mosergrimes

[mosergrimes]

tonight my mind is full of aaron oblivious hotchner.

oblivious in that he can read an unsub to filth but he can't understand the sweet smiles spencer constantly shoots his way.

oblivious in that he can decode a serial killers actions, pick apart their motive, but can't understand the hangouts spencer always invites him too.

spencer is always sweet on him. doting in a way that isn't overbearing. he brings aaron coffee in the mornings. not from the breakroom but from his favourite cafe down the street. he checks on him throughout the day, checking to see if he can manage the caseload. spencer remembers the special days. aaron's birthday, aaron's first day in the bureau, aaron's first solved case. spencer remembers it all and brings him a gift for each one.

these things, these acts, aaron can write them off as friendly and professional. a coworker recognising work related days as an acknowledgement.

but, but, there are other things he can't explain.

the quick press of spencer's hand on his shoulder when he passes him in a conference room. the feel of his eyes tracking his walk across the bullpen. the flush of his cheeks when aaron comes in with a fresh haircut.

spencer watches him with an emotion aaron can't identify or understand. it's warm, sweet, kind, and hungry. it's quizzical, inquisitive and searching. it's dangerous and confusing.

spencer whispers compliments and aaron smiles in acknowledgement, thanks on the tip of his tongue. spencer asks to watch a movie with him, to share dinner, to hangout and listen to an audiobook together. and aaron can't figure out if these are friendly gestures or something he needs to make a note of.

no one treats him like this. no one pays him this much attention.

it makes him feel fuzzy, surrounded by warmth and affection. it makes him feel dizzy, weightless with how high spencer lifts him. it's addictive and aaron hates how much he loves it.

he doesn't get it. he can't make sense of it.

he's oblivious. and it's adorable until it isn't.

until the team are tired of watching their leader miss the most obvious signs. until dave and emily pull him to the side, ask what spencer is to him, listen to aaron monologue about spencer's hair for fifteen minutes before grabbing his shoulders and begging him to ask spencer out.

and, of course, aaron will say no. because he doesn't think spencer will ever like him. that spencer can never feel so deeply for him. that all of his acts are ones of kindness and nothing else.

but those eyes, locked on the stretch of his shoulders, and the smirk dancing on his lips.

aaron will see that, raise a brow and wonder what it could all mean.

[mosergrimes]

Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, from “Psychopathology Ward”, Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 - 1972

[mosergrimes]

CHEMICAL EQUATION • S.REID

─── IN WHICH Spencer’s mind is an unsolved equation—restless hands, bitten nails, endless imbalance. But then there’s you, the one constant in the chaos, the solution he never saw coming.

Spencer Reid 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!reader tw 1.6K ⋆ fluff ⋆ hurt/comfort ⋆ established relationship ⋆ awkward Spencer ⋆ soft moments ⋆ post-addiction struggles

The bullpen hums with the low buzz of conversation and the clack of keyboards. Garcia’s voice floats in from the tech office, Morgan’s laughing about something he won’t put in writing, and Hotch moves like gravity—quiet and heavy.

But your eyes aren’t on any of them.

Your focus has been locked, for the last twenty minutes, on the man two desks away.

Spencer Reid.

He’s hunched slightly over a case file, but you can tell by the way his gaze keeps flicking back and forth across the page—too fast to be reading—that his mind isn’t absorbing any of it. His fingers twitch near the margins of the file, pulling at the corner of the paper like he’s trying to unravel it. His leg bounces beneath the desk in a frantic rhythm, and every so often, his teeth scrape across the side of his thumb—biting at skin that’s already raw.

No one else seems to notice. Or maybe they just don’t see it the way you do.

To the rest of the team, that’s just Spencer being Spencer. Fidgety. Hyperactive. Strange, in that charming “twenty-doctorates-and-no-social-filter” kind of way. But you know better. You’ve seen what stillness looks like for him—what safety looks like—and this is not it.

You set down your pen quietly and rise from your chair, pretending to stretch as you make your way toward the coffee machine.

He’s already there when you round the corner, clutching a paper cup with fingers a little too tight around it. His knuckles are pale. His eyes a bit too wide, as if he’s stuck halfway between fight and flight.

“Hey,” you say softly, nudging your shoulder gently against his. “Long day already?”

Spencer startles slightly at your voice, then tries to recover with a forced, breathy chuckle.

“Something like that,” he murmurs, not quite meeting your eyes. “I thought coffee might help. Attempting the illusion of functionality.”

You give him a small smile, one that hopefully says you don’t have to pretend with me.

“Wanna take a break for a minute? Just you and me?” you ask, gesturing toward the row of windows along the far side of the room where the sunlight spills in with rare softness.

He hesitates, glancing back at his desk like the case file might notice he’s gone. Then, with a quiet nod, he follows.

The two of you settle by the window, shoulders brushing, the world outside painted in dusky hues of early afternoon. From here, the bullpen noise fades just enough.

Spencer holds his coffee in both hands like it’s something to anchor him. His thumbs rub against the cup in tiny, anxious circles.

You wait a beat before asking, “What’s going on up there?”

He doesn’t respond right away. His gaze is fixed on a point somewhere just beyond the glass, faraway and unreachable. When he does speak, it’s barely above a whisper.

“My brain won’t shut up,” he says. “It’s like it’s trying to solve something. An equation. Over and over. But it’s all... wrong. Or missing something. I can’t line it up no matter how many times I go through it.”

You tilt your head, watching him carefully.

“Is it work stuff? Or…” You leave the question open. You know better than to corner him with it.

Spencer exhales slowly, his breath fogging the rim of his cup.

“No. Not work. Just... static. Things I thought I’d moved past. Things I thought I could handle by now.” His voice drops, lower this time. “I’m not craving it. Not the same way. But I do miss the quiet. The stillness it gave me, even if it wasn’t real.”

Your chest aches at the admission.

“You’re not alone in this,” you remind him gently. “You don’t have to navigate it on your own.”

“I know,” he says, and this time he does look at you. His eyes are tired, threaded through with something fragile. “It’s just... hard not to feel like I should’ve figured this out already. Like there’s something wrong with me for still—still being this.”

Your heart clenches.

“You’re human, Spence. Not an equation to solve. You don’t get over things on a set timeline. You heal in pieces. And sometimes those pieces shift around on bad days.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, very softly: “You always say the right thing.”

You bump your knee against his. “Only because I’m paying attention.”

That earns the smallest of smiles. It’s brief. But real.

Later, when you’re home and he’s sunk into the couch in that same too-large sweater, sleeves pulled over his hands like he’s trying to disappear into them, you sit down beside him without a word. He’s still fidgeting—leg bouncing again, fingers restless, eyes not quite focused.

You take one of his hands gently in both of yours and hold it still.

“Still unbalanced?” you ask, rubbing your thumb across the back of his hand.

He nods. The tension in his shoulders is stubborn. Coiled.

“My head feels like a chalkboard that’s been erased a thousand times but never cleaned,” he says. “Just smears of everything I can’t quite make sense of.”

You press your forehead lightly to his temple.

“It doesn’t have to make sense all at once,” you murmur. “Some things take time to rewrite.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “I hate that I even think about it sometimes. I hate that I’m not better.”

You pull back to look him in the eye.

“Spencer. Better isn’t perfect. Better is this. You, here, choosing to stay present. Choosing to hold on.”

He closes his eyes at that, overwhelmed but steadying in your presence.

“I just don’t want to be broken,” he whispers.

“You’re not,” you say, brushing a kiss to his knuckles. “You’re balancing. And I’m right here with you.”

His arms wrap around you slowly, a silent thank you and a desperate need to be held all at once. He rests his head against your shoulder like it’s the only safe place in the world.

“You’re the only one who sees me like this,” he murmurs again.

“And I love every part of you I see,” you whisper back, holding him tighter.

He sighs, softer now, the chaos in his mind momentarily quieted.

“You’re my constant,” he says, voice cracking just a little.

“No,” you reply, pressing a kiss to his hair. “We’re the solution.”

And for the first time that day, Spencer Reid starts to believe it.

[mosergrimes]

— Mary Lambert, Shame Is an Ocean I Swim Across

[mosergrimes]

— Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anaïs Nin (Vol. 1: 1931-1934) (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[mosergrimes]

︵⏝ ◞ ◟⏝⏝∘ ℳoser ︵⏝ ◞ ◟⏝⏝∘

𓏵 Carl or Moser — 18, turning 19 ⋆.˚ ⤷ darkship ノ proship 🌈🍖 † fiction =/= reality this blog is a personal archive of beautiful, broken things — killers, liars, saints with stained hands. i talk about fictional violence, twisted love, and characters that bite back.

⟢. i am 𝓃ℴ𝓉 here to debate morality. i’m here to explore it. brian moser lives in my head rent-free and blood-wet. i’m his mirror, his shadow, his bf — irl. you’ll find alt text, gore tags, meta rambles, soft shrines to sadistic men.

╰ 🧟 i don’t sanitize art for comfort. this space is filtered only by obsession and taste. 🕯️ themed. unfiltered. clinically inclined. talk to me about trauma-coded killers, psychology, aesthetics of blood, family horror. ♱ main themes: obsession, violence, identity, and the sacred rot beneath beauty.

♡ reblogs keep me fed. ⟳ means everything. talk to me if you dare. ❝ we all need something to worship — mine just happens to kill people. ❞