he does not know.

But even then, even if his eyes closed forever, even if I were forced to watch the light go out of them, I would never leave him. I would not cut him up like the others. I would preserve him. I would cradle him in a tomb of my own making, keep his skin soft and his lips unbroken. I would speak to him by candlelight and I would dress his wounds and comb his hair. I would tell him the stories of our mother and press my mouth to his in silence, not for desire, but for reverence.

Let the world call it sin. Let them shriek their judgments into the wind. I care not. For in my heart I know what they dare not admit, that there is no purer union than us.

He is my brother. I took back my word.

He is my beginning and my ending.

Let the sky crack and the sea boil, for I would still choose him. Over life. Over heaven.

I would choose him.

I just want to catch up on all our lost time

i have been listening to this on repeat for the past. month and a half and i just. oh its them im sick oh....

I'm jumping up and down from excitement. I can't wait for Resurrection to come out. I really want to see Biney. I NEED him to be back for at least three episodes. I didn't wait no 14 years for a remake of Nebraska (independently from how much I loved that episode).

I desperately need, but have no capability to create myself cause my writing sucks and I can't characterise specific people well, to read a story where Brian reveals himself to Dexter much sooner. In some stupid way like calling Dexter Barbie when they're alone or shit. One where he never used Rudy's alias and was maybe in a relationship with Deb but only to dump her post revelation. And after Dex finds out they decide to act like brothers through and through, and find a way to live with one another (Dex with his Code and Brian with his hate of it) and they reveal it to people too, like Angel, Masuka, Deb, Rita and co. like "Hey, this is my long lost blood brother that I just found". It all happens where Dex is still with Rita (no slander of that poor woman accepted) but somehow him and Brian end up fighting (about the code or stuff related to it cause I find it unlikely that they'd start fighting about anything else) and you know the classical heated make-out session post fight? Exactly that, all in the heat of the moment. And the story revolves around Brian who just wanted exactly that from the start but hadn't dared cause he feared losing Dexter again and Dexter having an existential crisis cause of it since he still loves Rita and even if he were to leave her he already introduced Brian as his blood brother to practically everybody.

Quick sketch I did on my desk while bored.

Took me a while to answer because I reread it multiple times.

"I would've stood in front of a moving car to spare him a scrape. I would've let the wrold fall apart if it meant he woudln't cry again." You have no idea how much I love Brian's desperate, devoted and twised sense of love. Everytime you write a sentence like this one it doesn't feel like repetition as much as a faithful rapresentation of him. And I love it everytime. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.

"I waited through the heavy ache of wanting someone whose face I saw only in my dreams." These moments. We don't have enough of them. The hospital. His time spent there, alone. They don't get used enough. I'd read an entire story about Brian's own perception of his time spent there. How he spent it. With who he spent it. And how much he thought about Dexter for those like 15 or so years he was there.

"My angel. My other half." THAT'S SO FUCKING SWEET OH MY GOD!

"He didn't remember me the way I remembered him. He didn't look at me with softness." How that HURTS! I can't even comprehend how much that must've hurt him. Poor baby.

"But I did cry when he lifted the blade. [...] And I wept a silent tear." Finally someone that noticed that one little detail!! I don't know if Christian meant it like that or there was another reason behind it but I could never ignore that single silent tear running down his cheek. It hurt the first time I watched the scene and it still hurts to today.

"Because if he needed me to die to be whole, I would die. I would die a thousand times for him." Exactly what I meant with my post about him being silent in death. His acceptance of it, his devotion to living for Dexter and Dexter only! You captured that perfectly.

"So I wouldn't burden him with the sight of me dying. [...] I didn't want him to remember me bleeding." THIS! The way he held on to not traumatize his baby brother any further. The simple fact that even in his death. Even when he should've, for once, thought about himself, he was still thinking of Dexter. Even as he exhaled his last breath, his mind was focused on his baby brother as it had always been his whole life.

"I would still choose to die by his hands. I would still choose him." The reality of Brian as a character explained here, in two lines. He always lived for Dexter and he will always live for Dexter. Whether he got a chance to relieve this one or to find him in the next.

Please, Atticus, my dear and beloved friend, never stop writing. You put such passion in your work that I couldn't ignore it even if I didn't like the pairing. You made me read, and appreciate, strong themes (On The Bound and Still I Adore You...) simply cause of you writing. You're like a modern Shakespeare and I feel so blessed for having found you and for having the possbility of getting to know your work and you. I hope that even if there's just me adoring your work it's still enough. That even alone I can make you understand how much I appreciate what you do. That somewhere in the world, even just one person supports you. I hope you enjoy what you do as much as I enjoy loosing myself in it everytime.

the weeping angel

; (prayers, from the elder brother, brian)

by atticus

Dexter was always the one who cried.

Even as a child, before I knew the names of emotions or the sharp anatomy of longing, I understood that Dexter cried more than any boy should. He fell into the world with a weeping heart, so tender and breakable it was as though he was carved from the softest part of Heaven. While other boys wore scrapes and bruises like medals, Dexter would trip on a step or nick his hand on a thorn and the tears would spill from him like he had been wounded by the world itself.

I remember our mother would fuss with panic, fluttering over him like frantic wings. “Dexter! Oh, sweetheart, what happened?” She never looked at me that way. I could have disappeared into the wallpaper and no one would have known. Maybe it's because I looked too much like my father. And yet I did not envy my baby brother. I watched her rock him in her arms, and I thought he looked like something holy, something worth protecting with blood and teeth and bone.

I would’ve stood in front of a moving car to spare him a scrape. I would’ve let the world fall apart if it meant he wouldn’t cry again.

And yet the world did fall apart. So terribly.

Our dear mother, radiant even in death as her body torn like a garden ripped up by wolves. And the blood... it painted the whole room in grotesque of holy art. I didn’t cry. I watched and counted each of her breath and scream. But Dexter wept like he was breaking open. His sobs were so sharp, so pure, it sounded like a bell turned inside out. He didn’t understand it then. He barely remembered it afterward. But I did. I remembered every second of it. Because I didn’t cry. And he did. And I wished, how I wished, I could’ve taken that pain from him, even if it tore me apart inside.

Time moved on as it always does with cruelty and cold hands. They took us and separated us like wolves tearing pups from the womb. And I waited, I waited through the heavy ache of wanting someone whose face I saw only in dreams.

In the hospital, I watched other children cry and felt nothing. But when I imagined Dexter crying, wherever he was, I wondered if someone was there to hold him. To hush him. To tell him he was still good.

And then, I found him.

He's grown and lean, but still the same boy underneath. Still beautiful, and still breakable. My angel, my other half. I wanted to hug him and see if he's going to cry when he sees me, I would drink them if I could and scoop them from his cheeks like holy water, to feel close to the heart I never had.

But he didn’t remember me the way I remembered him. He didn’t look at me with softness.

I never wept. Not when we were torn apart. Not when they told me he’d forgotten me. Not when I saw him live happily ever after with the Morgan family. I did not cry when I killed to find him. I did not cry when I saw him look at me with a stranger’s gaze.

But I did cry when he lifted the blade.

There was peace in it, in a cruel way. As if our story had always bent toward this ending, like trees leaning to the wind. He was close. Closer than he had been in years. He knelt beside me like a mourner before a shrine, and his trembling beautiful hands touched my face.

Then, when he pressed his forehead to mine. I felt seen, I felt held, and I felt known for the first time.

And something inside me broke.

And I wept a silent tear.

It slipped from the corner of my eye, slow as a prayer.

And then, he cut my throat.

I didn’t fight him. Not really. Because if he needed me to die to be whole, I would die. I would die a thousand times for him.

I felt the blade slip across my neck like a kiss from God. The blood came hot and fast but I didn’t care about the pain. I cared about his face—and there it was just like before, with his eyes wide and lips trembling, and those awful, perfect tears shining in his lashes.

He cried again.

And I could not bear it.

I did not care about death, but I cared more that he was crying. I tried to lift my hand, to reach out and wipe them away but they were wrapped. I wanted to smile for him, to tell him, "Don’t cry for me, Dexy. You are not the villain here. You did nothing wrong." But I couldn’t move, the blood choking me as I fought to breathe.

I struggled against the red tide rising in me, tried to fix my shattered neck and to pull in one last breath, not for me, but for him. So I wouldn’t burden him with the sight of me dying. So he wouldn’t carry the weight of my ending. So he wouldn’t carry the memory of my corpse twitching. I didn’t want to be a weight on his soul. I didn’t want him to remember me bleeding, I wanted him to remember that I looked at him like he was something divine.

So I held on one breath, then another, as long as I could.

And the truth is: he was always the one who cried.

And I was always the one who would bleed, suffer, and die—just to see him smile instead.

But if I could choose again, if God gave me one hour to relive in this cruel, tender world—I would still choose the hour he cried in my arms. I would still choose to die by his hands. I would still choose him.

You rock. Don’t let any haters get you down.

Thank you Anon, I won't 💚