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.”
