all credits to @/holy-puckslibrary on tumblr!!
𝐰𝐜 — 1.9k 𝐜𝐰 — everyone is aged up / non-canon compliant ages bc i said so; rafe being an emotionally constipated, toxic douche-canoe 3000; an unhealthy dynamic; suggestive moments but not explicit; w*rd + substance mention, wheeze bein' a savage; and a potential cliffhanger?
IF EVER THERE were a time when a human being might actually be capable of blowing steam from their ears, it would be this one.
Rafe Cameron has been pacing the length of the chapel's private lot since he dragged you out here who knows how long ago. Mumbling crudely configured sentences and half-baked schemes under his breath, he looks every bit the loose canon he's been branded as.
While not ideal, things could be worse—a lot worse. At the very least, he hasn't punched anything yet; concrete wall, tree trunk, or otherwise.
The "otherwise" in this situation (and most, to be frank) is JJ Maybank's pretty face.
Apparently, Rafe doesn't appreciate the way he's been touching you all afternoon.
"If that fuckin' pogue knows what's good for him, he—he'll keep his filthy hands off what's mine."
Strong words for someone who refuses to even attempt exclusivity, or make any sort of commitment whatsoever.
You gnaw on your cheek until copper stings your tongue.
JJ has to touch you, it's unavoidable.
Sarah, his younger sister and your lifelong best friend, has asked you to be her Maid of Honor and, to absolutely no one's surprise, John B, her fiancé, asked JJ Maybank to serve as his Best Man.
Sarah's older brother doesn't see it that way.
And why would he? That would involve rational thinking and a modicum of maturity—two things Rafe is allergic to.
In his perfect world, you would walk in the procession having left a him-sized gap, and, even then, he'd probably decide that wasn't enough. Knowing him, there would need to be an ocean between you two before Rafe was finally satisfied. And still, you know for certain he'd find something else to bitch about.
It's almost like he enjoys getting himself all worked up.
"Rafe, I'm not a pet or a toy to play tug-of-war with on the playground."
At your sudden burst of exasperation, the pacing comes to a screeching halt. And thank god for that; the repetition was starting to make you nauseous.
Just as firmly as his jaw, Rafe's fists clench at his sides.
"When did I say that you were?" he spews his venom at you, but his fervid attention remains fixed on the cracked pavement baking in the late afternoon rays. Rafe kicks a pebble into the side of a parked car, then continues, "—because I don't recall saying that. And you know how I feel about words being put into my mouth."
"No," you all but growl. "—but that's what you meant."
Your teeth ache from grinding them together. A migraine is forming at either temple, but you're already too exhausted by this conversation to massage it away before it takes root. You have your hands full with one headache right now, there's no room for another on your plate. But, like the eldest Cameron's emotional maelstrom, landfall is inevitable.
Rafe glares at you, but doesn't say anything to the contrary.
This begrudged acquiescence is the closest you ever come to Rafe admitting that you were right about something.
