Anakinmoser - 🔪Through Birth And Death💀

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.

Don't read if you haven't finished watching Dexter and Dexter New Blood.

I'm gonna ask opinions to people regarding Dexter's "companions" (like Harry is) throughout the shows so if you haven't finished them yet, you WILL encounter spoilers.

If you ignore the show's logic, which would make them hallucinations/Dexter's own conscience manifesting as them/Dark Passengers, what do you think Harry, Brian and Deb are?

Cause the original story was more supernatural than what they made the TV show to be so I was curious to know other people's own interpretation. Again, don't mind what the show intended, or what's logical cause of it but how YOU, personally, interpreted their portrayals.

My own interpretation:

Harry has been Dex's own conscience (seasons 1-4 roughly but I could remember wrong, correct me if so) mainly due to the fact that when he appeared it was always Dexter zoning out and talking with him inside his own mind.

While later (seasons 5-8) he was a ghostly guide of sorts. Specifically due to a line he said in 8x12 that went something like: "I never thought this day would come, the day that you wouldn't need me anymore" which I always interpreted as a ghost saying goodbye after having been kind of a guardian for a long time.

With Brian too it was both depending on the situation.

In his first appearance post-death in season 2 he had a small line of dialogue with Dexter that went something like: "You're still here" - "I never left" - "Yes, you did. I killed you." - "You just took my life." And I always saw that as a, and read it in between the lines, "You killed me but I wanted to stay so now my soul is bound to you" kind of thing.

Same in Nebraska, i perceived him as a ghost throughout the whole episode.

In some other occasions though it was clear it was Dexter hallucinating so back to my point, he was a mix.

With Deb it's actually easier. Since she was always somewhat kind toward Dexter (excluding when she tried to kill both of them and her, very reasonable, crashout when she found out what he was) I hardly doubt her in New Blood to have been a ghost.

I'm fairly convinced she's always been Dexter's own conscience beating him up on it due to the fact that he was ridden by guilt for not having stopped Saxon in time and for having pulled the plug on her (even though she was already brain dead by then).

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.

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.

Okay. NOW YOU WANNA KILL ME WITH THIS THOUGH!!! "the one person who had ever looked at him without fear, without revulsion [...] His first love." My babies didn't deserve that!! You really wanna hit me in the guts with just the first paragraph alone every damn time don't you?

"their infant hearts already broken before language could name it" Imma add this to the list of lines I need embroidered, not even tattoed, EMBROIDERED on my body.

"I was always yours, even when I didn't know it" Yes my baby you were. You were for him. Even when you didn't remember he always loved you. He searched for you and cared for you.

The nickname. The "Oh, Biney" GETS ME EVERY DAMN TIME!!!

"[...] he might breathe life back into it [...]" I read a fanfiction once where Dexter found out he had some sort of blood magic and managed to bring him back. This line alone made me think of that. Sadly that story lead nowhere but it was a very good idea to use.

"Above him, Brian swayed still, like a dead angel suspended between heaven and hell" LORD. I have no other words, really, forgive me.

i held a dead god in my hands

mosercest

by atticus

His big brother's body hung inverted above him, not merely as a consequence of gravity, but as if the world itself had flipped, as if Dexter’s universe had righted itself by turning inside out—and there, at the center of its cruel design, swayed the one person who had ever looked at him without fear, without revulsion. Brian. His brother. His first love.

The plastic cocooned around him like a shroud for a martyr, glinting under the cold white light overhead as if mocking the warmth that had just moments ago drained out of the body. “Oh, God,” he choked, the words nothing but breath. “What have I done? What have I done?” Dexter stood rooted to the floor, unable to breathe, unable to blink, as if a part of him had been cut free and hoisted there too.

He had imagined this moment before. He had wondered, in some distant way, what it would be like to kill Brian. But never, never in the full weight of his soul, had he believed he would. And now with the blade’s memory still trembling in his hand, he could not reconcile the thing he had done with the boy he had once been, clutching Brian’s hand in that shipping container as their mother a red ruin between them, their infant hearts already broken before language could name it. Dexter had killed him. As surely as time kills innocence, as surely as fire devours its own oxygen, Dexter had taken from the world the only creature who had loved him utterly, and it was not even necessity.

Brian had spoke his name like a prayer, and Dexter had repaid that devotion with a blade.

It was betrayal dressed in a coward’s elegy.

He wanted to climb up and cut the wraps.

He wanted to hold Brian in his lap like a ruined bridegroom.

He wanted to kiss his mouth and taste the copper truth of what they could have been.

Dexter walked backwards until his back hits the wall and dropped to his knees. He tilted his head back to look up at the face of his brother. It was not like his other kills. There had been no satisfaction. Only the weight of decision followed by the collapse of everything he thought he had built atop his code.

“Why couldn’t I go with you?” Dexter sobbed, voice barely human. “Why did I choose them over you?”

He knew the answer.

He knew and he hated it.

The world had not stopped spinning. But it should have.

If there were any gods left in the ether, they should have screamed.

“I was yours,” Dexter rasped, barely able to hear himself over the wet patter of blood hitting the floor. “I was always yours, even when I didn’t know it.” Brian had always known how to find him, as if some magnetic horror bound them. As if being born in blood had turned them into relics of dead gravestones. “I should’ve followed you,” Dexter said, voice cracking beneath the truth of it. “Oh, Biney.”

A sob tore through him and he collapsed forward with it, pressing his forehead to the palm of his hands. His whole body shook from guilt, from the sudden hollowness that came from removing the one person who made his life intelligible. Brian had been his tether. And without him, Dexter was not a man. Not even a monster. He was something shapeless. A ghost in a shell of flesh.

And this kill—this beautiful, terrible kill—had not set him free. It had unmade him. “I loved you,” he whispered into the red. “With all the darkness I had. With everything I am.” He dug his fingers into the blood. It squelched beneath his nails like wet silk. He didn’t care. Let it stain him. Let it ruin him. He deserved no less.

He rose slowly like a man ascending the gallows. His eyes never left Brian’s face. He reached out and cupped the jaw now slack with the weight of silence. His thumb brushed the parted lips. There was no breath and resistance. But Dexter imagined, just for a moment, that the warmth lingered. That if he leaned forward, pressed his own lips to that pale mouth, he might breathe life back into it, like some grotesque inversion of fairy tales his sister loved to watch.

Still, he leaned in. He kissed him on the cheek, then the jaw, then the mouth. Gently like a priest tasting the last drop of sacrament. It was not lust. It was not sin. It was devotion. When he drew back, a thread of blood clung between them. He did not wipe it away. He welcomed it, let it drip down his chin like some holy stigmata.

“I want you to haunt me, please,” he whispered. “I want you to sit beside me when I kill. I want to hear your voice when I sleep. I want to dream of your hands on mine, always guiding me.” His voice grew distant, soft.

Above him, Brian swayed still, like a dead angel suspended between heaven and hell.

And Dexter, alone in his cathedral of death, finally understood what it was to be damned.

This act alone, had married them. Forever.

I just betrayed you. Here's hint on how to deal with your enemy. I won't let anyone else even think they can take charge of my domain. But you can, and if someone says anything I'll personally put them in their place. If anyone disrespects me they die. But you can call me cunt and I'll let it slide.I care about my family. But if someone betrays me I'll accuse them before I even think of accusing you.

Honourable mention:

"After all this time it's just you and me."

"Shall we go, and witness the final act (together)?"

AlfieTommy IS the dynamic of all time. We work together. I could never trust you. You’re the only one who gets it. He’s a good friend, you’ll need to pay extra for me to backstab him. Sweetie. We shot each other. I take care of your dog. Only my wife is allowed to smoke around me (and you, always, apparently). I’ll cut you into pieces and stuff you in a barrel. Here’s a tissue for your nosebleed.

I didn't know there was a term for it. For me. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart ❤️

finding a term that you’ve never heard before but it resonating with you so deeply is a really cool experience

and that is why research on queer identities, whether gender, sexuality, or romance, is so needed!

from Ace Voices by Eris Young