May 14
SOMETHING VERY BAD IS GOING TO HAPPEN (2026) Episode 8 | "I Do"
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SOMETHING VERY BAD IS GOING TO HAPPEN (2026) Episode 8 | "I Do"
THE OTHER BROTHER
❝But I knew you’d linger like a tattoo kiss I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs❞
✦ pairing: dr. julien “jules” cunningham x fem! reader ✦ summary: your future with nicky cunningham was meant to be perfect. a perfect fiancé, a perfect family, a perfect life. but as your wedding day approaches, old memories resurface, and so does the one person you were never supposed to love. the other brother. ✦ wc: 5.8k ✦ crossposted to ao3 ✦tags & warnings: 18+ only! mdni !!! angst & emotional cheating. eventual smut ✦ recommended listening: cardigan - taylor swift
SIX DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING
The night Nicky Cunningham proposed to you was the night a part of you died. It’s not that you didn’t love him. He was utterly perfect. His kindness felt effortless. His patience made people soften around him. Nicky had always known how to take pieces of himself and offer them up to others like it cost him nothing. You used to think that was the purest kind of love. Maybe it is. Maybe that’s why this feels so wrong.
Maybe it was because you were only with Nicky for six months before he popped the question. You’ve known him since you were a child, so it made sense for him to propose so soon. He practically spent his entire life time loving you, or at least being told that he should love you by his mother.
You remember the look on Nicky’s face with his hands trembling just slightly as he held yours. Your mother was already crying before you could even answer, and his parents watching like this was something inevitable like it had always been predicted before you were even born. You said yes, and you meant it.
At least, you think you did. Your mother always told you to be in a relationship where the man should love more than his wife. “So if he loves you more, you’ll always be safe,” she would say with a painted smile,”…and you can get whatever you want in the world without needing to do anything in return.”
You used to believe her. It made sense because you have been gifted with such a lavish life at the hands of your kind father who adores you and your mother more than anything else. Your mother was divine. She is effortlessly beautiful and the kind of woman people turned to look at twice. You loved her at a distance. She never reached for you first, but you stopped expecting her to. You couldn’t do anything right in her eyes unless they were carefully crafted by her own mind.
She wore your father’s love like jewelry. To her, he was something nice to have, something that completed the picture. You never once saw her look at him like he looked at her. Never saw that same devotion reflected back. Now that he's gone, you can't seem to remember what it feels like to have parental affection.
Now you’re afraid that your life has led you back to this path. The path of empty laughter and a greedy mouth ready to spill half truths of your perfect life to whoever is willing to listen. Why does it feel like you’re stepping into your mother’s life instead of your own?
━━━━ ✦ ━━━━
Three months have passed since Nicky popped the question, and now it is the week of your wedding. In just six days you are going to be Mrs. Cunningham. You were hoping for a longer engagement. One where you would be able to make every conscious decision carefully, but your families were eager to see you at the altar with Nicky. There was truly no way around it. It was like your mother and Victoria had a deadline that needed to be met, but you couldn’t figure out why exactly they were in a rush. You’re staying in the Cunningham lodge. Everything is curated to perfection, every detail intentional. You should feel like you’re in a dream. Instead, it feels like you’ve stepped into something that was written long before you ever had a say.
You thought, at some point, the anxiety would fade. That excitement would take its place. That you’d wake up one morning and feel it. You would feel the certainty and joy that your mother always talked about, but that feeling never came. If anything, it got worse. Wedding planning didn’t feel like building a future. It felt like a chore that required the input of every person in your life. Every decision felt like something you were pushed into. The colors, the flowers, the dress, hell, even your venue, you felt like you had no say.
So you did what you always do. You disappeared into your work. Art has always made sense to you in a way life doesn’t. As a curator, you know how to place things. You know how to create meaning, how to make something feel right just by positioning it correctly. But lately, it’s felt like your life is the one being arranged. You don’t recognize the narrative anymore.
The front door closes softly behind you as you step into the lodge, the scent of polished wood and something faintly floral filling the air. This scent is nostalgic, reminding you of the many holidays spent here. This was your second home growing up. Not necessarily the lodge, but any place owned by the Cunningham family was also your own. Your mother and Nicky’s mother were college friends. They were mirrors of one another, often validating the other’s thoughts and feelings without a second thought. A part of you always felt like your mother loves Victoria more than your own father. Hell, even yourself.
You’re alone. Well, not technically. The housekeeper is helping carrying in your things. Despite your pleas to help her, she refused. You saw another car parked outside, but you didn’t care to check and see who it belonged to. You assumed it was the housekeeper's. The evening was supposed to be a welcome party with just the women, and the men would come later in the night. Just you, your mother, Victoria, and Portia. Your mother wanted to throw you an early celebration with just the matriarchs of the family. She wanted to congratulate you for following her orders to create a perfect life. The women are out in the nearest town apparently picking up the “surprise” they’ve been planning for you. Nell never responded to your calls or messages from weeks ago. You swear you’ve mentioned your wedding plans to her many times in the past, but she decided to ghost you right before your big day. It was unusual of her to leave you stranded, but you assumed she was busy. Besides, wedding planning has been so stressful, the last thing you’re worried about is just one person.
Nicky and the boys should be out collecting suits for the groomsmen among other bachelor activities. You’re honestly glad you are alone because you don’t think you could handle the entire Cunningham bloodline here.
Your eyes follow the beautifully crafted details in the home. You walk through the home in awe as you stride through each room transitioning into another work of art. Then they stop. Your gaze lands on the large portrait hanging above the mantle. Your eyes find him immediately. No, not Nicky, but the other brother. Like they always do. He sticks out within the precisely painted Cunningham family. You’ve seen this painting many times. But something is different.
You step closer without meaning to, your chest tightening as your eyes scan the familiar figures. Victoria, Dr. Boris, and Portia are painted beautifully, each stroke perfectly capturing their essence. Then there is Nicky. Oh, your sweet Nicky. You notice a new addition beside Nicky. There’s a chair. Your chair. It’s unfinished. The chair waiting for your place in the painting is detailed like the others, but it’s empty. It’s waiting for you. Like you’ve already been placed.
Your throat tightens. This isn’t just a painting. It’s a future someone else has already framed. An expectation. A quiet, suffocating certainty that this is where you belong. And then you see him. You see Jules. Then you see something else. The space to the right of him has been carefully painted over, as if to cover something. To cover a mistake. Your stomach drops again. Nell is gone. Sweet Jude is still there, but there was no sign of Nell. That explains it.
“You noticed.” A low voice startles you. Of course it’s him. It’s always him.
Slowly, like you’re afraid of what you’ll find, you turn your head. Your heels softly click against the floors, filling the quiet and tense hallway.
Jules stands just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without him ever touching you. Like he’s drawn to the same thing you are. Or maybe… to you. How long was he there for? How long has it been since you last saw him? Maybe since your engagement, but you aren’t too sure. It’s been too long.
“You don’t think it’s strange?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intend. “To just… erase someone like that?”
“Isn't it stranger to have an empty seat for someone not in the family yet?” You stop and immediately frown. You just have to ignore him.
“I really liked Nell, you know. She was good with Nicky, but she was even better with you. Also, Jude adored her,” you bite your lip, trying to find the words to explain your mixed emotions. A part of you is shocked to see her gone, but a part of you is relieved. You don’t exactly know why though. Your turn back towards the painting, trying to remember what it looked like with Nell.
“She left,” he says finally.
You frown slightly, glancing at him now despite yourself. “Left?”
Another pause. He speaks with a low and silky tone, enticing you to turn and look at him. You refuse to fully turn to him. You don’t want to acknowledge his pain or the tension in the air. Nell left only a month before. It coincidentally occurred the same time you sent out invitations. She was quick to sign the divorce papers and move on with her life, but why didn’t you find out about this sooner?
“Some people don’t stay where they’re expected to.”
Your heart stumbles. You have a feeling that this was not just about Nell.
“People don’t get erased,” Jules says, his tone sharper now. “They just get replaced.” The words land harder than they should. Your chest tightens. Because no one is getting replaced in this scenario. You start to wonder what his words truly mean. Is he the one getting replaced?
“Is that what you think this is?” you ask, before you can stop yourself. "I haven't seen you in a year, and the first thing you do is criticize me?"
Silence stretches between the two of you.
“I think,” he says slowly, “that you’re about to put yourself somewhere you don’t belong or…” Jules glances at Nicky in the painting,“…someone else is in a place they don’t belong.”
Your face burns with anger, and perhaps a bit of embarrassment. There is a bit of truth to his words, yet you’re filled with so much rage. Are you supposed to feel offended or hurt? Maybe both.
“Why are you here, Jules?” Your voice rises because you can’t take the sly remarks anymore. “Shouldn’t you be with Nicky? Picking up the tuxes? Doing bachelor things?”
For a second, you think he won’t answer. Jules just looks at you like he’s weighing something, like there’s a version of this moment where he says too much and everything shifts. Then he shakes his head. He remains steady and impossible to read.
“No.”
Your brows pull together in confusion.
“No?”
“They don’t need me there.”
“That’s not—” you exhale, trying to steady yourself and level out your frustration. Your hands come to your forehead, massaging out the anger. “It’s your brother’s wedding.”
“I’m aware.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your chest tighten. Not defensive. Not dismissive. He is calm and cool, like he always is. You swallow. “Then why aren’t you with him?”
He pauses long enough to feel intentional.
“Because I’m here,” he says simply, “with you.”
Your stomach drops.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” he replies, quieter now.
You shake your head, frustration boiling under your skin. “Jules—”
“You want the real one?” he cuts in, voice rising.
Your eyes falter because something in his tone shifts. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair before his eyes find yours again. “I couldn’t stand there,” he says, “pretending this is normal.”
Your pulse spikes. “Pretending what is normal?”
His jaw tightens. “This,” he says, gesturing faintly between you, the room, the house and everything. “You. Him. The way everyone’s acting like this is exactly how it’s supposed to go.”
“I’m supposed to be here,” you insist, even as it sounds weaker out loud. “This is my wedding.”
“I know.” His jaw tightens, just slightly.
“Then stop—” your voice cracks, your emotions bleeding through now, “—stop looking at me like I’m making a mistake.”
Your heart skips a beat. You can’t believe you said that.
“Are you?”
That was enough of his insults and banter. You start walking away from him, making your way towards the kitchen so you can cool yourself down with a glass of wine. Your heels rapidly tap down the hallway as you try to run away from him. But of course, Jules follows after you. You’ve tried everything possible to keep him away from you. You never texted him or called. You never told him about you and Nicky's quick union. You needed to keep him from being an obstacle from the life you’ve always wanted. You just want to feel safe, but he has always threatened your safety.
“Why are you doing this to me?” You shout in frustration, trying to wave him off. You are both alone in the kitchen. You frantically search for the nearest bottle of wine to pour yourself. “All you have done since I’ve been with Nicky is make my life hell! For the love of God, just leave me alone already. We aren’t kids anymore, Jules.” You can feel tears threaten to fall from your eyes, but you fight them back as you pour yourself a glass. You can’t even look at Jules because you are seething with anger.
“Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone. Why do you keep on questioning all of my choices?”
His expression shifts. It’s painful. It’s the kind of pain that yearns for comfort.
“…Because no one else will,” he says. His voice is normally so calm and cool, but you can hear just an ounce of his pain. Jules is practically pleading for you to turn around without saying a single word.
Your chest aches. You finally turn around to face him, and your breath catches. He’s closer to you than you realized. You weren’t prepared for this version of him up close. Not like this. Jules Cunningham looks different when there’s no distance left between you. The sharpness you’re used to melts into something more real, more human. There are faint lines etched into his face. The skin around his eyes and along his brow have marks left behind by too many night shifts. His hair is slightly unkempt, like he ran a hand through it too many times and stopped caring about fixing it.
His eyes. Those beautifully rich, brown eyes stare into your soul. His eyes are locked on yours. There is not a trace of mischief or playfulness, and he’s not detached. He’s focused on you. Just you. There’s something quieter there now. He looks like someone who has been carrying something for a long time. Something heavy. Something that hasn’t let him rest. Underneath his hard exterior is a look of regret. It sits there unhidden like he’s stopped trying to disguise it.
Your throat tightens, but you don’t look away. Because you can’t. This is the Jules you’ve cared about for years. For a second you can see a glimpse of young Jules. The young boy who would always tease you, yet always knew how to make you smile after the fact. Standing this close, seeing him like this, makes it harder to hold onto the anger you were using to steady yourself.
That version of him flickers across his face now, and it makes everything worse. Standing this close to him, seeing him like this, makes it harder to hold onto the anger you’ve been using to steady yourself. You’ve missed this Jules. Your Jules. The one that knew you better than anyone else.
“See?” he says quietly. His is almost tired from pleading for you. “This is what I mean.”
“Please, Jules,” you whisper, shaking your head slightly. “Just stop it already.”
“I just need you to be honest with yourself and with me. You never lie to me.”
Your chest tightens. Jules has always been the person that challenged everything you did. He didn’t criticize you though, not like your mother. He never made you feel belittled over your decisions except for this one. He just knew how to get you thinking critically about your choices, and he always supported you in the end.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been lying to everyone else since the moment you said yes to Nicky, but you know you can't fool me.”
“No, I—”
“Yes, you have,” he interrupts, but there’s no bite in it now. Just certainty. “Just tell me this, and be honest.”
In this moment, he reaches his hand out to you. He softly holds onto your shoulder as if he needs to brace himself for what he was about to ask.
“Do you really love Nicky?” He asked the question he knew he didn’t want the answer to. Because then it would truly feel real. You would finally get away from him.
It takes you a minute to respond. Too long.
“…I love Nicky,” you say finally, firmly, like you’re trying to convince yourself it is true. “…and I am going to marry him.”
Jules exhales slowly.
“Okay.”
Just that. Okay.
And then he lets go of your shoulders. The absence of his hands hits you harder than the touch did. He steps back, putting distance between you that made him feel further away than it actually was. Only then do you realize you’re crying. You don’t even remember when it started. Fat tears roll down your cheeks, your nose is pink, and your lips are practically raw from biting on them.
Jules notices immediately. His expression shifts to deep devotion and care, something that didn’t happen often to people that were you or Jude. He steps forward again without thinking, hand lifting slightly as if to wipe your tears away.
The thing about you and Jules is that you two are always honest to each other. Always. No matter how hard a truth can be, you have to tell him. Unfortunately, that's the hardest truth you've ever had to admit to, and now it's eating you alive despite you being honest.
Before he can, voices spill into the hallway. Loud. Bright. Too cheerful to belong to what just happened.
“Where is Future Mrs. Cunningham~”
Portia’s voice echoes through the lodge like nothing in the world has changed. Jules freezes mid-motion. Your blood turns cold when you realize. You step back quickly. Five steps away from him in seconds, turning your face away just as you lift your glass and take a long, shaky sip of wine like it can erase what just happened.
The three women enter the kitchen in a wave of perfume, silk, and celebration. Each of them enter bearing lavish gifts wrapped in pink and gold. Portia is practically glowing with excitement, hands already clapping together. Victoria follows with composed elegance, her smile softer but observant as per usual. Then your mother gracefully enters the room. Your mother is radiant. Perfect and beaming, until she sees him.
Jules. The other brother.
The shift is immediate. Subtle, but unmistakable. Her smile doesn’t fall, but it tightens at the edges, like something carefully maintained under pressure. She is clearly irritated. She cannot stand Jules. He’s more accomplished than Nicky in every way possible. He’s a doctor, devilishly handsome, and so incredibly smart. But, he is not Nicky. So your mother will never approve of him. Just tolerate but nothing more.
“Jules?” she says with disguised joy, “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with Nicky?”
Victoria’s gaze flicks between the two of you. She is slowly assessing the situation as if she’s trying to solve a problem no one has officially admitted exists yet.
“I was,” Jules replies evenly. He is calm and controlled. “I brought Jude to the lodge early because he was not feeling very good. He doesn’t enjoy car rides.” Your mother’s eyes narrow just slightly, not at you, but at the situation. At the shape of it and the imbalance she can feel but not name. She doesn’t believe him entirely, but she does love little Jude.
“I promise I won’t get in the way of tonight. I’ll stay in the room with Jude.”
“And where is dear Nelly?” Victoria asks. Jules is silent and cold. Everyone understands immediately what he means.
“Oh…” Portia breaks the silence and gives Jules a little pour. “I am so sorry, Jules.”
“It’s fine. Seriously, I am okay,” Jules reassures.
The other women clearly look a bit concerned, but not so much Victoria. She seems almost relieved.
Suddenly, you are hyperaware of everything. Of the wine in your hand. Of your unsteady breathing. Of the fact that Jules is still standing too close to where you were moments ago. Of the way your body hasn’t fully recovered from the conversation that just cracked something open inside you. So you don’t respond. You just drink again.
Portia claps her hands, breaking the tension before it can settle.
“Okay, okay, enough seriousness,” she says brightly. “We have a wedding to finish planning!”
She turns to you with her sickeningly cheerful attitude, “We can find another bridesmaid right?!” You are honestly a little stunned to see how the scene around you continues to move despite your stillness. Everyone continues their chatter and excited banter as you stare off into your glass of wine.
Jules isn’t looking at them. He’s looking at you. Long enough that your breath catches again. No one else notices. At least you think no one else did.
“I should go…” Jules says hurriedly, “…I need to check on Jude.” He turns before anyone can respond. But right before he leaves the room, his eyes flick back to you once more. It is brief, unreadable, and far too steady for what just happened between you. Then he’s gone, leaving the air behind him heavier than before. Portia immediately launches into another sentence. Your mother adjusts her posture. Victoria starts speaking about seating arrangements.
But you stay still. Glass in hand. Your eyes are practically glazed over while you wrap your head around what just happened. Heart loud in your chest. Even with him gone, it feels like the conversation never ended.
━━━━ ✦ ━━━━
A few hours have passed and you’re in the Lover’s suite alone. Curled into yourself on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to your chest, you absentmindedly twist your engagement ring around your finger. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like if you keep it moving, you won’t have to think about what it actually means.
The room is filled with gifts. Boxes. Tissue paper. Satin ribbons carelessly draped over polished surfaces. Beautiful things. Expensive things. None of them feel like yours. You try not to sound ungrateful—even in your own head—but it’s hard to ignore the disconnect. Every gift feels like it was chosen for someone else. Someone easier. Someone more predictable. Someone who fits the perfect mold for the perfect future Mrs. Cunningham. The purse sitting on the chair is stunning. It is sleek, structured, clearly worth more than you’re comfortable thinking about. But it’s not your style. It never has been. The mink scarf draped across the vanity makes your stomach turn slightly. It’s soft, luxurious. However, it is completely unwearable to you. You’ve never understood how something dead could be considered beautiful.
Your eyes land on the box at the foot of the bed. Your mother’s gift. You already know what’s inside. It’s your “something old”. Slowly, you reach for it, lifting the lid with more care than you intended. The heels are breathtaking. Delicate. Timeless. The kind of shoes you once imagined picking out for yourself one day. Something that would feel like you. But they aren’t yours.
They’re hers and your mother’s mother. A legacy. A path already walked. Your throat tightens as you stare at them. Because that’s what this all feels like, doesn’t it? Not a beginning of your life but a continuation of her's.
“I don’t want to be her…” you whisper to no one.
The words sit heavy in the room. You love your mother, but you’ve seen what her life looks like. You’re not sure you can survive it. A wave of nausea rolls through you suddenly, sharp and overwhelming. You press a hand to your stomach, breathing shallowly. God. You actually might be sick. The anxiety has been building for weeks, but now it’s something physical.
You are honestly relieved Nicky won’t come until tomorrow. He and Dr. Boris got stuck in the snow and is staying in a motel for the night. Nicky is everything you are supposed to want. You love him, but now they’re an immovable obstacle in the way. You try not to think about him, but it’s already too late. He has infiltrated your thoughts. It’s him.
The other brother.
You have a secret. One that only Jules knows. For as long as you could remember, you loved Julian Cunningham. You didn’t love him in a fleeting way but deeply with devotion. He was your first everything. Your first date, first kiss, first time, and first love. But he was never your first boyfriend. No, your affair was hidden like a shadow from your families. Why? It was because he was the other brother. The wrong one. The one that neither of your parents would have approved of. Jules was never the safe choice. He was sharp, blunt, rough around the edges in a way that made people uncomfortable. But none of that ever stopped you. You loved him anyway.
You think about it now. The way you used to sneak through these halls as teenagers, your heart racing as you stole quick, breathless kisses in corners you thought no one would notice. Or in college, when you would drive hours away to see Jules after his medical school rotations. He’d be exhausted, barely able to stand. You’d still cook for him, sit with him, tuck him into bed like he was something fragile, even when he pretended not to be.
Those years taught you everything. How to love someone fully. How to care for someone like they were a part of you. Like losing him would feel like losing air. But there was always a line you two couldn’t cross. A boundary neither of you named, but both of you understood. You were never public. The feelings were never acknowledged. Never real to anyone but yourselves.
Jules kept you like a secret, but you kept him like an oath.
A sound breaks through the silence.
Soft at first. Then again. A knock.
Knock knock.
You know it wasn’t your mother. She doesn’t ask for permission, she just goes in. “…I know you’re in there.” It’s his voice. It’s low, muffled through the door, but it was unmistakable.
Jules. The other brother.
Your heart starts racing again, faster now, your body already reacting before your mind catches up. No one should be here this late. Not tonight. You slowly slide off the bed, your bare feet hitting the cold floor. Each step toward the door feels heavier than the last, your breath shallow, your hand hesitating just before the handle.
You twist the knob. The door creaks open, and there he is again.
Jules.
“Hey,” he says quietly, trying not to signal to anyone else in the home that he’s here. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry…”
You don’t let him finish. “For what, Jules?” Your voice is sharper than you expect, but you don’t pull it back. “For being an asshole to me on my wedding week?”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Yes… but also for everything else.”
You hesitate. “What do you mean, Jules?”
He exhales, glancing at you like you already know the answer. “You know what I mean.” The weight of it settles between you.
“Oh.”
It’s barely a response, but it’s enough. He takes a step into your room. He slowly and carefully makes his way inside because he knows he’s allowed to, but can’t stop himself anyway. Now, he’s right in front of you. Closer than he should be. Closer than you should let him.
Before you can think, before you can stop it, he pulls you into him. His strong arms wrap around your waist, keeping you stable. It’s tight and familiar, and it makes your chest ache instantly. You freeze at first, but then you melt. You missed this, and you absolutely hate that you do.
It isn’t the kind of safety Nicky gives you. Nicky gives you something steady, dependable, expected. This is different. This is the kind of safety that feels consuming, like the rest of the world disappears, like nothing exists outside the space between you and him. Your arms wrap around his neck before you can stop yourself, your body remembering before your mind can argue.
When he pulls back, it’s only slightly. Just enough to look at you. And God, that look. There’s something in his eyes you’ve been trying not to name all night. Something heavy. Something aching. Something that looks a lot like longing. He leans in, resting his forehead gently against yours, his hands sliding up to cradle the back of your head. Your breath catches, your fingers tightening against him. His nose brushes yours softly, carefully, like he’s asking a question he already knows he shouldn’t.
“Jules…” you whisper. “Please…” he murmurs, “...don't make the same mistake I've made…”
Your chest tightens painfully. “No.” The word comes out shaky, but you force it out anyway as you step back, breaking the contact. “You’re just acting like this because you’re alone again. You don’t have someone to run to… because Nell left you.”
His expression shifts immediately. “No,” he says, firm, almost desperate. “It’s not like that. It’s never been like that.”
“Then what is it, Jules?” Your voice cracks. The dam holding back every single emotion you've been containing cracks and spills out. Heat rises to your face as tears blur your vision. You push him, once, then again. Your fists hitting his chest over and over again.
“You think you can just come back into my life? Try to take away the one thing I want? Ruin my wedding?”
“You know that’s not what you want,” he says quietly.
“Stop acting like you know me!” you snap, shaking your head as you step back again. “You don’t know what I want. You don’t know me.”
Something in him pulls tight. That hit him hard. It hit something that you knew you wouldn't dare touch.
“You know that’s not true,” he says, his voice lower now, strained. “I know you better than anyone else in this goddamn world, and you know that.”
Your chest rises and falls quickly as your heart beats at an irrationally fast pace. This isn't fair. He's not allowed to do this to you, when he did it not once but twice.
“Whatever you think this is,” you say, forcing the words out, “you’re too late. We’re not teenagers anymore. We’re not in college. We are adults. You need to move on, Jules.”
Silence falls, heavy and suffocating. He looks at you like he wants to argue, like he has a thousand things he could say, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps forward, and before you can react, his hands come up, gently framing your face as he pulls you closer.
Your breath stops. Everything stills. This is it.
Your eyes close instinctively, your body bracing for something you’ve been chasing for far too long. You’re searching for something familiar, dangerous, impossible to undo. You wait for it, your heart pounding loud enough to drown everything else out.
Something soft and warm presses against your forehead. A kiss. Gentle. Lingering.
Then he pulls away.
Your eyes open slowly, confusion flooding in where expectations used to be. The feeling of his lips remain on your forehead, your body trying to chase after that feeling.
“I don’t know if I can make it to Saturday,” he admits quietly, his voice rough now, “without at least trying to show you that I care.”
Your throat tightens. “Julien…”. He never lets anyone call him that, unless that person is you.
He shakes his head, already stepping back. “I am sorry... for how I treated you,” he says, forcing something steadier into his voice. “I’m going to leave now. Jude doesn’t like being here alone.”
He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “I can’t promise I won’t get in the way,” he adds, not turning back. “I’ll try… but I don’t know if I can.”
“Goodnight.” Jules lingers for a moment, and then he’s gone. The door closes softly behind him, but the silence he leaves behind is anything but quiet. The room still feels full of him, of everything he said, of everything he didn’t. Your chest aches, your thoughts tangled, your emotions impossible to separate.
You’re not just anxious anymore. You’re unsure, and somehow, that feels worse. You sink into the bed, the room spinning just enough to make you feel sick, your fingers drifting back to the ring on your hand. It feels heavier now. Jules’ words remain in the air, tangled with your own thoughts, impossible to separate from what you actually feel. You stare down at your hands, at the life that’s been so carefully placed in front of you, and for the first time, you don’t see certainty.
You glance at your phone, hoping you received a text from Nicky. A “goodnight” or “I love you” a reminder that this is simple, that you’re not spiraling alone in it. But the screen stays dark and silent.
You do the one thing that brings you comfort during stressful times like this. You sketch. You pull your thick journal from your suitcase, the familiar weight of it grounding you slightly. Years of work live inside it. There are drawings layered over drawings, pages taped in, corners folded, charcoal smudged into old pencil lines. It’s messy, chaotic even, but it’s yours. You’ve never been able to throw any of it away. Your pencil moves automatically at first, tracing the strong line of a jaw, the familiar structure of Nicky's face, the softness you’ve always associated with him. You try to focus, try to anchor yourself in the details you know by heart. You get lost in your art, meticulously adding details to Nicky's face.
But somewhere between the shading and the shaping, your hand slows. Your breath catches slightly. The face forming on the page isn’t Nicky.
It's Jules.
Your pencil freezes. You stare at the page like it’s betrayed you. It's not like you didn’t just do that. A quiet curse slips out before you can stop it.
“Shit.”
You have a very long week ahead of you.
PART II: HIS EYES ON YOU ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ author's notes: my newest obsession !!! will be a multi-part series so please stay a while :) - love, jaz
"Never Get On One Knee" - Ep. 1
Sage Green
Jules Cunningham x Reader (Female) [Something Very Bad Is Going to Happen (2026)]
Warnings: SPOILERS for SVBIGTH, Swearing
Genre: Enemies-to-Lovers adjacent (more so just Jules annoying Reader), FLUFF
Summary: Wedding prep troubles with the most unhelpful bestman you can imagine.
You're beyond unnerved. Which is not a feeling you'd expected would plague you, invoking such anxiety the whole week before your best friend's wedding.
You aren't allowed to give it the time of day, though. Rachel is already freaked out as is and, as the maid of honor, your job is to keep things under control. Hold down the fort when your best friend is actively losing her shit. Rightfully so - her in-laws are a peculiar set of people. And that's putting it mildly.
The ominous greyness of their lodge was easy to overlook given it's the dead of winter. You'd singled out your letterbox - filled to the brim with little other than horror movies - as the main reason behind the uneasy feeling that settled itself in your gut as soon as you arrived. The taxidermy also deducted some points but overall, nothing too alarming.
Until Rachel's wedding dress went missing.
Portia and Victoria have already found a 'solution' to the mishap - zipping Rachel up in Victoria's own, decades old wedding dress. Calling it her 'something old' or whatever. One look at your best friend, however, and you immediately knew she'd rather walk down the aisle in a straightjacket - which isn't far from becoming an option, given the circumstances.
And so, you're off to hunt.
The layout of the house is still a mystery to you, having not taken it upon yourself to explore it because of how eerie it is and how it makes you feel. So here you are now, roaming the halls unattended with a simple tactic - see closet -> rummage through closet.
Dud after dud after dud.
"How does a whole fucking wedding dress just disappear?" You mutter to yourself as you flip through an endless array of suits hanging in this particular closet you stumbled upon. It'd be pretty fucking hard to miss a whole wedding dress but you're still meticulous about it none the less.
You've by this point come to terms with the fact that this is yet another dud when the sound of someone clearing their throat behind you scares the everloving fuck out of you.
You whirl around with what I'm sure is utter terror in your eyes that quickly dissipates when you see the goofiest possible sight in the doorway - Jules, eating a banana.
"Fucking hell, Julian! You scared me." You hiss at him with righteous anger you have no right to exhibit after tearing through his closet. As it would somehow conceal your rummaging, you opt to slowly reach behind yourself and shut the closet doors. All done with the subtlety of a trainwreck - the wood creaking like thunder in the otherwise silent room. You can't even tell though, your heart is hammering so loud you hear it in your ears.
"First off - don't call me that. Second, you're gonna need a pretty good reason as to why you were waist deep in my belongings just now." His voice only has one volume and tone setting, as you've come to realize. Deceivingly calm and quiet. And terrifying to you right now.
Or it would be if you weren't running on adrenaline fueled misplaced anger.
"Rachel's wedding dress, it's gone. I've been looking for it everywhere." You explain with exasperation that you only allow yourself to show now. It's been a hell of a week and you're only on the second day of it. You've suggested elopement to Rachel at least five times already and even she's starting to get swayed - it's been THAT bad dealing with these people.
Jules nods slowly, processing your reply, before a slow smirk spreads across his face. Doesn't mean you're in safe territory, though. If anything, it makes you stand a little straighter. Deep down, you're aware that Jules is the most reasonable of the Cunninghams and that your view of him has been marred by the impression the rest of his family have left on you with their treatment of Rachel.
"I'm not looking to fulfill any bridal fantasies so I don't see why your friend's wedding dress would be in my closet." He says finally, taking a bite of his banana, "Doubt it would fit me too."
Your frenzy being countered by his disinterested nonchalance makes your eye almost twitch in irritation. "Right. Good talk."
You go to bulldoze past him, a feat he makes all the more difficult by not moving an inch despite taking up just about the entire doorway. All but making sure you have to touch him in your passing.
But you're nothing if not stubborn, "And inch of space, if you please." You deadpan, glaring him dead in the soul.
The fucker has the audacity to laugh and, much to your surprise, it's not a condescending sound. He's genuinely having fun pissing you off. It's the first time you've heard the sound and you just now realize it. Sure he snorts, scoffs, dry-chuckles - whichever sound best suits his momentary flavor of sarcasm. But a genuine laugh is difficult to provoke from him as far as you've been able to tell.
"Is it the wedding planning or are you always so brisk?" He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest, very much not giving you that inch of space you requested.
"Is it the douchey-older-brother syndrome or is it your natural musk?" You counter, eyes narrowing at him like you're sizing him up while his dress you down. Although this fact is lost on you in your moment of annoyance.
"I have my answer." Jules has a way of making it seem like he's won every argument he's ever entered. Even this one. That cryptic little tidbit has you in a checkmate state of not knowing what to reply. You don't even have to because he continues, "Sage green, huh?"
You're about to give him your famous narrow-eyes-head-tilt 'the fuck are you saying?' combo when you follow the trajectory of his gaze, landing on your maid of honor dress. You'd been not-so-softly encouraged by Portia and Victoria to try it on while Rachel was trying on the substitute wedding dress. You'd forgotten you were still prancing around in it, the silk material like cool water on your skin. And it is, in fact, sage green.
"Um, yeah. Bride's choice." You mutter finally, unsure of how else to respond to that observation.
"She did you all the favors choosing that color."
If you were to suspend your disbelief, you'd almost let yourself take that as a very roundabout compliment. He's clearly not programmed to give straight-up ones so might as well take what you can get. You don't go as far as to thank him, though, in case he didn't mean it like that.
"At least I now know what color tie to wear." He adds more so as an afterthought.
You knit your eyebrows together in confusion. "We're supposed to match?" You knew he'd be the best man and all but neither Rachel nor Nicky gave a shit about the aesthetics of their respective one-person wedding parties. The wedding in general has no dress code. She'd even told you to wear whatever dress you wanted and only chose this dress for you because you were being indecisive.
Jules snorts - or chuckles, it's sometimes hard to differentiate with him. "No."
You've reached your cryptic tidbits quota for the day and finally brush past him, muttering a quick "Whatever" in passing as you carry on down the hall to proceed with your wedding dress hunt.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With the dress still missing, you and Rachel do a quick regroup before dinner, mostly to calm her nerves. In the end you manage to convince her - and partly yourself - that the substitute isn't that bad. After all, Rachel doesn't even care all that much about it. If Nicky's family was a little more open-minded she would've happily worn a black dress but alas.
That decided and some other wedding planning on the back burner, you two finally go to the dining room where the family has already sat down to eat dinner. Most of the family, anyway.
You immediately spot the empty chair and know whose absence is the cause of it. You don't dare question it though.
Nicky does it for you, "Where's Jules?"
His mother waves her hand dismissively, "He headed out a couple hours ago, he probably still hasn't made it to the city. Something about needing a new tie of whatever."
Now that piques your interest.
"Doesn't he have a whole drawer of ties? He's never worn one." Portia scoffs. You can better hear than see her eyeroll but you just know it's there.
You try not to dwell on it - key word being 'try'.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's somewhere close to 2AM when you hear the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps - most likely of boot-clad feet - stomping out in the hallway. Initially, your sleep hazed brain freaks out, bolting you into an upright position, prepared for a fight-or-flight situation.
But then you think better of it...
You seem to have no say in it as some autopilot setting guides you to leave the warmth of your bed and safety of your room. The latter doesn't happen for you immediately come face to face with Jules when you open the door.
"Hey. Did I wake you?" He says, having the tact to whisper despite stomping around like the wooden floors aren't ancient.
You shake your head, "No I-um, I was awake. You just got back?"
He nods, unbuttoning his winter coat, "Yeah, it's a long fucking drive." Yeah, you know exactly how long it is. You drove the same road on your way over. You were far more annoyed about it in comparison to Jules who seems not too bothered. The opposite if anything. He smirks as he takes out a flat black box from one of the coats inner pockets, taking the lid off so you can see.
It's so dark you can't even see the tie itself but one brush of your fingers against it confirms it to be silk. As for the color - you already know.
"Now we can match." He says, sounding every bit as satisfied as he looks.
"This is why you spiked the mileage on your car?" It's your turn to chuckle/scoff, a defense mechanism that would lose all its merit if Jules could see the flush of your cheeks. "Didn't you say we don't have to match?"
"Having to and wanting to are two very different things, Y/N." You can never count on this man for a forward answer. It's fine though, you've come to expect and started to understand his lines. "Good night, maid of honor."
I'm sure there's at least two rules against strangling the best-man before the wedding. There's also at least two hundred unwritten rules against fraternizing - read: fucking - with the best-man as the maid of honor. Both of these facts are the foundation of your restraint when all you want is yank him into your room. Whether it be for the purposes of first degree murder or sex, you would've found out as you went.
Too bad you'll never know because you let him walk off down the hall.
Maybe the reader is Nicky’s sister (older or younger, whichever you prefer), but unlike the rest of the family, she’s very like put together. She speaks her mind, confident, and doesn’t really get pulled into all the chaos the same way. She just kind of stands her ground and does her own thing.
I think it’d be interesting if that’s what catches Rachel’s attention, like yk the reader stands out because she’s not like everyone else, and Rachel ends up getting kind of fixated on her because of it.
From there, I’d love if it developed into something more intense sexual, depending on what you’re comfortable writing. Like that tension building into something physical eventually.
Title: With Scarves of Red
Ship: Rachel Harkin x Fem!Reader
Summary: You're invited to your twin brother Nicky's wedding. Though, you've never met the bride. There's something strangely captivating about her that makes your family a little more bearable.
Warnings: Mentions of grief and death, a bad marriage, animal death (very minimal, just alluded to), Canon-typical violence, blood, mentions of curses, smoking, cheating (sort of, ig) and horrible grammar! I don't proofread!
Taglist :)- @thinking1bee, @ssmallcake @eliebloom @safespaceforme2513
[A/n: Right, so I got a little carried away with this one. I was trying to get the voices down, and this could probably use a part two. But I had fun!]
Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests
The invitation came in the form of a text message with horrible grammar. It was curt, but shot something queasy through your stomach regardless. It was the contact name. Julien never reached out to you directly. None of your siblings did. Not unless someone had died, or was getting married. And thankfully, thankfully, it was the latter.
You paled all the same, abandoning the unwavering focus on the design in front of you. Something that was a mish-mash of traditional and Russian Prison style that you itched to add color to. The lead tip of your pencil broke, shooting to some unknown spot in your area. You distantly heard it ping off something.
On unsteady legs, you knocked on your supervisor's door. He glanced up at you, pushing his glasses into his salt and pepper hair before waving you in and insisting that you take a seat. Jim was stretched every different way, but to his credit, gave you his undivided attention. Right now his tender gaze felt like a weight on your chest.
He was an older man, most of the ink on his arms had blown out with age, but still looked pristine in their purpose. His beard had grown scruffier since he last shaved two summers ago. His wife insisted he take a back seat, spend more time in his office and less time fighting the carpal tunnel in his hands.
“I need the rest of the week for a family event.” You told him, not able to meet his eyes. You traced the design on the top of your knuckles, as if you were etching them from memory alone. “I know it’s short notice. I can pick up an extra Saturday when I get back.”
Jim frowned, the wrinkles around his eyes pinching like he was a man that smiled genuinely and often. “Don’t even worry about that. Take the time you need. You have an apprentice, put her to use.”
He must have seen the discontent on your face. You always had such a tight control over your work, your narrative. There were split versions of you, all overlapping until you formed one indifferent human that switched masks with the setting. Here, you were professional. Well- Mannered. Alone.
“Oh, don’t do that. Go, be with your family. Hopefully it’s for a good event.”
Jim didn’t pry, never would. But there was a mystery around you that must have been too tempting. You’d worked under his supervision for five years, and the only thing he knew about you that wasn’t about your work ethic was that you had a gold fish and you loved him very much.
Fuck it.
“My brother is getting married this weekend.”.
“Oh?”
“We’re not very close.” You supplied, trying to offer a small, soothing smile. “But I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
And, god, had you hoped that a freak storm would make the cabin impossible to get to. Of course, you wouldn’t exactly call it a cabin either. It was a massive, unnecessary structure that brought darkness to an otherwise calm landscape. Your parents had hired a designer that made everything clinical in a way that lacked the warmth anyone would seek.
By the time you were deemed old enough to consider joining the boys and your father fox hunting, you avoided the woods entirely. There was too much darkness, too much quiet. And by then, Jules had told you about the Sorry Man. Nicky had laughed, trying to be brave. But you were under no illusion.
What Jules had said, tears streaming down his face and fingers shaking was not a joke. It was not a silly campfire story that he wielded like a blade. He had never been the same after that. He had been fragile, and you had kept your distance. By the time you were sixteen you had developed enough of your frontal lobe to realize that you slotted into the family like a specter.
You were never brave enough to fit in with Nicky and Jules. Never patient enough to identify with Portia. Your mother regarded you as a fixture in the family portrait and your father, the person you were perhaps closest to, had diminished over the years. Folded into compliance, worry, and routine.
You were the stable one. And because the Cunninghams were all chaos in a controlled environment, your lack of crisis edged into a separation that grew wider and wider by the day. The last interaction you’d had with any of them was at Julien’s wedding. His second wedding, where your mother gave you a chaste kiss on the cheek and lamented about having to hire someone to fix the portrait. Apparently, it was nearly impossible to find someone who could capture the beauty of oil paints anymore. You soothed her all the same, and left early the next morning after polite smiles and pulpy orange juice for breakfast.
Nicky’s wedding, according to your older brother, was set for this Saturday. A storm was rolling in, fast and heavy, so you left the tattoo parlor, shoved some things into a duffel bag, and made your way to the house. The drive was never your favorite. In the summer, it was bearable: With produce stands and lush fields that swayed in the wind. The winter made it desolate. Abandoned. Marred with a small ice cream stand that you never remember being open.
Halfway through the journey there was a rest area that you never stopped at because you were always alone. You would rather pee in an empty Big Gulp and have it slosh around in the cup holder then become the next victim of dark corners and uncleanly facilities.
A little further up was a bar, one that was nameless and patronless. That was another place you wouldn’t stop at. But, it was a landmark that you were fifteen minutes away from home. And something like disregard would begin to settle in your chest. A cold, unnatural feeling that matched the fat flakes of snow that fell from the sky before melting against your windshield.
You seemed to be the last to arrive. Nell and Jules had parked their SUV impeccably. Portia’s BMW was juxtapositioned in a way that took up two spots. And an old clunker of a station wagon was pulled very neatly next to the hewn wall. It had the thickest layer of snow on it; idling longer than the others.
After you shut off the engine, you remained in the car, listening to the ticking of a metal heart under the hood. Your last moments of quiet. Of peace. Of anything that resembled the perfectly crafted normalcy you’d curated. But, you resigned yourself to the fact that you couldn’t stay out here forever.
The house was quiet when you stepped through its threshold, kicking the snow from your boots before toeing them off entirely. A soft glow radiated from the study, assuring that you weren’t entirely in the dark. Your father had designed the cabin in a hexagonal shape. Corridors branched off the atrium before connecting again. He made sure there was an event hall that could be rented out for weddings. It was always weddings.
Curled up in the lazy boy in the study, was the shape of your mother. A book was splayed on her chest, a blanket slipping from her shoulders. Your heart clenched at the sight. She looked so frail. Smaller, paler, than the last time you had seen her. She always looked soft in her sleep.
You kept your bag shouldered and moved with purpose. You carefully closed her book around an old receipt, and pulled the blanket back over her. She mumbled something, breathy and undecipherable, before settling back into rest. You flicked off the light, and turned to feel your way to your room.
Instead, you had to stifle a scream.
A short silhouette stood in the doorway, backlit by the moonlight in the atrium. You clutched your metaphorical pearls, trying to swallow the rush of adrenaline. You whispered harshly “Fuck, Portia. What are you doing?”
You could hear her teeth click when she smiled. “Hi to you too, Patch.”
Grunting, you shoved your way past her, comforted in the slightest bit that it was her. It was better than a Victorian entity or the Sorry Man himself. You clenched your jaw as you started to walk to your room. She followed like a sentient puppy, eager and with the intention of biting your ankles.
“That’s it? That’s all I get? Your indifference!”
“It’s two in the morning, I don’t have the energy for warfare.” You stopped, her socked feet skidding frantically to avoid colliding with you. “And don’t call me Patch.”
Portia snickered behind you, and you started back towards your destination with a stride that you hoped conveyed your annoyance. You had taken buckshot straight to the eye and spent your 11th birthday in the emergency room, curled in your fathers lap. Not only did you have to wear an eyepatch, but you had a nasty pink scar that still spidered from above your eyebrow to the apple of your cheek.
You’d nearly lost an eye, but Nicky had bagged his first fox that day.
Standing on your toes, you retrieved the key to your room from the wooden doorframe. Most spaces in the house were free reign to renters, but each of your respective rooms were blocked off from the public. This, you were thankful for, despite the mildewy scent that filled your lungs.
Portia did not enter your space, she lingered at the door in a way that reminded you of a time when you barred her from passing the threshold. She never wanted to steal your clothes, too little color, she said. It was the music that you guarded with your life. Records that you had inherited and cd’s that accompanied a massive stereo system.
“Portia,” You sighed out, “I’m happy to see you. I am. But I am happier there’s a bed in this room. Which begs the question, why aren’t you in yours?”
“Insomnia.” She chirped, giving your cheek a gentle pat. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about Rachel in the morning.”
“Rachel?”
“The bride, silly. She thought we were going to murder her. Can you believe that?”
Yes. God yes, you really could.
There was a sheet cake on the kitchen island that read ‘Sorry I thought you were going to kill me’ in a royal red script. There was a vase of flowers, store bought and emitting a fresh sweet aroma, placed next to it. You ran a hand through your hair, picking up the formal invitation that was right next to the cake.
Rachel & Nicky
Something about the combination sent a chill down your spine. Your mother would blame twin telepathy. You would blame the fact that you hadn’t seen your brother in years because he missed Jules’s wedding entirely. No; this was different.
There wasn’t much time to contemplate. The bay doors leading to a swath of woods opened, letting in a cold blast of air and a flurry of activity. Shep skittered across the floor, not taking a moment to verify if it was really you before crashing into your legs. Snow from his muzzle tinted your jeans. You didn’t have to lean down far to scratch behind his large ears.
“Patch,” Julien engulfed you with his sheer size. Your own arms stabilized around his waist. It was less irksome when he said it. Perhaps because it was his job as a big brother to torment you. His aftershave burned your throat, his grip strong and steadying. “I didn’t think you would make it.”
“I almost didn’t,” you pulled back, giving him a faux lashing with your stare. “Someone waited until the very last minute to tell me Nicky was getting hitched.”
He tensed up in your arms, something so minute you would consider it a nervous tick. But he was out of your arms within moments, and Nell took his place. Her embrace was stronger, wrapping fully around your waist and pulling you close. Her sweet honey and nectarine scent outruled the artificial icing on the cake.
She hummed, the noise rumbling your chest. “Thank God. I thought you’d left me to the wolves.”
No. You would never. Nell was familiar territory. She was borderline normal in a way that your family wasn’t. Rooted in a reality that wasn’t rank or atriums, or fox hunting. When she pulled back, she ran a thumb over the edge of the scar. You resisted the urge to flinch, instead leaning into the placatement. “You’ve gotten new ink. Not done yourself, I hope.”
“No, no.” You chuckled, staring at the latest piece that was wedged between two flash designs you’d stood in line three hours to claim as a kid, freshly on your own and defiant. “My apprentice. She’s been with me over a year now. I trust her enough.”
“Mm, she’s done well.”
“Where’s Jude? It’s been quiet.”
“Because Portia hasn’t left her crypt yet.”
You scoffed, something easing in your shoulders. The nerves of being with your family never truly ceased. “I’m going to find him. Say hi. I still don’t think he forgives me for leaving without a goodbye last time.”
None of them objected, fully engulfed in the sheet cake and the small card that was placed next to it. Rachel, you assumed. Though you had yet to meet her. She seemed to have a kind streak that Nicky would drain out of her if he got the chance. And it looked like he had, considering your summons.
Judes room was small, somewhere off course. He had spent last summer in it, which was a step in the right direction from being curled up between Julien and Nell. Your older brother had told him the story of the Sorry Man. Or- it had been Portia with her unforgiving nihilism and deft cackle.
And- okay- maybe you wouldn’t find your nephew after all. Instead, you’d found your way to one of the large windows, the latched pushed open, letting in the winter air. A detached blue glow shaded the features of a woman. Her back was to you, hair raven-black and falling over her shoulders in a tussled wave.
An acrid, burnt scent hit your nose, one you recognized from sitting out on the fire escape of your apartment, all limbs and relaxation. The red tip of a blunt glowing like a third eye, each inhale bringing you closer to forgetting you had autonomy at all. You had rolled your own, and they were nestled in the pocket of your jeans in a tin for mints.
“If that’s your only one, make sure it lasts.”
She startled like you knew she would, thankfully keeping hold of the lit object between her fingers. Her eyes met your own, dazzling and dark. You had another quip on the tip of your tongue that died instantly. She was stunning. And it might have been rude, but you wondered how Nicky of all people could pull someone that flashed a smile and stopped time.
Rachel
You felt unsteady, like the air had been knocked out of you. Though, you had a tendency to behave like a snowball on the edge of a cliff when it came to this house. It wouldn’t be hard to push the oxygen from your lungs, but she bounced back quick, holding the blunt out to you. “Want some?”
You nodded frantically, reaching out and gently taking it. Her fingers were warm and calloused, brushing against yours. You felt the urge to pull back, but didn’t. Instead, taking note of the tattoos on her arms and the rings on her fingers. And holy fuck did your brother happen to charm someone interesting for once?
“Thank you,” You murmured, inhaling a polite amount of smoke and letting it linger in your throat before you handed it back. You didn’t bother to lean out the window. There was no courtesy you intended to extend here. “Seriously though. You’ll need more if you want to survive until Saturday.”
She laughed, a gravely rasp that reflected the cold. “Not a fan of weddings?”
“Are you?” You asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.
Something small and dark crossed her expression. “They’re not so bad. It’s a nice thing to do for your mom. Circumstances and all.”
The quiet lapsed for a moment, and she handed you the blunt as if she knew you needed it more. Circumstances. Right. You hadn’t exactly heard from any of them in a few months now, save from the check your father mailed on Christmas. A simple ‘Love you’ with his signature. If something was wrong, if it was circumstance, then you wouldn’t know. Something in Rachel’s face betrayed that.
“They didn’t… he didn’t know until last night.”
You chuckled, something that sounded more like a scoff. “They don’t tell Nicky things to protect him. They neglect to tell me things because I’m easy to forget.” She winced, jaw clenched. Still a sight to behold. Your voice dropped to a whisper, smoke spilling from your mouth and clouding the minimal space between you. “Don’t feel bad. Being forgotten is the only way to survive in this family. Are you even sure he’s the one?”
Your mother was dying. That much was clear when you met her eyes, open and wide, as if you’d slipped her mind. Of course, you had, but that didn’t dampen the twinge in your chest. Nor did it make the sight of a large, stuffed creature hanging from the mantel any less unsettling.
Jude was pushed up against your knees, and you ran a hand through his hair absently. He’d supposedly made it, dressed it in Rachel’s wedding gown, and hung it from the trees. To deter her, he said. You felt bad for Rachel. But not bad enough to run through the grief exercise she had proposed. You would, however, sit back and watch the trainwreck unfold.
Rachel was a therapist- or- therapist adjacent, really.
Which was ironic considering your family refused to confront anything head on, and found the guidance of a professional as weak. As if you didn’t have weekly appointments scheduled out until March. Despite this, you weren’t absconded from the eyes that shifted towards you when the rotation finally landed like a punch in the gut.
Now, standing in front of an amalgamation of hay and fabric that was intended to scare the bride off, you felt cold. Not in a way of indifference. In a way of someone who had stood too long in the elements until their fingers went numb. It was easy to fight off the chill at first, but in the end, it felt like warmth anyway.
You hadn’t prepared anything, hadn’t even known about your mother’s illness until a few hours ago. She stared at you apologetically, but it had more of an indifference to it. An item on a shopping list she forgot to push into the cart before checking out. Before planning a wedding that was also a reason to gather in the means of death.
“Okay, um.” you cleared your throat uncomfortably, glancing at the very-much present woman. “Mom, this sucks. And I get that it’s supposed to suck because death always does. But this is… different.”
You could feel their stares on you, breath held, and you didn’t really care what they thought. You weren’t going to grovel or sing her praises. There was no need to. She would be gone in a month and you would be back in your shop, pretending you didn’t have a family, or a dead mom at a young age.
“It’s hard to grieve for someone for a second time. The idea of you- of all of you- has been in the denial stage for, shit, for years now. It was easy to crave your approval, mom. You’re the center of every room, the warmth in it. But after so many years lingering at the edges, getting cold in your shadow” Your voice was clipped at the end, nearly choked with emotion that you swallowed down. “I’ve already grieved you. The idea of you. This changes nothing.”
This time, when you flopped back onto the couch, Jude leaned against your side, having seeked warmth in your absence. You met your mothers eyes, the narrowed contemplation in them. But she didn’t rush to amend, or convict. She just relaxed into Portia’s many compliments that she’d written like a ledger on a piece of stationary.
Rachel’s marble stare was on yours, gushing with emotion that made you shift uncomfortably. You were being seen. Not in a way that forced understanding, but one that already had it to begin with.
You stood between Nell and Rachel when they lit the dummy on fire. The crackle of heat eating its way through bound hay was accompanied by a sickly-sweet scent. The light reflected off your eyes, your cheeks flushed with pink from the cold. You never knew if it made the disfigurement on your face stand out, or blend in. You told yourself you never cared.
Rachel nudged your shoulder with her own. You glanced at her in question, expecting her to pull back. But she didn’t. Her presence was solid and warm and something you would surely miss when it was inevitably snuffed out. For now, she was here. Nicky’s stare met your own across the flames. He had given you a brief greeting, a forced smile and a hug that lasted a second too long.
The dummy was nothing but ashes now, cracking and popping with a final hiss of air. Your mother was tense, your father was despondent, your sister was picking at her nail polish, your older brother was misty-eyed. You supposed maybe you did fit in, as sentient as your presence was.
You couldn’t shirk the cold of the night, even after a hot shower and slipping under the quilt in your room. Sleep hadn’t come easily, but it was silent in its arrival. When you woke, your mouth was dry and sticky, you hadn’t shifted even an inch, still facing the ceiling and drawing a sharp inhale that was seeped with mint.
When you turned your head to the side, still fighting the dregs of sleep, Rachel was crouched beside you, already bundled for the weather outside and backlit from the rising sun. Her eyes looked tired, a stunning and deep brown that reminded you of aged bark.
“What is happening?” You whispered.
“I need your help. I have an errand to run and want you to come with me. Nell’s already in the car.”
She patted your hip, finding it under the blanket without issue. It was a signal that grounded you and flustered you all at once. Because there was no way in hell you were going to develop a crush on your brother's fiance, even if they were divorced within a year.
Nicky never played nice. As kids, you were meant to share everything. It was cheaper for distant relatives to show up to the holidays with a joint gift. He would pout and hit and your mother would always let him get his way because it was easy to soothe than teach. Not that you regarded Rachel as an object to share. You simply admired her spirit.
“Get dressed,”
“I’m dressed.” You groaned, turning your face into the pillow.
“You’re not wearing pants.” You shot up, back arched from the awkward position you’d rolled into. You narrowed your eyes at Rachel, a pout on your lips. She laughed, an intoxicating sound. “Cute ink by the way. What is that? A cherry?”
You let out a frustrated noise and pelted her with the nearest pillow. The stick and poke just below the curve of your ass had been a mistake in college, but an easily coverable one. Unless your boxers had ridden up, which they inevitably did. She laughed, filling the room with fondness.
You pulled on the jeans you’d shed the night before, pinning her under an unimpressed look. “What time is it?”
“Five,”
Another noise of protest escaped you, but you pulled on your jacket anyway, gesturing to her to lead the way. Nell looked just about as thrilled as you did to be thawing out in Rachel’s station wagon. She pulled up to a county building, one that was very much locked. And while Nell objected quickly, you couldn’t fight the snort pushing from your lungs.
“Rachel, you can’t get married if you’re in a jail cell.”
“Please, they’ll let her off with a warning.”
Nell turned in her seat, shooting you a sharp look “Do not encourage this.”
“I don’t know if I’m getting married.” Rachel said, matter-of-factly before pushing her way out of the car and taking the keys with her. It was either freeze out here, or break into the county clerks and you weren’t so opposed to the idea to begin with.
Not getting married. You were out of the loop, had always been, but this still hit your shoulder with a certain amount of force that had you scrambling over her. There was something untethered about Rachel today that excited you and scared you all at once. She knelt and started to work on the lock.
“It would be funny if you left Nicky at the altar, but why the sudden change of heart?”
Rachel and Nell exchanged a loaded look before Nell said “Rachel is cursed.”
“Metaphorically, or literally?”
“Probably both,”
The door popped open with some extra effort, but Rachel rose with ease. She had bulldozed her way into the back records room, something that reminded you more of a rec center with an abundance of files and boxes. This was- admittedly- not what you were expecting to do the day of her bachelorette party.
With Portia at the helm, you were biding your time before having to confront glitter, and faux penises, and probably matching sets of pajamas to fit her narrative of a perfect evening. Instead, you used the cold light that moved through the windows to get a better look at old records.
“Okay, not that I mind getting out of the house, but can someone tell me what exactly I’m looking for?”
Rachel and Nell exchanged that look again, and you couldn’t stop the surge of jealousy from rushing through you, nor the huff of annoyance that followed. It only took a moment to realize this wasn’t a conspiracy between them, but an invisible fishingline of worry. You knew when to shut up, your jaw snapping.
“My ancestors did some fucked up shit, and somehow got a curse unleashed on my bloodline that activates when I get engaged. If Nicky and I aren’t destined to be together, then I’m going to bleed to death just like my mother did when I was a baby. Which, ironically, happened in front of Jules and scarred him for life.” she drew in a gasping breath, words igniting like wildfire sparked by dread. “But if I leave Nicky at the altar, then the curse is passed to your bloodline, and I turn into a freaky fucking immortal that has to witness all of your weddings and that doesn’t seem appealing either.”
The radiator in the corner of the room chugged on, clicking and hissing as the heat began to invade the room. Rachel looked deadly serious, and there wasn’t a moment you considered doubting her. Not with the way her voice shook and shattered, her hands wringing in front of her.
“Then you asked me if I was sure he was the one. Point blank, exactly those words. And that’s what the current witness asked me before I stabbed him with my keys.” You startled, blinking wildly at her. “So I thought maybe you had something to do with this bullshit curse too.”
“I told her it’s just because you don’t like Nicky.” Nell spoke from the floor, eyes scanning a brittle paper.
“I just don’t like Nicky.” You confirmed “you don’t have your keys on you right now, do you?”
“I’m not going to stab you.” Rachel’s breath shook. “That… you… believe me?”
You watch the slow lift and fall of her chest, the paleness to her skin, awash from the weather. You held out your hand, unwavering. “Give me a file. I’ll start on the 70’s.”
Portia huffed dramatically into your face. You were uncomfortably close to her, knees touching and hands steady like they had been trained to be. You were an expert at keeping still, but your younger sister was not. She whimpered, the alcohol-soaked cottonball no doubt stinging against the cut on her nose.
“You have to stay still. I don’t want to get any of this in your eyes.”
“I don’t care,” She wailed, “My life is ruined. Rachel did this! God that walking-nightmare. She’s trying to tank this weekend.”
You glowered at her, grabbed her chin and didn’t let go. She looked like she wanted to flee, but didn’t, not with the sharp look in your eyes. Despite this, your voice came out softer than you intended. “Or you’re making what is supposed to be the most important day of Rachel’s life into a spectacle because everyone in this family is fucking batshit insane. This isn’t about mom, and it sure is hell isn’t about you trying to impress her before she dies.”
Your younger sister let out a frustrated noise before shoving away from the kitchen bar and stomping into some dark corner of the house. You groaned, dropping the cotton in your hands and closing your eyes against the harsh lighting above. The wedding was in two days, and the headache spidering from your temple hadn’t eased one bit.
The bachelorette party didn’t help the throbbing. Any doubt about this curse was erased the moment the lights flickered off and the uncomfortable feeling of being watched by something not really there filled you. The beer that you were still nursing had gone warm now, but you reached for it and drained it regardless.
“Thank you for that,”
Your eyes fluttered open. Rachel had taken up the empty space where Portia had been. She looked impossibly soft in the pale-pink pajamas that she’d been goaded into. Her knee bumped against yours, the warmth of her alone shooting straight to your stomach. She smelled of cherry liquor and the undertones of smoke. Rachel was close enough to you that you could see the small smattering of freckles that bridged her nose.
She’d caught you staring, you knew she had, your eyes glossy and mouth dry. Still, you found your words. “It’s no problem. Weddings are stressful enough. You don’t deserve to deal with her needling. Or… any of this.”
“Can I ask you something?”
You hummed, fingers moving to the label on your drink. You started to roll the corner of it, pressing the pads of your fingers into the adhesive before situating it. Looking at her would be devastating right now. Existing in her orbit on her wedding day would most likely have the same effect.
“Nicky… didn’t tell me about you. I had to ask when he showed me the portrait. Even then, he was reluctant to say anything. Is there” She paused, her lip twitching downward. “Did something happen?”
Swallowing hard, your fingers moved up to the soft scar on your face, ghosting over the slightly raised abrasion. It was out of instinct. You were suddenly self-conscious. But Rachel’s hand grabbed yours with a gentle insistence, not moving it away, but simply enveloping your touch with her own.
“Hey, no, that’s not what I meant. You don’t have to hide from me. I think you’re beautiful. I just want to understand what happened. I thought I knew Nicky. I still hope I do. But the way he regards you, the way all of them do, it’s not right.”
A light blush had bloomed on Rachel’s cheeks. She didn’t pull back when she realized how close she was, her eyes peering into your own with a palpable emotion that blended sorrow and curiosity. Your mouth was too dry to swallow, the sour taste of alcohol still on your tongue. You felt exposed. Seen.
“Hunting accident,” You rasped, close enough to know that she’d hear anything you had to say. “We were eleven, and our father took us both into the woods. It’s a right of passage, to bring back a fox. But Nicky shot me in the eye, and of course I didn’t get a fox of my own. Nicky did, though. It’s what the family focused on. Not the disfigurement. But, even before that I was used to stepping into the background.”
Rachel lowered your hand with her own, moved her fingers back up to the long scar. You inhaled sharply when she dragged the tips of her fingers over its length. You made a borderline embarrassing sound when her hand moved to cup your cheek. You couldn’t remember the last time you had allowed someone to hold you like this.
“You’re beautiful.” She repeated, breath hot against your lips.
She leaned forward, pressing her mouth against your own in something chaste, but steady. You wanted to chase her, the brief feeling of that touch. But she leaned back, eyes blinking at you, trying to gauge if she’d overstepped, if this was a mistake that was fueled by the strange happenings at the bachelorette party.
Clearly, it was more.
Rachel crashed back into you, the kiss loaded with heat this time. A desperation for closeness. She’s moved one hand to the back of your neck, the other using the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You moved with her on instinct, hands moving to her waist, making sure you were both steady.
She begged for entrance, and you willingly gave it to her. Rachel made a small, desperate noise that you swallowed easily, her tongue licking into your mouth. And fuck- it was a mix of thrill and recklessness. You were flush with desire, you were frantic and wanted to feel all of her.
When you parted, clawing for air, she kept her forehead against your own, eyes clenched shut. The feeling that flooded your veins was an odd one. You craved her, all of her. But, the reality that you’d just made out with your brother's fiance in the middle of your kitchen reared its head.
“Sorry, I’m sorry- that was”
Rachel separated herself from you, a dopey grin on her face. She used her thumb to wipe away smudged lipstick at the corner of your mouth. She looked dazed, exhausted, fully resigned to the circumstances. “That was amazing.”
SOMETHING VERY BAD IS GOING TO HAPPEN 1.05
Jules Cunningham Pregnancy Headcanons
Jules Cunningham x pregnant!reader
𝜗ৎ- When he first found out he didn’t say anything, he wasn’t mad, he didn’t yell, he was just neutral and his puppy eyes didn’t change, he just pulled you into a tight hug and kisses your temple.
𝜗ৎ- He likes to be the big spoon while you sleep so he can put his hand on your belly.
𝜗ৎ- If you are in his way he’ll lightly tap your belly to ask you to move.
𝜗ৎ- He is 50/50 boy dad, girl dad. Because in the show he loves Jude and was so protective of him, so I think he doesn’t care what the gender is. He’s happy with either or.
𝜗ৎ- He is incredibly attentive. He notices changes in your energy; your mood, and your appetite before you even say anything.
𝜗ৎ- He never make you do any heaving lifting, not even picking up grocery bags.
𝜗ৎ- That man would sit on the edge of the tub whenever you’d have a bubble bath, he loves seeing your bump peak over the foam and he’ll rub your feet.
𝜗ৎ- He loves feeling the baby kick, always softly smiling after each kick saying that the baby is going to be as sassy like their mother.
𝜗ৎ- Since he’s 6 inches taller than you he likes to look down and talk to you.
𝜗ৎ- He always watches over what you eat, but not in a bad way, he watches to make sure the food is safe for the baby.
𝜗ৎ 𝜗ৎ 𝜗ৎ 𝜗ৎ
NSFW HEADCANONS
𝜗ৎ- When your belly starts to grow, you both try to find new ways and positions so the bump doesn’t get in the way.
𝜗ৎ- He loves pregnancy sex, he is always very very careful.
𝜗ৎ- And don’t get me started on this man’s fascination with your boobs, when you would wear those pregnancy dresses that fit just a little too tight on the chest, his eyes would cast down every chance he got.
𝜗ৎ- If you get a cramp or even a slight pain during sex he immediately pulls out, he worries he’ll stress the baby
𝜗ৎ- And now that you’re pregnant your stamina has decreased so after getting ate out and a round of sex you’re tired, he doesn’t mind plus if you’re not in for another round you’ll just suck him off.
𝜗ৎ- With your hormones out of whack you get horny and soaked really quick, he’s down on his knees before you can ask, you cum in about 4 minutes, he smirks and grins to himself.
𝜗ৎ- One time during sex the baby pushed on your bladder and you almost peed so you squealed and he stopped, asking what’s wrong, you lightly smack his arm telling him to pull out so you can waddle to the bathroom.
𝜗ৎ- In the end… that man loves you and that baby so much. He’s a terrific husband and father and you wouldn’t change it for the world!
A/N: Jules Cunningham is the better brother, 10/10 no notes 💋
A/N: Should I make one of the text message things for Jules as well? I think it’d be fun
And if I said Nicky wasn’t punished enough???