Elle-greenaways-wife - Home Of The Wilderness (real)

𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: following a certain unsettling experience, you and your husband choose to move to a quiet yet incredibly boring town. in his absence on a business trip, you discover an unexpected source of intrigue and diversion in one of your neighbors — spencer.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x female!reader, cheating (but not really lol), unreliable narrative, violence, attempted murder, inspired by taylor swift's song "fortnight", mention of sex but without a detailed description, nothing in this story is as it seems so read carefully until the end, reader has some backstory because it's necessary to the plot, reader has some disturbing thoughts, just to clarify, i don’t consider her character to be good or a role model. if you’re hesitating whether to read this story, it might be better if you skip it, lol.

𝐚/𝐧: it's kind of an experiment and I'm curious if you'll like it :3

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.5k

“Finally…our bedroom.” Richard opened the door to the room with a chivalrous gesture, bowing slightly as he let you enter first. Before stepping inside, you glanced at his face without much enthusiasm. He seemed genuinely happy. It didn’t surprise you. He loved beautiful things, and this house you’d just moved into was exactly that. “I’ve always wanted one like this. Spacious, white. A huge bed. What do you think, darling?”

Your husband’s lips gently brushed against the skin of your shoulder as he stood a step behind you. The tender gesture stirred no emotions in you—just like this bedroom. Or the house in general.

“Why do we need such a big bed if I’ll be sleeping in it alone?” you asked, unable to hold back the bitterness in your voice.

Richard sighed and took a step back. Your words had pulled him out of his own cinematic fantasy—the one he’d been living in since morning. In that fantasy, you were a perfectly happy couple embarking on an unquestionably bright chapter of your lives, and you were his perfectly normal wife.

“It’s just two weeks. A fortnight, as my grandfather used to say. I’ve gone on much longer business trips before.”

“Well, I wasn’t in a completely unfamiliar place then, where I don’t know anyone.”

He tilted his head, clearly reluctant to revisit this topic yet again.

“You won’t be alone. Sarah will be coming by every day, remember? I asked her to take care of you.”

“You hired her,” you corrected.

“Fine, I hired her. She desperately needed a job, and I needed someone to keep an eye on you. Does the fact that she’ll be paid for it really change anything?”

Countless words pressed against your lips. Yet suddenly, you lost all interest in the argument, in the situation as a whole. You said nothing.

Richard studied your face closely, noticing that sudden, dangerous absence in your expression—a telltale sign with you. His lips tightened with concern. Before he could speak, the doorbell rang.

“Could that be her?” he wondered aloud, heading downstairs to let the guest in.

You followed him mindlessly down the stairs, like a shadow. You weren’t entirely sure why. Everything in your existence felt just like this—dictated by someone else or some mysterious force, a whisper lurking at the back of your mind. Never fully justified.

It turned out it wasn’t Sarah. Standing at the door of your new home was a couple.

“Hi there,” said a young woman with a romantic figure and a cascade of black curls. A natural blush on her cheeks softened her sharp features, adding a touch of charm. “We live in the house across the street. We stopped by to welcome our new neighbors.”

“And to apologize for barging in right after you arrived, not giving you any time to settle in,” added the man standing a step behind her, clearly towering over her in height. He looked down at his companion with a faint, probably unconscious smile, and from that alone, you knew they were either married or a long-standing couple. “Someone was a little too eager to meet you.”

She elbowed him, barely stifling a laugh.

 “I’m Vanessa. And this is my smug and sarcastic husband, Spencer.”

“We weren’t expecting visitors,” you spoke up before Richard, standing in front of you, could say a word.

There was an unintentional sharpness to your tone—you didn’t want to host anyone. For one, you had just arrived. Your belongings from the previous house had been unpacked by the moving company, but you hadn’t gone shopping yet. There wasn’t any coffee to offer, and you weren’t even sure if the coffee maker was plugged in. More importantly, you hadn’t yet adjusted to the new place yourself and didn’t want to let strangers in until you did.

Vanessa parted her lips, clearly surprised by the edge in your voice.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” your husband cut in quickly, turning to the woman with an apologetic look. “Don’t worry, you’re not bothering us at all. Actually, we’re glad you stopped by. It’ll be nice to get to know someone in the area, especially for my wife. I’ll be leaving on a business trip soon, and I don’t want her getting bored. Richard, by the way,” he added, extending a hand.

She had very small hands, round like a child’s, but in their own way, charming. Her wedding ring was simple and looked cheaper than yours. The thought flitted through your mind, as did the observation that Spencer had very elegant hands—slim with long fingers—unlike your husband’s. You had an odd habit of paying unsettlingly close attention to people’s hands.

Despite the protest in your gaze, Richard invited them inside.

Vanessa walked in first. They didn’t touch, but there was an unmistakable closeness in all their movements, as if they were two halves of one of those matching necklaces best friends wear in school. It caught your attention for some reason. You knew that you and Richard didn’t share that kind of grace. People didn’t immediately assume you were married when they saw you together. Sometimes they thought you were father and daughter, even though he was only thirteen years older than you and looked young, well-kept. But it probably had more to do with the way you walked cautiously at his side, always slightly withdrawn, as if seeking protection.

“Oh, it immediately reminded me of our house when we first moved in,” Vanessa sighed nostalgically, turning to her husband. The four of you had walked into the kitchen, where the table and countertops were spotless and empty, as if taken straight from a photo in a modern interior design magazine. “It used to look like this too, but then Spencer converted the living room and kitchen into the second and third library. Apparently, one isn’t enough for him.”

“My wife reads a lot too,” Richard chimed in. There was something strange about his tone, a faint, undefined emotion—maybe jealousy, but not entirely. Jealousy over the lightness and ease in their interactions, how their relationship seemed perfect at first glance. Unlike his.

Spencer looked at you, as if seeking confirmation of that statement.

You pursed your lips. The last time you’d read something was…six weeks ago, at best. Books hadn’t brought you joy in a long time, though there was a time when you devoured them relentlessly.

“It’s true,” you admitted stiffly. “I read constantly. One book after another."

When you lied, your voice sounded mechanical, like a robot. Recently, though, all your words carried that same rigid tone, even when you were being entirely truthful, so no one noticed when you veered away from the truth. It was, in a way, convenient. The new neighbor opened his mouth to speak. If he had asked what kinds of books you enjoyed, you would have said something absurd, like The Bible Trilogy or something equally ridiculous. Nothing else came to your foggy mind.

However, he was cut off by Richard, who quickly turned to both of them with a question about their professions. They looked young, about your age. You hadn’t expected them to have impressive careers, but that assumption turned out to be wrong. Vanessa turned out to be a surgeon, and Spencer was a criminal profiler.

Although the lines of his face were arranged in a way that was undeniably pleasant to look at, and his irises carried a warm hue, there was an undeniable sharpness in them. You could feel it, that piercing quality, whenever his gaze landed on you.

You tuned out when Richard started boring them with stories about his work as an engineer. His favorite topic—pride. You just wanted them to leave, even though nothing in their behavior really irritated you. Their love, however, bored you. You had some private aversion to happy relationships, and with the typical jealousy of a gloomy wife, you always wrote them off as doomed. Probably because of betrayal.

“And you, what do you do?” At some point, Spencer interrupted your husband’s monologue, tilting his head toward you. Vanessa, who had been patiently listening, seemed to perk up a little, her gaze now on you.

Richard swallowed, and you saw and heard it.

“She’s not working at the moment,” he said cautiously. Vanessa’s eyes involuntarily dropped to your stomach, but Richard quickly shook his head. “No, it’s not like that. We don’t have children yet. It’s just... it’s about some... health issues.”

A very creative way to convey that not long ago your wife had a nervous breakdown. So severe that you decided to buy a new house in a new neighborhood, hoping it would somehow improve her condition.

Vanessa’s eyes brightened, as if apologizing for bringing up the topic at all.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Well, it’s kind of like my Spence. He’s on leave for health reasons too. I made him take it; I honestly think it’s better to take a break and rest than push yourself to the limit later on.”

“But it’s nothing serious,” her husband quickly reassured. “Just migraines. Two weeks, and I’ll be back at work.”

You apologized to them without a hint of feigned remorse. Muttering something under your breath about not feeling well, but in reality, you simply didn’t want to continue this pointless conversation. As you walked away, you could feel Richard’s unwavering gaze on your back. He had never been angry at you for your behavior. He cared deeply, truly. More than anger, you sensed a certain disappointment in his demeanor. In his ideal world with his ideal wife, you stood by his side, holding him by the waist, entertaining everyone with some anecdote from exotic corners of the world, sparking bursts of laughter.

You lay down on the bed, in the cold sheets of the enormous bed. Closing your eyes, you imagined yourself floating on the surface of the endless ocean. There was nothing around you to focus your gaze on. In a way, it was a dream more terrifying than one where a shark would chase you. When you woke up, the sun was setting.

For a while, you lay still, but eventually, you got up and descended the stairs. It wasn’t out of desire, but rather some internal compulsion you had to fulfill. Otherwise, something would happen. You weren’t sure what. Your steps were slow, barely audible. At the top of the stairs, you heard Sarah’s voice coming from the kitchen. The rest of the way, you moved like a born detective, a secret agent, hiding by the entrance, opposite the white (like everything else in this house) wooden cubby under the stairs.

You heard Sarah’s voice again, a faint sound of vegetables being chopped in the background. They must have been preparing dinner together.

"Don’t worry," she said, her voice gentle. "When you leave, I’ll stop by every day to check on her. Are you sure that moving away was really the right solution?"

Richard sighed before answering.

"Well, that’s what the psychologist recommended. He said that a break from the big city and some peace is the best thing I can offer her in this crisis."He paused for a moment, then added, "Thank you for doing this, Sarah. I wish I didn’t have to leave, but my work...This project is incredibly important…"

Sarah was your sister, whom your husband had hired as something like domestic help. She cleaned and made sure you didn’t get the idea of taking a bath with a toaster plugged in under your arm. By the way, they were fucking behind your back. You knew about it and did nothing about it.

The reasons were mixing in your head, but the most important one was probably that without Richard, you would have nothing. Money, a house, the possibility of spending most days sweetly doing nothing. Besides, you didn’t really feel bothered by it. For most of the time, where he stuck his dick was absolutely indifferent to you, even if it was your sister. For the rest, you wanted to slit both of their throats.

But we all have our own inner battles, right?

You walked into the kitchen, and they fell silent immediately.

The next two days felt almost fairy-tale-like, as if every time the sun set, creatures straight out of folklore surrounded your house, camping outside the windows. Richard, by your side, became a kind of magical amulet—a form of protection against them all. His departure would be like violently ripping that amulet from your neck, leaving you exposed to danger.

You were getting used to the new house. For a moment, you felt so alive, so present, that you even started questioning whether bringing the porcelain dinner set from the old place had been a good idea. For a solid fifteen minutes, you told Richard how you thought it was too elegant, too plain. Too much of a match for the rest of the decor, all designed in the same style.

He listened, a smile on his face, happy that your thoughts weren’t drifting into strange, distant realms. And when you were done, he whisked you away to buy a new dinner set with cobalt floral patterns. You felt good.

The next day, he left for his two-week business trip—a fortnight, as he called it.

The first day was lonely; you wandered aimlessly through the vast new house. The next two days seemed not to exist at all.

“You can’t keep doing this.” Someone’s presence loomed just behind you as you lay face down on the bed, your face buried in the pillow. “You can’t spend your days like this. It’s not helping, really. You need to… you need to try doing something,” Sarah explained. She pulled the blanket off your body, like a mother waking a child for school.

You didn’t respond.

“Come downstairs. It’s already afternoon, and I bet you haven’t eaten anything, right? Honestly, I don’t even want to ask how long it’s been.”

And I bet you spread your legs for my husband, right? The thought pushed itself to your lips, but opening your mouth felt like too much effort. After about fifteen minutes of her continued talking, you let her drag you downstairs. You sat in a chair at the table, where you had a clear view of the neighbors’ house and driveway. It was almost identical to yours—white, two stories tall, with a mailbox planted near the road that stretched through the neighborhood. The only thing that set it apart was a trail of pink roses climbing along its white fence.

Sarah began preparing a meal. She was always an excellent cook. She had a thing for Asian cuisine—hearty soups with intense aromas.

You ate in silence. Sarah asked if you had called Richard, but you dismissed it with a snort. After that, she said nothing more and started cleaning up after the meal without a word. You kept your absent gaze fixed on the neighbors' driveway when suddenly a car appeared there. Spencer got out, wearing a polo shirt, and went to the trunk to pull out, as it turned out, bags of groceries.

He had no idea you were watching him, though if he had good eyesight, he could have seen your face in the window across the street. The entire conversation with him and his wife filled your mind again. You remembered that Vanessa worked as a surgeon almost all day, while he spent his days alone at home. Just like you and Richard. Did he feel romantically lonely, or abandoned like a dog that’s loved but you want to kick every time it pees on the carpet? The kind of dog that gets shown in family pictures but is asked to get off the bed and not lick you because it disgusts you?

You were curious if they had sex. He and Vanessa. She was probably tired when she got back and didn’t feel like it. Did he accept that, or secretly bring someone home when she wasn’t around? He seemed to love her, but that didn’t mean he could deny his human needs. Maybe he missed intimacy. You probably did too, but you didn’t want it from Richard. In bed, he was too proper, like a porn actor following a script.

"Maybe you can help me?" Sarah asked, washing dishes at the sink. Lost in thought, you didn’t even hear the sound of the running water.

Spencer came inside.

"That's why Richard hired you," you reminded her coldly.

"It’s not about that," she sighed. "I don’t know, maybe it’s just my opinion, but doing nothing drives people into even deeper depression. Believe me, you’d feel better if you had something to focus on. I don’t know, a job, a child, responsibilities. A goal." She paused for a moment, placing the dishes on the shelf. Her hands touched your new porcelain. You were planning to throw it out once she left. "Okay, maybe I’ll sound harsh, but... are you really not coping?"

"Do you think I'm pretending?"

"No," she added quickly, with real concern. "I don't think so, it's just... you know, I just remembered. When you were a child, you were like this too. Our parents gave us chores, and you didn't do your part. You used to drift off somewhere with your thoughts...you were a bit lazy.”

A strange hum filled your head as you returned to your body, the kitchen was filled with darkness, and your cheek rested on the kitchen table. Only after a moment did you realize that Sarah must have left hours ago, and you, unable to move, had fallen asleep in the same spot where you had been sitting. Your body was stiff, and you didn't want to move it to avoid pain or numbness.

When you opened your eyes again, the morning sun gently caressed your face.

A certain sense of unreality gently embraced your body, kissing every part of it. For a moment, you lay there—or rather, sat—with your head resting on the table, your gaze fixed on the view outside the window. The neighbor's house, the pink roses, the driveway. The mailbox, to which Spencer approached with a sleepy step, dressed in a loose T-shirt and gray checkered pants. Even from afar, you could see his brown hair was messy, which only added a charm to his already quite handsome face.

Without much thought, as if guided by some higher command in a system you physically couldn't resist, you sprang to your feet and stepped outside. You were still wearing a flowing white nightgown that reached just halfway up your thigh, with lace trimming. Though it was spring, the mornings were cold, but you didn't feel it, just as you didn't feel the roughness of the concrete driveway beneath your bare feet.

"Hey, neighbor!" you shouted at him, approaching your mailbox. You acted as it felt so natural to you, as if you did this every morning just like him. You glanced inside; there was only a newspaper.

Spencer furrowed his brow in surprise, but waved, a brief, uncertain smile appeared on his lips. You shoved the newspaper under your arm without even looking at the headline and crossed the street to approach him. You felt both more alive than ever before and fleeting, as if the breeze could blow you away at any moment, and you would become nothing more than a cloud of dust just before his face.

“Morning,” he greeted aloud, crossing his arms, one of them holding a newspaper against his chest. For a moment, he stared at you, lost in thought, before finally shaking his head. “I’ll admit, I’m... a little surprised to see you. I thought you and Richard had both left, I didn’t see you around…”

“Oh, I just wasn’t feeling well,” you waved your hand dismissively. Your tone was light, not as tense as it had been the first, and last, time you’d spoken with him. He seemed to notice the difference, narrowing his eyes slightly as he studied your face.

“I hope you’re feeling better,” he expressed, his concern sounding sincere and kind.

“Definitely. I’m just a little bored now. Not much to do in the new house, new neighborhood,” you added with an ironic undertone that only you could catch. As if you were even trying to do anything. You remembered Sarah’s words while doing the dishes.

Spencer, however, couldn’t know you were lying, and in a way, you believed your own words. He gave a short chuckle.

“I get that all too well. The doctor recommended I take a break from mental work, and I have no idea what I could do,” he said. “Vanessa comes home late during the week, and she just collapses. I guess I’ll have to push through until the weekend.”

You laughed, not because his words amused you, but because it confirmed your earlier theory. They weren’t having sex. There was no chance of it.

“Ah, poor things. The both of us, I mean,” you sighed. “Well, since you can’t work mentally, I suppose you’ll have to spend your time physically. In some pleasant way.”

“Yeah, I guess that would be the best,” he responded.

A silence fell between you. You didn’t know what else to say to keep the conversation going. Why did you even want to keep it going so much? Was it a lack of male attention, or something else? Spencer’s gaze briefly flickered toward his house, likely signaling that he wanted to go back inside but didn’t know how to show it. But suddenly, his eyes dropped, and his lips parted in surprise.

“Y-your foot…”

A pool of blood stretched out beneath you, on his driveway. Surprised, you let out a stifled cry, not feeling any pain and having no idea where it came from. Spencer snapped out of his shock, his head swiveling side to side as a sense of control began to settle into his movements.

"You’re barefoot, you must have stepped on something, a sharp stone or glass," he reasoned logically, eyeing your feet. Then, he sighed. "Damm… there’s quite a bit of it... a-are you okay?"

"A little dizzy," you groaned.

The sight of blood always made you lightheaded.

He quickly rushed to you, making sure you wouldn’t fall. One of his hands, slender with long fingers—something you had once noticed—rested on the small of your back, and you could feel it through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

“C-could you take me to my house...?” you asked, slipping further into his arms. “I need to lie down... I don’t like... I don’t like blood...”

“Of course...”

And though his house was much closer, he followed your request. The fact that you were disturbed by the sight of blood, rather than the actual loss of it, seemed to calm him a bit. He tried to guide you, draping his arm around you, but soon realized it was pointless. He froze for a moment, uncertain. Then he sighed and lifted you in his arms, supporting you beneath the knees.

"Thank you so much... neighbor," you mumbled into his chest.

A moment later, you were half-sitting, half-lying on a chair in the kitchen, while he pulled one to sit across from you. Small bloodstains from your foot marked his gray pants, but he seemed completely unfazed by it. You weren't sure if there was a first aid kit at home, so he told you to wait and went to your bathroom to fetch it.

With a focused expression and his lower lip slightly protruding, he began treating your wound. He seemed to have experience in this. You didn't feel any pain at all; you were focused only on a few things. On your stretched-out leg, resting on his lap, and what was between your legs, revealed by the short nightgown. 

You never slept in lingerie.

You carefully analyzed his face, wondering if he noticed it.

Maybe not, because he was too focused. Maybe he did, but he was trying to play the gentleman.

You pretended to let out a short groan of pain to draw his attention. His gaze lovingly fell on you... and then it landed right there. He quickly looked away, the corner of your mouth trembled.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Spencer,' you said. “My foot, actually. Is it something serious?”

He swallowed, though your limb was already fully bandaged and dressed, he didn’t take his eyes off it. As if he were afraid to look elsewhere.

“‘N-no,’ he replied hoarsely, nervously. He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of it, then straightened his head. His gaze held so much awkwardness. And you were absolutely sure that there was also some degree of desire in it. ‘It’s… it’s a shallow wound, it just bled a bit heavily. I disinfected it… there’s probably no need to go to the hospital… unless… unless you feel like you need to, of course, that depends on you.’”

“There’s no need,” you reassured him with a brief nod. In contrast to him, your voice was calm, refined. You straightened up in your seat and reached out, brushing your fingers against his forearm. He flinched. “How can I repay you?”

"Repay?" he repeated, with confusion. Then your eyes met, and if he had been standing, he would likely have taken a step back, pushed away by everything that was in your gaze. He swallowed again. "You don’t have to repay me, it’s... just a neighborly favor. And I... I need to get going."

He fought with himself, but if he didn’t want you, he wouldn’t have allowed you to touch his forearm like that, running your nails along it. Suddenly, as if struck by an electric shock, he jumped up from the chair, your injured leg dropping to the floor. You wanted to scoff, but held yourself back. At first, you watched him leave the kitchen, then you turned your gaze toward the window, where he soon appeared, heading toward the house. His steps were slow, suspiciously slow.

A sense of triumph filled your body as you slowly rose from the chair, standing on your healthy leg. You waited, watching, until he turned.

You slipped the sleeve of your nightgown off your shoulder. 

He didn’t turn around, though he stopped.

You slipped another one. 

He stood still, his shoulders moving up and down.

The nightgown slipped down along your body. 

He chose that exact moment to glance back toward your window, toward you. You saw his eyes widen, his gaze unsure of where to land. For a long, intense moment, you simply stared at each other.

Until he finally moved, gave in, and returned to your house.

*

Well, in a similar manner, the following days unfolded.

Every morning, you waited by the window like a ghost. Spencer, like a good neighbor, would approach the mailbox, pull out the newspaper, and pretend to examine the front page. But in reality, he was just waiting to catch a glimpse of you in the window of your house. You didn't need to give him hand signals, wave, or call out. You simply hobbled to your bedroom, knowing the front door was unlocked.

And after a moment, he would join you.

Your bodies collided with the bedding. Always in the same wild way, impatient and thirsty for the closeness of another person. His hand slid between your legs, a short moment later, caressed your lips, brushing against your lower lip, gently tugging at it. It was like an intense memory, suddenly haunting you in the middle of, say, a store aisle, pulling from you an involuntary gasp, even though weeks or even years had passed since that moment.

Those moments when you were together were that wonderful memory. The act itself, and the moments after, when you lay curled up facing each other. The rest of the days, the hours between your next meeting, were like that store aisle with shelves full of milk with various fat contents. Being among them, all you could do was return, return with your thoughts.

That Friday, you were sitting with your knees resting on his chest.

Your finger traced a path from his collarbones down to his lower abdomen and back again, and Spencer watched your movements, his lips slightly curled in amused curiosity.

"What are you thinking about?" he wanted to know.

He reached for your loose hair, gently pushing it over your back to see you better. To see all of you.

"Do you feel guilty for cheating on your wife?" you asked. "The beautiful, loving Vanessa? With your sick neighbor?"

Spencer was silent for a long moment, though he did not look away. If he had, it would have carried some shame, some guilt. But he didn’t.

“Desire is like a whirlpool that takes you down, with no possibility of return. Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary " he quoted softly, instead of directly answering the question.

"A guy who quotes classic literature after having sex with me," you chuckled. "Now, that's a first. But how does this relate to my question?"

"It relates in this way," he replied, "that desire is not something I have control over. It's a force that strikes unexpectedly, and although a person is often aware of the consequences it brings, they can't resist it. And I desire you."

"So you mean to say that cheating on your wife isn't your fault? Because you had no control over it?"

"Of course, it's my fault. And every sin is something a person eventually regrets, that's just how it goes. But I'm not there yet. I'm still too dazzled and enchanted by you. So, to answer your question, no, I don't feel guilty. Not yet. What about you?"

A strange feeling filled your body as you listened to his words, compliments, and devotion. It was as if you were swaying to the delicate sounds of some magical music, played live by a brilliant composer. Instead of answering, you returned to tracing the same path on his skin, starting from his neck and moving downward.

He inhaled sharply. This time, you did it with your lips.

Both of you, fully dressed, walked down the stairs. You wanted him by your side all day and night, but you couldn't have him. Not only because he had to go home in the evening when his wife was returning from work. He had other duties too, like grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning; he couldn’t devote all his time to you.

Your hand rested in his, but then you stopped suddenly, alarmed by a sound. A car pulling into the driveway.

"It must be Sarah," you thought right away. You had spent much longer in bed that day than usual, completely unaware that it was already afternoon and your sister was coming over to check on you. Spencer straightened up, surprised, and before he could say anything, you pushed him toward the cupboard under the stairs. You hadn’t had a chance to look in there yet, but it seemed like the best hiding spot. "Get in there, quickly...!"

Barely had the cupboard door closed when Sarah entered. She was holding a paper bag with groceries, nearly dropping it when she saw you.

“What are you doing here?”

Your eyebrows shot up.

“This is my house.”

“Shit, right,” she sighed, nodding. “Sorry, I just always found you in bed at this time, and… never mind. It’s good to see you on your feet. Want to help me cook?”

Without waiting for an answer, she headed for the kitchen. She moved through the house as if it were hers. Slowly, you followed her, wondering how to signal Spencer to cautiously leave the cupboard and return to his place. Though maybe that would be too risky? The cupboard door was visible from where Sarah was chopping vegetables for dinner; she would have to turn her back. Better for him to stay there until she left.

Actually, he didn’t even need to hide. You could just tell her that he came by to borrow something, like normal neighbors do. But just the thought of hiding him sent a pleasant shiver of excitement down your back. You entered the kitchen, watching your sister in silence.

“How’s your leg?” she asked over her shoulder, putting the newly purchased groceries into the fridge. “I see you’re walking normally again.”

“I take very careful steps and try not to put too much weight on it,” you replied, slipping further into the room.

You weren’t sure how to act; your gaze kept drifting behind her to the cupboard under the stairs, where Spencer was hiding. 

Sarah seemed to be watching you more closely whenever she wasn’t chopping or stirring something. She probably sensed that something was off, even if she couldn’t pinpoint what.

A quarter of an hour passed, then half an hour. Meals prepared by your sister were never the quick kind.

“Fuck,” she suddenly exclaimed, her words preceded by the sharp sound of shattering glass. She had dropped one of the plates—the ones you and Richard had bought right after moving into this house. She glanced around the kitchen as steam billowed out of the pot on the stove. “Do you have a dustpan or something?”

You opened your mouth but said nothing. The truth was, you didn’t know. You didn’t cook or clean; you spent your days in the bedroom or by the window, waiting for Spencer.

Sarah caught herself, realizing how pointless her question was.

“Wait, Richard mentioned the previous owners didn’t clear everything out of the cupboard,” she said suddenly, pointing toward the very place in question.

Your entire body tensed.

Before you could react, shake yourself out of it, or get a grip on the situation, she was already opening the door. You stood frozen, your eyes wide, bracing yourself for her surprised scream when she stumbled across a strange man inside.

You felt odd, like you were waiting for a carnival vendor to hand you a stick of cotton candy. Like…excited, rather than terrified at the prospect of your secret being exposed.

Sarah returned holding a dustpan.

“See? It was there. They really did leave a lot of stuff behind. Richard needs to check it out when he gets back,” she said, pausing abruptly to scrutinize your expression. “What’s wrong?”

You only shook your head, unable to say a word.

The moment Sarah drove away, you practically sprinted to the cupboard.

Spencer burst into laughter at the sight of your astonished expression.

“God, you have no idea how scared I was when she came in. But I hid behind the door, and she didn’t even notice me,” he explained, placing a hand on his chest as if only now beginning to process what had just happened.

A moment later, you threw your head back, laughing uncontrollably. And as you let yourself sink into the hysteria, you pressed your lips to his, pushing him back against one of the walls. He drew in a surprised breath, momentarily breaking the kiss, but quickly dove back into it.

There was always a certain urgency in the way he treated you. As if he truly believed this might be the last time you’d see each other. The pace he set felt like a challenge, one you were determined to meet.

You allowed yourself a brief moment of respite, tilting your head back in satisfaction, as one of his fingers began tracing circles around your nipple. His entire hand slipped under the thin fabric of your nightgown, the other was sliding up from the opposite side. Oh, it was marvelous. The darkness that enveloped the cupboard contrasted with a single, narrow beam of light streaming through the slightly ajar door.

He knelt before you, your knees softening, buckling more and more with every passing moment.

You didn’t even need to close your eyes to feel consumed by that sensation. It seemed as though there was only one, specific point on your body, and the rest of you barely existed—like oxygen molecules in the air around you, invisible and undetectable to others, and even to yourself.

You let out a moan, not sweet, but more of a scream, cutting through the space.

At that moment, your gaze once again fell on that one illuminated strip in the dark room, a strange glow reflecting light off itself. The axe head, resting against one of the walls, much like you in that moment. Except that it was more stable and upright, its back not arching backward.

Well, it didn’t have a back, but you get the metaphor.

*

On weekends, Vanessa didn't work.

Spencer hadn't visited you for a while.

You spent those two days with your cheek pressed against the kitchen counter, watching your neighbor water the flowers. The thick roses with pink buds, their color matching the flush of effort on her cheeks as she gripped the heavy watering can. She wore tight black pants and a t-shirt, the complete opposite of your airy shirt. On a daily basis, you didn't wear anything else. Why would you? It was comfortable and provided easy access. All you had to do was slip your hand underneath.

Sarah noticed the deterioration in your condition and told you to call Richard. She probably hoped that hearing his voice would act as a cure for you. You didn’t need him; you had your own. You had your own miraculous move-on drug. It worked reliably, the only downside being that its effects were temporary.

The long-awaited Monday had come again, and you were afraid Spencer wouldn’t show up. But he did, as usual, holding a freshly retrieved newspaper from the mailbox. He always forgot to take it with him afterward, and a pile had already started to accumulate in your bedroom. Later, on Friday, you were lying naked in bed. You reached for one of them and tried to make a paper airplane, but you couldn’t remember how.

Spencer sat on the bed, the blanket wrapped around his hips, leaving his chest exposed.

"Show me," he asked, extending his hand towards you.

You followed the command, lying on your side with your head resting on your hand, watching his movements. He looked down, focused, his hair falling over his forehead. It was longer than Richard's hair, and you liked it, along with the untamed nature that always accompanied it. You would wish he never came back from that business trip. His plane could crash somewhere in the ocean or in the jungle, where he would be torn apart by wild animals.

Vanessa wasn't an obstacle, you imagined yourself approaching her from behind while she was watering the flowers. Then it would be just the two of you. You could never leave the house, never leave that bed.

"Ta-da," Spencer said, throwing the finished paper airplane so it rolled across the bedroom like a car on a circular racetrack.

You laughed, a sense of carefree joy filling you.

"I feel like a child again," you sighed, lying on your back. "Like I can dream again."

After a moment, Spencer joined you, placing a tender kiss on your shoulder and closely watching your profile.

"Don't you have any dreams?" he asked, surprised.

You paused for a moment. Yes, you had one. It involved stopping time, literally grabbing the hands of the universe’s clock and holding them in place. Right there, in that very moment. But out loud, you decided to say something else.

"I used to dream of moving to Florida. But I don't know if that even qualifies as a dream. A dream should be something out of our reach, or something that can’t be fulfilled. Something we can think about with excitement every night before going to sleep. And I, well, theoretically, I could move there. What about you, do you have any dreams?"

Spencer thought about it for a moment.

"By the way you put it, I guess I don’t. I’d like to buy a new car, but it’s not something I think about with excitement before bed," he said with a short chuckle, but suddenly his amusement faded, his unreadable gaze fixed on you. You turned your face towards him, gently studying his features with your fingers, starting from his lips. A short sigh escaped them. "Then… I think about you."

You kissed him gently, as if slipping a pill onto your tongue. Again, I thought of all those damned seconds, slipping away like the air from a punctured balloon. Like life, from a dying person. You wished there was a way to seal that hole or perform CPR so that the man could still survive. To make time stand still.

Suddenly, a sound broke the silence. The landline phone, sitting on the cabinet by Spencer’s side—well, actually, Richard’s side—rang.

You didn’t want to answer it, so you asked him to reach for it and hang up the call. But then it rang again, the sound felt like a personalized version of a spiked boot, kicking your head.

"Give it to me," you said with surrender, taking the phone from Spencer. "Hello?"

"Hey, babe. Everything okay? You haven't said a word," Richard's voice came through on the other end, sounding lighter. Like he was well-rested. Well, he had the chance, being far away from his fucked-up wife. Or maybe he just masturbated at the thought of Sarah, and it put him in such a good mood.

You glanced sideways at Spencer, signaling that it was your husband. For a moment, he didn’t move, but after a while, a somewhat arrogant expression appeared on his face, and you were curious about what it meant.

"You know I don’t like talking on the phone," you replied briefly.

Spencer positioned himself in front of your bent legs, gently spreading them apart.

"I know, but... I was still worried. Although, Sarah also called me saying you were feeling better." His lips touched the inner part of your thigh, you closed your eyes. Your breath had to stay steady. "Well, then she called again, saying that you were feeling bad again. I had no idea what was going on. Maybe you’ll tell me, hm? Have you settled in the area? Have you even talked to the neighbors at least once?"

You pulled the phone away from yourself, inhaling sharply as his tongue found its place exactly where it should.

"Spencer Reid, you absolute sadist," you said almost silently.

He laughed, his breath tickling you.

"Babe?" Your husband's voice came through louder.

You pressed the phone back to your ear.

"Hm? What were you asking? I can't talk right now," you said, sliding one hand into his hair, gently gliding it through the strands. At one point, your fingers tightened on them as the rest of your body tensed.

"Okay, fine," he said, not even sounding disappointed, more like he was tired of the conversation. And likewise. You wanted him to hang up already—his presence, even though miles away, filled you with a palpable disgust. "Oh, but one more thing. I hope you'll be happy."

Impatiently, you rolled your eyes, and at the same time, a moan slipped from your lips. You quickly covered your mouth with your hand. Richard remained silent—he must have heard it, but probably took it as a sign of curiosity toward his words.

The silence on the other end was almost theatrical.

 "I’m coming back sooner," he finally declared. "We finished the project much quicker than we planned..."

You shot up to a sitting position, and Spencer jumped back from you, startled.

 "When?" you managed to force out, the word laced with pure fear.

"Well, my flight is booked for today’s evening in my time zone..."

You hung up. An indescribable pain spread across your chest, as if someone had shoved a sharp instrument into it and left it there.

"What's going on? What happened?" Spencer asked, concern filling his voice as he moved closer to you, gently cupping your cheek.

You usually loved his touch; normally, you would close your eyes and surrender to the gesture. But you couldn’t. The realization that it was all going to end—that it was going to end tomorrow—made you push his hand away. For a moment, you stared into space, trying to steady your breath, but you couldn’t. It seemed like it would stay like this forever.

"I think it's time for you to leave," you said, your voice showing no emotion.

Maybe if he had sensed the despair in it, heard it crack, he would have stayed. But no, your command was cold, and it made him dress quickly and leave the bedroom almost immediately. You buried your hands in your hair, a high-pitched sound escaping your lips as you tore one of the newspapers into shreds.

Then you tore another one. And then all of them, into really small pieces, among which you curled up like a paralyzed person, lying still for the rest of the day and night. You remembered all the last beautiful days, your conversations with Spencer. Dreams of a plane crashing in the jungle.

Luckily, Sarah didn't visit you that day; she would have found you in a very strange state. First, in absolute disarray. Then, around four in the morning, wide awake like a junkie. Walking around the house, up and down the stairs, through the kitchen, even the bathroom, thinking and planning. What could you do? What was left for you?

You baked a cake. Your sister was right when she said that, as a child, you neglected all the chores your parents gave you. You never learned to cook, you only knew how to make the simplest chocolate cake.

The hands of the clock. To grab them and stop them. So that Richard would never come back, and Spencer could stay with you forever.

You sat at the kitchen table, even though it was Saturday. Spencer didn’t check the mailbox; he usually slept in on weekends. In fact, for the first time, you didn’t even wait for him.

You waited until Vanessa, as usual, began watering the roses by the fence.

And then, you went to the cupboard to get the axe.

Even then, you remained in your nightgown. The same one you wore when her husband had bandaged your foot. When it all began. A woman in lace, gripping an axe almost bigger than she was, what an unusual sight in a suburban neighborhood so calm.

At first, Vanessa didn’t even notice you approach, and when she did, she didn’t stop watering the flowers. She simply raised an eyebrow in surprise.

Meanwhile, your head was filled with a buzzing sound. You became increasingly aware of the weight of the axe in your hand. And then, the quiet, mundane neighborhood was pierced by a woman's scream.

*

Sarah found him smoking a cigarette outside the psychiatric hospital, inhaling the smoke so deeply as if he hoped it would give him lung cancer immediately. The sight surprised her.

"You smoke?" she asked, immediately realizing how stupid the question was. What did it matter whether he smoked? She probably would too if she found herself in such a situation.

Richard flicked the ash.

"I started again," he replied briefly.

For a moment, they stood in silence, struggling to find words in such a situation. Sarah stared at her shoes, still unable to grasp it all. Her own sister had tried to kill their neighbor, an entirely innocent woman, while she was watering flowers in front of her house. Because of... oh, that was probably the strangest part of it all. And it was what decided that instead of a cell, she ended up in a hospital under close observation.

She had convinced herself that, in her husband's absence, she had started an affair with her neighbor. And that led her to attempt to get rid of his wife.

"Did you see her?" she asked.

Richard shook his head in denial. He seemed exhausted, as though he had aged at least ten years. And had endured a series of life tragedies, including a war.

"I don't even know if I can," he replied, making a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He suddenly took a deep breath, his exhale trembling. "Do you know what the police found at our house? A cake. She baked it for me, supposedly as a welcome, even left a note with my name on it. She stuffed it with rat poison, do you understand that? She wanted to kill me. She wanted to kill me too."

Sarah was speechless. She covered her mouth with her hand, her fingers trembling, unable to control them for quite some time. They stood in silence for a moment, not knowing what to say, as she tried to recall the past two weeks. She analyzed her sister's behavior, only now realizing how twisted it had been. She had thought she was suffering from loneliness, not from... all this madness in her mind.

“Richard,” she managed to say his name carefully. The question she wanted to ask wasn’t particularly polite, but she had to know. “Why... why didn’t you send her anywhere after her last breakdown? To a hospital where they could take care of her?”

“Would I have to tell my parents that my wife ended up in a psychiatric ward?” he replied, voice low.

“Maybe now you wouldn’t have to tell them she tried to murder someone,” she snapped, a surge of anger rising within her towards him.

He rubbed his face, still holding the cigarette in his hand.

“Damn it, Sarah, I’m sorry... you’re right, God, I know you’re right. I regret so much that I did nothing back then, didn’t react... I... I fooled myself, thinking it would pass. That we’d move and it would get better,” he said, his voice breaking slightly.

He tried to touch her shoulder, but she pulled away. For a long time, she had the feeling that her sister’s husband was trying to get closer to her in some way. He wasn’t pushy or disgusting, nothing like that. If he had been, she wouldn’t have accepted his offer to work for them at their house. But sometimes, she had the impression that during their conversations, he tried to flirt with her. For birthdays and holidays, he gave her expensive gifts, occasionally touching her briefly, but quickly pulling away when he noticed her gaze. Sarah had been with the same girl for three years, the one she was planning to propose to. Besides, she would never do that to her sister.

“Sarah,” he said, pleading. “Sarah, what am I supposed to do?”

Well, this wasn’t something she could advise on. Maybe no one could. However, she didn’t want to leave him hanging, without a conclusion, without reflection, before she went inside to see her sister for the first time since that incident. She looked at the barely glowing cigarette in his hand.

“Be grateful that woman survived,” she finally replied.

The cigarette butt fell to the ground, and she stepped on it with her shoe.

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I'VE BEEN STAYING OFF SOCIAL MEDIA ALL DAY AND NOW MY YELLOWJACKETS FINALE THOUGHTS WILL BE OUT IN ABOUT AN HOUR

isnt christmas fun? i've moved into the office room so they cant see me if i cry

just rewatched shauna's lake hallucination and once again, babygirl can do and kill anything and anyone she wants, every single one of her actions is justified

did i just hear THE SLUMBER PARTY MAKEOUTS?

clock her fuckin ass travis

*me when im evil but i also wear hats sometimes*

said by @cupidheartsxx

🗣I FORGET HOW THE WEST WAS WON💃🔊🎧🎶

omg you're gorgeous, girl 💅🏼💅🏼💅🏼

wait omg tysmmmm

"Un-uhlaive? UN-UHLAIVE? Ma'am, that man has been killed. He has been MUHDUHED. To DEATH."