hunzzzzz

[hunzzzzz]

OBX TWEETS: part 14

“Stop manhandling the AC controls, you’re gonna give it whiplash,” Rafe swatted your hand away.

“I’m currently marinating in my own sweat over here,” you huffed, yanking your hair up into a messy ponytail that probably made you look like a wet rat. 

Honestly, summer was a mixed bag. Sure, the extra daylight hours were great for avoiding your responsibilities, but the feeling of your thighs doing the sticky-seat tango was a special kind of torture. And then there was your hay fever, that sneaky little bastard that lay dormant until the most inconvenient moment, like right when you were trying to look effortlessly cool on a first date with your nemesis. So far, the pollen ninja hadn't struck, but you were on high alert.

“You’re more dramatic than a daytime soap opera,” he rolled his eyes, though there was a smile playing on his lips. “Give it, like, two seconds to actually work.”

“Two seconds in this mobile greenhouse feels like two years in hell,” you sighed with exaggerated despair, fanning yourself with your hands like you were a Southern belle who’d just heard some shocking gossip. “You’re actively trying to cook me alive in this metal death trap.”

“You have the imagination of a caffeinated squirrel,” he chuckled, glancing over at you.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you scoffed, narrowing your eyes.

“Like what?” he asked innocently, though you could see the mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Like a goddamn pervert who’s mentally undressing me.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, shaking his head and laughing. “Time out. A fucking pervert? You seemed perfectly fine with my face squished between your thighs. But now I’m a pervert?”

You smacked his arm lightly, though you quickly looked away to hide the blush that was creeping up your neck. “You’re so fucking nasty.”

“I was going for ‘passionately persuasive,’” he pouted dramatically, reaching over and placing a hand on your thigh. At that exact moment, the AC finally kicked into high gear, blasting you with a glorious wave of icy air that made every hair on your body stand up in delighted shock.

You somehow made it to the bowling alley without resorting to actual violence. The fluorescent lights were as flattering as ever, and the smell of stale popcorn and rented shoes filled the air. Putting on those ridiculously oversized bowling shoes immediately elevated the whole experience to a new level of awkward chic. And of course, because you were both competitive psychos, a wager was immediately established.

“If I win,” Rafe said, looking up at you while tying his shoelaces with an unnecessary amount of focus, “you have to be… nice to me. For a whole entire day. No insults, no eye-rolls, the whole shebang.”

“Yeah, right,” you scoffed, trying to tie your own laces. “And if I win…” You paused, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Hmm…”

“What’s your price, princess?” he asked, a knowing smirk on his face.

“…..if I win…… you have to let me have free, unrestricted access to your phone for a full hour.”

“What?” He looked up sharply, shaking his head with an incredulous scoff. “No. Absolutely not. Are you insane?” He dusted off his trousers, standing up with an air of mock indignation.

“Scared I’ll uncover all your deeply embarrassing TikTok dances?”

“No, but knowing you, you’ll probably post some truly heinous shit and get me cancelled so hard I’ll have to change my name and move to Antarctica to become a penguin whisperer.” He was sassier than ever now, planting his hands on his hips with an air of mock outrage. “People still think I’m a Trump supporter because of all the false shit you tweeted about me.”

“Fine, be a pussy,” your smirk faltered slightly when he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the questionable cleanliness of the bowling alley.

“You’re on, princess.”

“Okay, that’s enough internet terrorism for one night,” Rafe said, making a grab for his phone as you cackled maniacally, your thumbs flying across the screen as you crafted yet another tweet that would undoubtedly confuse and possibly enrage his followers. Something about pineapple on pizza being a human right seemed particularly inflammatory.

“Hey!” You slapped a hand against his chest, warding him off with a playful shove, your other hand still firmly clutching his precious device behind your back. “Loser keeps their hands to themselves! I won fair and square, remember?”

“I let you win!” he exclaimed, inching closer to you as you scrambled further back on his bed, a ridiculous grin plastered across your face.

“You're just a sore loser. Cry me a river and then build a bridge and get the fuck over it, princess.” you retorted, scooting back until your butt hit the headboard.

Rafe lunged, grabbing your legs and yanking you back towards him with surprising strength. You landed with a soft thump, your back flush against the sheets as he hovered over you, his forearms resting on either side of your head, effectively caging you in his arms. “Hand it over, you little menace,” his hot breath tickled your ear.

“Make me, baldie.” you dared him, your heart doing a little flutter-kick despite the compromising position you were in.

“Yeah?” His lips brushed against yours.

Taglist:

@yktayy9669 @urmomaahoe @rafesgurl @rafesdrew @sophreakingfunny @hannaa20002000 @furiouscopshepherduniversity @mirellef2001 @colbysbrocks @drewstarkeytruelove @luzstarkey @sassyvilliantrope @wintercrows

@lolasangelz @scream4mami @pixieflu @beavee11 @wtfisastiles @pandxra @Ivxstarr @kissylec @hannieskzzz @soulsearchinginkauai @mysticbby2009 @matildalittlefreak @giouvarlakia @yncoded @my-name-is-baby @harryzcherry @lilithblackkk @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ethanthequeefqueen

@angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd @chillgal135 @angeldiaryy @bee-43 @chirpchirp69 @klarxtr

@countryclubwhore @ayy1234567

If I forgot to tag someone, I'm sorry! pls let me know!

[hunzzzzz]

I miss youuu!! Obx tweets have been on my mind constantly and I’m so excited for more! I come back to check every day, I need that good dose of Jombie and rafe

My loves I’m seeing all of you wondering when the next part is gonna be up. And I wish I could say I’ve been super busy with college lately and while that is true it is defo not the reason I haven’t been updating.

Recently I fell into the rabbit hole of dark Rafe Cameron fics 😭 and that is what I’ve been reading for the past week. It has consumed me!! That man is so crazy I love him!!!!

But I’m back to sanity now and will update in the next few days!

[hunzzzzz]

OBX TWEETS: part 13

A/N: Hello lovelies!! I added some writing its mixed up in all the photos so don't miss it!

The bakery stink still clung to your clothes like a clingy ex, even after you’d practically power-scrubbed yourself in the shower. Sugar and yeast – the perfume of failure, as far as you were concerned. You were a solid twenty minutes from the sweet, sweet embrace of your aunt’s couch when your trusty (read: rusty) vehicle decided to throw a tantrum. A truly delightful thump-thump-thump started up, a rhythmically annoying sound that was definitely a new addition to your car’s already impressive repertoire of questionable noises. You sighed dramatically and pulled over, the sinking feeling in your gut doing the cha-cha as you got out to survey the damage. Yep, bingo. Flat as a pancake on a Tuesday. Because of course. Your life was just one extended exercise in Murphy’s Law. You popped the boot, a tiny, idiotic sliver of hope flickering that maybe, just maybe, a spare had spontaneously generated. Nope. Nada. Zilch. Why would you, in your infinite wisdom, actually have a spare? Or, for that matter, any of those medieval torture devices they called car tools?

You glanced at your phone – a glorious 5% stared back, practically flipping you the middle finger. Fantastic. Just when you needed to Google “how to hotwire a tow truck.” You flopped back into the driver’s seat with an Oscar-worthy groan, your forehead connecting with the steering wheel in a dramatic thud. The only semi-competent human being you knew who could possibly MacGyver this situation was John B. Perpetual Twinkie-Breakdown himself. The guy practically had a PhD in keeping that rust bucket on the road with sheer willpower and duct tape. And you vaguely remembered seeing a sad excuse for a spare tire crammed in the back of his vehicular disaster zone.

You sat there for what felt like approximately three centuries, the internal debate raging like a toddler denied candy. Call him? After the whole spectacular implosion of your friendship? It felt like waving the white flag of surrender, like willingly reopening a festering wound. But the alternative – spending the night serenaded by crickets and the distant hum of traffic, waiting for your saint of an aunt to finish her shift – was about as appealing as a root canal. Just as you finally caved and reached for your phone, your thumb hovering over his annoyingly familiar contact, a sharp, sudden KNOCK on your window made you jump so hard you nearly gave yourself whiplash. Heart doing the tango in your chest, you snatched your empty coffee flask – your trusty weapon of self-defense against the world’s many annoyances – clutching it like your life depended on it. Through the glass, all you could see was a ridiculously bright beam of light. Someone was clearly trying to blind you with their superior phone flashlight technology. Rude.

Then, the light moved away, no longer assaulting your retinas. And standing there, his silhouette framed against the fading evening light, was John B.

He called out your name, his face etched with a familiar furrow of worry that used to make your heart do a little flutter-kick. Now, it just felt… complicated. “Everything okay?”

You begrudgingly stepped out of your car, the evening air suddenly feeling cooler. “Just peachy,” you muttered, giving the offending flat tire a not-so-gentle kick. “Having a grand old time communing with nature and waiting for the sweet release of death.”

“Need some roadside assistance?” John B’s lips twitched, a hint of that goofy, endearing smile you used to adore threatening to break through. You had to admit, even with everything that had happened, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners was still kind of… cute. Ugh. You just huffed out a nod, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a full sentence. Without another word, he was already rummaging in the chaotic abyss that was the back of the Twinkie, a symphony of clanking tools and questionable debris preceding the triumphant, if slightly wheezy, roll of a spare tire that looked like it had seen better decades. Honestly, the fact that thing still held air was a minor miracle.

He worked with a practiced ease, the familiar sounds of the lug wrench echoing in the quiet evening air. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his tongue poking out slightly from the corner of his mouth – a habit you’d always found endearing, much to your annoyance. You sat down heavily on the curb, watching him, a strange mix of gratitude and lingering resentment swirling within you.

“So,” John B said after a few minutes of comfortable silence, not looking up from his task, “long day?”

“One could say disastrous,” you muttered, rubbing your forehead wearily. “The new hire at the bakery put salt in the cookie batter. Ruined the whole damn batch.”

“I probably wouldn’t have even tasted the difference,” he chuckled, finally looking up briefly, a playful glint in his eyes.

“You could eat a pile of shit and not know the difference,” you laughed, the sound feeling surprisingly natural, a small crack in the wall of your forced indifference.

He finally looked up fully, a small, hopeful smile gracing his lips. “How’s… everything been?” He gestured vaguely with the wrench. “You know.”

It was seriously messing with your head how much easier it was to not be a total bitch when he was actually being helpful. Like, his presence was this weirdly comforting thing, even after all the shit that went down. It was almost like stepping back into some old, slightly worn-out but still familiar pair of shoes. He was your John B. Annoying as hell most of the time, but still… yours. God, the amount of history you two had was actually embarrassing. That time you tried to build a raft out of driftwood and duct tape and it immediately capsized, leaving you both looking like drowned rats and him blaming you for the ‘structural integrity failure’ even though he was the one who insisted on using glitter glue? Or that Halloween where you both decided to dress up as conjoined twins using a single oversized t-shirt and spent the entire night bumping into walls and tripping over each other? And who could forget the Great Water Balloon Fight of ‘09 that somehow escalated into a full-blown neighborhood sprinkler war, resulting in Mrs. Henderson’s prize-winning petunias getting utterly annihilated? 

The sheer volume of shared memories was nauseating. There just wasn’t enough room in your brain to hold onto this much anger and all that stupid nostalgia at the same time.He was like family, and family fought and eventually, usually, made up. And to be brutally honest, you were just so fucking over being mad at him. It was like this constant low-grade ache, a tension headache that wouldn’t quit, a knot in your neck that no amount of stretching could fix. Ugh.

“Yeah, other than the whole flat tire debacle,” you said, rolling your eyes, the sarcasm still there but maybe a little less sharp. “Everything’s been… an adjustment. Just getting used to being back.”

He chuckled softly, then went back to tightening a lug nut. “Well, at least you didn’t end up in a ditch this time.”

You rolled your eyes again, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. That had been one particularly memorable night, and definitely not in a good way. “Hardly a high bar to clear.”

“Hey, progress is progress, right?” He looked up again, his smile a little wider this time. “Besides, look at it this way – free tire change courtesy of yours truly.”

“Don’t expect a thank you card,” you mumbled, but the twitch in your lips betrayed your attempt at indifference.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his tone light. “Just glad I happened to be driving this way.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, a familiar suspicion creeping in. “You just ‘happened’ to be driving down this random road? This is nowhere close to your house, JB.”

He shrugged, a sheepish grin spreading across his face as he finally stood up, dusting off his knees. “Okay, fine. I… uh… I still have your location.” He looked away, a sad little smile flickering across his lips as he gave your newly attached spare tire a pat. “All done. You should be set now.” He cleared his throat, the silence suddenly feeling heavier.

He still had your location. He knew. You knew he knew. And the unspoken weight of where that location was last night– Rafe’s place– hung heavy in the air between you.

“John B, wait.” The words tumbled out before you could overthink them, a sudden, desperate plea. You practically ran towards him as he was about to slide into the driver’s seat of the Twinkie. Without a second thought, you threw your arms around him, your face burying itself against his chest. He was still for a beat, maybe two, a surprised tension in his shoulders. Then, slowly, his arms wrapped around you, a familiar, comforting weight you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed. He still smelled like him – a mix of salt, sunscreen, and something uniquely John B that was achingly nostalgic. He held the back of your head, your hair brushing against his neck, and just held you tight, a silent promise not to let go, not to lose you again.

You pulled away slightly, your hands instinctively reaching up to cup the back of his neck, your thumbs resting just below his hairline. Your eyes were brimming, the unshed tears blurring his features. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he murmured, his thumbs gently stroking the apples of your cheeks, his gaze full of concern.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, “please just don’t say anything.” You swallowed hard, taking a shaky breath, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “I’m just… I’m exhausted, John B. My mom is exhausting. Going to rehab was exhausting. I’m so behind on all my assignments, that’s exhausting. And you… hating you, being mad at you… it’s the most exhausting thing of all. I just… I don’t want to do it anymore.” You leaned forward slightly and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

Taglist:

@yktayy9669 @urmomaahoe @rafesgurl @rafesdrew @sophreakingfunny @hannaa20002000 @furiouscopshepherduniversity @mirellef2001 @colbysbrocks @drewstarkeytruelove @luzstarkey @sassyvilliantrope @wintercrows

@lolasangelz @scream4mami @pixieflu @beavee11 @wtfisastiles @pandxra @Ivxstarr @kissylec @hannieskzzz @soulsearchinginkauai @mysticbby2009 @matildalittlefreak @giouvarlakia @yncoded @my-name-is-baby @harryzcherry @lilithblackkk @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ethanthequeefqueen

@angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd @chillgal135 @angeldiaryy @bee-43 @chirpchirp69 @klarxtr @countryclubwhore

[hunzzzzz]

take all the time you need this isn’t me rushing you but do you still write for Kendall??😫

I SWEAR TO YOU I HAVE DRAFTS ON DRAFTS ON DRAFTS😩😩🙏🏼🙏🏼 but I’m in that space where I’m like everything I write is so ass?? Like my ideas are getting so repetitive I don’t even know what the characters should do at this point like what is Harper’s next step? And now I’m thinking the last few chapters I wrote were so ass and I want to change them too aghhhh it’s so messy.

I want fight for you to have a good ending, I don’t want to rush the last few chapters but I also can’t think of a good ending that benefits all the characters😔 Kendall and Roman and Harper AND Gabriel💔💔

Once again I’m begging for ideas🙏🏼

BUT AS FOR MY OTHER KENDALL FICS…. Stuck with you will have an update coming soon😝

[hunzzzzz]

OBX TWEETS: part 12

A/N: AHHHHH this is what everyones been waiting for!!!!

TW: SMUT/oral sex f!receiving/virgin reader/first time (kind of)

“Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!” The roar of the crowd was a physical thing, vibrating through your chest as you hung upside down, the cheap beer burning a cold trail down your throat. Two random guys gripped your legs firmly, while Amy your friend, held your skirt securely in place. 

Finally, they lowered you back onto your feet, the world spinning for a dizzying second. Beer dripped from your chin, trailing down your cleavage, but you barely registered it, wiping it away with the back of your hand. 

Six weeks. Six long, grueling weeks of therapy. Tonight, you needed this release, this explosion of carefree abandon. But a small, cautious voice in the back of your head reminded you to tread carefully. The last time you’d let loose like this, the intoxicating mix of alcohol and hormones had led to a regrettable encounter with a certain buzzcut and a whole lot of messy feelings.

Drama was the absolute last thing you needed tonight. You’d already crossed paths with Rafe near the keg, and thankfully, he hadn’t even spared you a glance. It was almost unnerving, this complete lack of acknowledgment. Meanwhile,  Topper and Kelce sent you pointed glares that you almost found comical. Whatever, you rolled your eyes internally. He was genuinely the last thing on your mind. You had enough of your own shit to deal with. And trying to decipher whatever had him in a pissy mood and blanking you was at the bottom of your list, in fact he was so irrelevant he wasn't even on the list.

Your gaze scanned the crowd until you found your familiar group huddled near the edge of the bonfire. A pang of longing hit you. It felt strange not having pre-gamed with them, but the thought of facing John B was too much to handle right now. You weren’t angry anymore, just… deeply, profoundly hurt. And tonight, more than anything, you needed a night free of that particular ache.

One by one, they noticed you and broke away from their conversation, their faces lighting up with genuine warmth. Pope gave you a cautious hug, his eyes searching yours for any sign of fragility. Kiara squeezed you tightly, whispering a welcome back. You noticed John B amongst them, but he remained a good distance away, thank god.

JJ was the last to reach you, and his hug was less of a comforting embrace and more of a full-body tackle. He lifted you off the ground with a grunt, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he spun you around in a dizzying circle. You leaned back, your hair tangling in the sand as the bonfire and the faces around you blurred into an upside-down kaleidoscope.

“Woah! Easy there, tiger,” he chuckled, his hands landing firmly on your back to steady you, pulling you back to an upright.

“I fucking missed you, you chaotic mess!” You grinned, reaching up to squish his cheeks together, your thumbs digging in playfully. “Rehab was like… a library without any good books.”

“Yeah?” He grinned back, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he finally set you back down. “Well, I fucking missed you more, you beautiful disaster. Every time I tried to pull a prank – and trust me, there were some epic ones planned – nobody would help me! They kept saying I needed to ‘mature’ and ‘think things through.’ Think things through? What’s the fun in that? I got my partner in crime back now. The world better watch out, we’re gonna be unstoppable.” He punctuated the sentence by gripping onto your arms and shaking you slightly.

That was the beauty of JJ. He never pried. Not once had he asked about the soul-crushing monotony of rehab. He just showed up every week, a whirlwind of unfiltered JJ-ness, not that you’d ever admit you looked forward to it. He physically couldn’t go seven days without updating you on the latest ridiculousness he’d gotten himself into: the assignments he’d spectacularly failed, the dating app disasters, the time he tried to ‘borrow’ a golf cart from the country club. He was a glorious, unhinged escape from the sterile, suffocating world of recovery. An escape from the saccharine smiles of the therapists, the forced vulnerability of group sessions where you had to dissect your feelings like a goddamn frog in biology class, the endless mindfulness exercises that felt like a personal affront to your racing thoughts, and the daily affirmations that tasted like ash in your mouth. 

You weren’t kidding when you said it was terrible; it was your own meticulously crafted personal hell. A six-week-long torture session of everything you actively avoided: talking about yourself, being forced to connect with strangers about your deepest insecurities, having your every word and action analyzed and interpreted. You genuinely would have preferred a lobotomy to another goddamn circle time where you had to share your ‘feelings flower.’

 Kiara and Pope had cast apologetic glances your way before gravitating back to John B. You just waved a dismissive hand, a small, tight smile on your face. It was completely fine. Really. 

You and JJ found a quiet spot by the water, a joint appeared seemingly out of nowhere between you two.

While JJ was animatedly recounting the latest escapades of his borderline-paranoid neighbor, Toby – something involving garden gnomes and accusations of spying – your attention kept drifting. You couldn’t help the magnetic pull of your gaze towards John B. He was perched on a log by the bonfire, the flickering embers casting dancing shadows across his face, and even from this distance, you could feel his eyes on you. A sudden, fierce longing surged through you – a desperate urge to run over, to bury yourself in his familiar embrace, to feel his lips on yours.

“Hello?” JJ’s voice cut through your reverie. He followed your gaze, “You should go talk to him, you know.”

You snapped back to face JJ, a defensive wall instantly going up. “Look, J, I know he’s your best friend, and I appreciate you… trying to be all mature and shit, but I don’t want you caught in the middle of this. I don’t want any of you to have to pick sides or anything. This is between me and him.”

“Hey,” JJ said, his usual goofy grin fading as he placed a hand on each of your shoulders. “Don’t be fucking stupid. Nobody’s picking sides, alright? We’re your friends. We’re all just… seeing two people we care about so upset. It’s kinda pathetic, not gonna lie.”

“I’m not upset,” you insisted, crossing your arms stubbornly, your chin jutting out slightly. “If he wants to be a little bitch about it. Then that's his personal problem. It doesn’t exactly keep me up at night.”

JJ looked at you for a long moment, his lips pursed in that way he did when he was trying to be serious but still couldn't quite suppress his inner chaos. “He misses you. Like, a lot. He’s been moping around like a lost puppy ever since you left. It’s actually kinda gross to watch.”

“J, you know what I love about you?” You shoved him playfully, a small smile finally breaking through your defenses. “We don’t do this touchy-feely, heart-to-heart, ‘let’s talk about our feelings’ gay shit.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” he sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. “But I’m the one who has to be on suicide watch every night. It’s cramping my style, man! I can’t even get laid with him radiating all that sad-boy energy. Think of my needs here!” He pouted, his attempt at reconciliation somehow both ridiculous and strangely earnest.

“It’s too complicated, J,” you said, shaking your head, blinking back the tears that threatened to resurface. “This is exactly why I never wanted anything to happen between us in the first place. He’s my best friend. He was my best friend.” You quickly corrected yourself, clearing your throat. “And now look at us. Look at this mess we’ve made.” You gestured vaguely behind you towards the bonfire where John B was sitting, and surprisingly, your outstretched finger made contact with something… or rather, someone.

Your eyes widened in dawning horror. It was a full-blown ‘he’s right behind me, isn’t he?’ moment.

“Hey, uh, can we talk?” John B’s voice, low and slightly hesitant, cut through the painful silence and the crashing waves.

You shot a death glare in JJ’s direction, silently screaming for a warning you hadn’t received.

“Yeah, go right ahead! Lemme just… uh… hosey on outta here.” JJ grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and with a quick, two-fingered salute, he jogged away.

You sucked in a sharp breath and whipped around to face John B. Before he could even get a damn word out, you held up a hand, like, 'Talk to the hand, buddy.' “Don’t even start,” you said, your voice all tight and shaky. Ugh, get it together, you pathetic mess. “If you came over here to ask me how that little slice of hell they call rehab was, just turn your ass around and walk away. Right now.”

John B rubbed the back of his neck, looking all awkward and shit. “I didn’t,” he mumbled, his eyes searching yours like he’d lost his damn keys. “God, I fucking missed you. Every second.”

“Yeah, yeah, noted,” you said flatly. 

He took a step closer, his voice all soft and pleading. “And I’m… I’m fucking sorry. Okay?”

“Okay,” you echoed, a bitter little laugh escaping before you could stop it. Yeah, right. Sorry my ass. “Thank you for that groundbreaking revelation. Will that be all? Because honestly, I’m not really in the mood for a tearful reunion right now. Still kinda processing the whole ‘being ambushed by my friends and family’ thing.” His face actually fell, like a kicked puppy. Good.

“No, actually. No, I’m not fucking sorry! Not really. I take it back!” He huffed, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I’m not sorry that I forced your stubborn ass to get help! I’m not sorry that I couldn’t just stand by and watch you… slowly fucking disappear! And yeah, you wanna know what else, you oblivious idiot? I’m not sorry for being in love with you!” He was practically yelling now, his voice cracking. Oh, for fuck's sake. Here we go.

You shook your head, fat tears finally deciding to make an appearance, rolling down your cheeks like they had a goddamn agenda. “You sound just like my mom right now, you know that?” You turned to walk away, your chest feeling like someone had stuffed it with barbed wire. Just gotta get out of here. But you couldn’t leave it hanging. You spun back around, your voice shaking despite your best efforts. “That’s what you think I’m mad about? Seriously, John B? I’m not mad that I went to rehab. I fucking needed it, okay? What I’m hurt about… what I can’t get past, you dumbass… is the way you went about it! You lied to me. You went behind my back and planned it all with my mom? You fucking ambushed me! I trusted you. I told you shit I haven’t told anyone else. You were supposed to be my best friend.”

Without waiting for his pathetic reply, you turned and fucking bolted, shouldering past the surprised, nosy faces around the bonfire. Each step was fueled by a desperate need to escape the suffocating weight of your own hurt and his ridiculously timed, completely unwanted confession. Ugh, men.

You shoved past some meathead blocking your path, sending his lukewarm beer sloshing down his shirt. You spun around, ready with a practiced, “I’m so sorry—“ but then your eyes landed on Topper’s ugly, punchable face, and the apology died in your throat. “Watch where you’re fucking going, asshole,” you spat, scoffing as you whipped back around, not giving a damn about the death glare you could feel boring into your back.

“Say that shit again,” Topper’s hand clamped down on your wrist like a vise. “I fucking dare you.” His face was so close to yours you could smell the stale beer on his breath and the faint hint of Axe body spray. Ugh, still rocking that middle school scent.

“I’m gonna give you five seconds to get your grimey hands off me,” you warned him. You started counting down in your head, each number a silent threat. One… two… three…

“Or what? Huh?” He gave your wrist another painful tug, his eyes narrowing into slits. “Can’t hide behind your phone and your little Pogue posse now, can you?”

“Where’s your precious princess, Ruthie?” you taunted, tilting your head and giving him your most saccharine, mocking pout. “Still busy servicing half of Kildare? Or did she finally dump your sorry ass so she didn’t have to sneak around anymore?” 

His face contorted in rage, his grip tightening on your wrist until you could feel your bones protesting. “Where’s your fucking friends, huh? Did they finally fucking ditch your psycho ass too? Did they finally realize what a miserable, unlovable bitch you are? So unlovable that even your own fucking dad couldn’t handle your bullshit?”

You’re not entirely sure what happened in the next split second, everything seemed to blur. One moment Topper was sneering in your face, the next he was on the ground, clutching his nose and howling like a wounded animal. You heard a sickening crack, felt a jolt of pain shoot up your arm, and noticed your hand was throbbing. There was a high-pitched ringing in your ears, a dull buzzing that drowned out the shouts and gasps around you. You didn’t stick around to analyze the carnage. You just turned on your heel and kept walking, the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you headed down the beach, leaving Topper and his wounded pride in the dust.

You finally stumbled to a stop in the deserted car park, the realization hitting you like a punch to the gut – your Aunt had dropped you off. No ride home. You kicked a loose rock, sending it skittering across the asphalt, a frustrated “Fuck!” ripping from your throat. You repeated the action, again and again, until your foot throbbed in protest, joining the chorus of pain from your bruised knuckles. Fantastic. Just fucking fantastic. This was exactly how you’d envisioned your triumphant return from rehab: battered, bruised, and stranded. You squatted down, burying your face in your hands, hot, angry tears burning behind your eyelids. 

John B, the guy you were harbouring some seriously complicated feelings for was still on the beach, half your heart hated him and the other half wanted to be back in his arms. Topper was another delightful trigger you’d have to unpack later. And you were completely stranded, thanks to your current no-contact policy with your usual chauffeur, John B. You’d probably have to call your Aunt, drag her out of bed, further cementing your status as the family screw-up.

You forced yourself to get up, taking a shaky breath. You looked up, wiping angrily at your eyes, and saw him. Rafe. Leaning against his Jeep, his eyes locked on you. He didn’t make a move, didn’t say a word, just stood there, a silent, brooding figure in the dim parking lot light.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” you yelled, the raw edge of your emotions lashing out.

He still didn’t respond verbally, just pushed himself off the Jeep and walked over to the passenger side, opening the door with a deliberate, almost challenging gesture. Your first instinct was to tell him to go choke on a bag of dicks, but then you spotted the flashing lights of a Sheriff’s car pulling into the beach access road. Topper, the little shit, had definitely called them. Without another word, you scrambled into Rafe’s Jeep, practically diving into the passenger seat and reclining it as far back as it would go, hoping to disappear from view.

Rafe slid into the driver’s seat, giving you a deeply unimpressed look. “What in the actual hell are you doing?”

“Playing the drums! What does it look like I’m doing? Just drive!” you snapped, your voice tight with anxiety.

Rafe rolled his eyes, the interior light briefly illuminating his annoyed expression. He pulled out of the car park. “Where am I even going, exactly? Your place? Because I’m not wasting gas if you’re just gonna refuse to go in again.”

“Just drop me off right here.” You pointed to the side of the road when you were far enough away from the beach and any lingering law enforcement.

“Leave you in the middle of nowhere?” Rafe muttered, glancing at you. “Fuck no.”

“Pull over, or I swear to God, I’m gonna jump out of this fucking car,” you threatened, your hand hovering over the door handle. He sighed heavily, but begrudgingly pulled over to the side of the first deserted road.

You practically tumbled out of the Jeep and started walking, your pace bordering on a power walk. “Get back in the fucking car!” you heard him call out. You didn’t get far before he grabbed your wrist. A sharp hiss of pain escaped your lips, your skin already tender and bruised from Topper’s grip.

“What? What is it?” he asked, his hands held out in a placating gesture, like he was dealing with a feral animal.

“Nothing! Just leave me the fuck alone!” You huffed, whipping back around and breaking into a jog, but your tired legs were no match for his. He was suddenly in front of you, blocking your path.

“What the fuck is your problem? Huh?” he demanded, stepping right into your personal space.

“Rafe,” you spat, your voice low and trembling with anger and exhaustion, “I’m gonna be so fucking for real with you right now, I don’t have time for your bullshit!”

“Oh, so now I’m the bad guy?” he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief, a sneer twisting his lips. “You’re the one who stood me up, disappeared without a word, and then show up here acting like the world owes you an apology!”

“Oh, okay, you wanna play this game? Fine! I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to our oh-so-important date, okay? I’m fucking sorry I have actual, real-life shit going on right now! I’m sorry if your pathetic little ego got bruised! There?! Happy now, you whiny little bitch?” you yelled, your voice raw with fury.

“You're unbelievable,” He shook his head, his eyes blazing with a mixture of pure rage and something that still flickered like hurt.

“That’s what I gathered from your emo tweets, princess.” 

“I don’t give a flying fuck that you stood me up! But you didn’t even have the decency to tell me what the hell was going on. You could’ve just said something. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t understand?”

“No offense, Rafe, but I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. Least of all an explanation. And also, if I’m such a waste of your time…. Why are you still here?” You hadn’t forgotten about his text messages you had read once you got your phone back.

“You had every opportunity to tell me – anything – you could have said ‘my hamster died,’ I wouldn’t have cared! Maybe just a ‘hey Rafe, not doing so well,’ would’ve sufficed!” He was being deliberately sarcastic now, planting his hands on his hips, his jaw tight.

“Right, yeah, I should’ve just shot you a ‘Oops stuck in rehab’ text. My fucking bad. You’re so goddamn entitled, it’s actually hilarious. I didn’t have my fucking phone, dipshit. They tend to frown upon contraband in those places.” You spat, trying to sidestep him, but he moved with you, blocking your every attempt to create space..

“You didn’t even have the basic decency to text me when you got back.”

“What the actual fuck is happening here? What the fuck is this interrogation? Why do you seem to think we’re some kind of… couple? I think you’re severely delusional—” Your words were abruptly cut off as his lips crashed down on yours.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, your brain momentarily short-circuiting. Rafe’s lips were hard and demanding against yours, a shocking violation that sent a jolt of something akin to pure rage through your veins. It lasted only a split second before you shoved him away with all your might, your hand connecting with his chest with a forceful thud.

“What the actual fuck?” you panted, running your fingers over your tingling lips. Okay, not gonna lie, that wasn't entirely unpleasant. Were you planning on kissing Rafe? Hell no. Were you still hung up on John B? God, yes. Did you desperately need a distraction from the swirling mess in your head? Fuck yes.

“Thought I’d shut you up for at least five seconds,” he smirked, a hint of his usual arrogance returning. Before he could say another word, you wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape, and pulled him down. This time, you initiated the kiss, your lips crashing against his, a messy, desperate collision. His lips were surprisingly soft against yours, and his tongue slid into your mouth with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine.

You were so lost in the sudden intensity, the unexpected heat that flared between you, that you didn’t even realize he had backed you up against the cold metal of the car door, effectively pinning you.

He finally pulled away, his face a mixture of confusion and something that looked a lot like lust. You were so fucking confusing, your mood swinging from ice-cold bitch to scorching hot in a matter of seconds.

“Thought you were done with me?” You taunted him, a smirk playing on your lips as you remembered all the unanswered texts he’d left. “Thought you were done with me for good?”

“You make it so fucking hard,” he breathed, his hand now resting on your neck, his thumb lightly trailing over your swollen lips.

“Ever heard of self-control?” You smirked, catching his thumb between your teeth and gently sucking on it, swirling your tongue around the pad, coating it in your hot saliva.

Rafe closed his eyes, tipping his head back slightly, a low groan rumbling in his chest. “I need a trip to rehab too, you’re fucking driving me insane.”

You let his thumb slide out of your mouth with a satisfying pop, keeping direct eye contact with him. “Get in the fucking car. Now.” He didn’t ask, he ordered, and for some reason, you didn’t argue.

You were a mess – upset, tipsy, high as fuck, heartbroken over John B, and furious at pretty much everyone. But in that moment, all of that was drowned out by a burning, undeniable desire, a raging inferno between your legs. And the solution to that particular problem was sitting right next to you, his hand now gripping your bare thigh possessively as he peeled out of the roadside and sped back towards his place.

​​“You do this shit on purpose, don’t you?” He gripped the steering wheel with one hand, his knuckles bone-white, his jaw clenched so tight you could practically see the muscle twitching. His eyes, usually so vacant, were dark and intense as he briefly flicked his gaze towards you. “Showing up in a skirt that barely whispers hello to your ass, flashing half the damn beach doing a keg stand… you fucking crave attention. It’s almost pathetic how badly you want it.”

“Look at you, all hot and bothered right now,” you purred, shifting in your seat to angle your body more fully towards him, your gaze deliberately lingering on his clenched jaw. “Poor baby, all worked up.” You trailed a finger slowly up his taut bicep, feeling the immediate tension coil beneath your touch. “I don’t even have to try, and I’m living in your head, rent-free.” You leaned closer, your breath ghosting over his ear as you stroked a knuckle along his sharp jawline. “Must be exhausting, thinking about me day and night, but you’re barely a fleeting thought in my mind.” Liar.

He grabbed your wrist, his grip tight enough to make you gasp, pulling your hand away from his face. “Then why are you here right now?” 

You shrugged, “Call it… sheer boredom.”

“Oh yeah?” A dark smirk played on his lips as he clicked his tongue. “Trust me, baby, you’re not gonna be bored after I’m done with you. I fucking promise you that.” His hand returned to your thigh, this time sliding higher, his fingers dipping under the hem of your skirt.

You gasped softly, a thrill shooting through you as his fingers pressed against the bare skin of your inner thigh, so close to the juncture that a faint heat bloomed between your legs.

He squeezed the flesh of your thigh impossibly tight, his pinkie brushing against the slick heat that had already gathered there. He almost swerved feeling your raw wetness, “Why the fuck do you have no panties on?” He demanded.

“I like to feel the breeze,” you said, your voice slightly breathless, your thighs involuntarily squeezing together around his invading hand. “It’s no-panties season, Rafe. You should try it sometime.”

Rafe ran every yellow light, the engine roaring as he sped towards his house. He didn’t even bother to offer to drop you home, and you sure as hell didn’t tell him to.

Was this an incredibly stupid idea? Most definitely. But you’d stopped giving a fuck about smart choices somewhere between your tenth therapy session and JJ’s detailed account of his neighbor’s alleged alien abduction. You just wanted to feel something good for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The only reason you’d ever resisted this particular temptation with Rafe before was because your brain had been so thoroughly occupied with John B. It had always been John B, a constant, nagging presence in your thoughts. But now… now you didn’t really give a fuck. 

*

The car screeched to a halt, tires spitting gravel, and Rafe was yanking your door open before the engine even died. “Jump,” he commanded, his voice rough, and you instinctively obeyed, wrapping your legs around his waist as he hauled you out of the car. The sudden rush of cold air against your bare ass made you gasp; your skirt had ridden up to indecent heights.

His hands immediately found purchase on your backside, gripping and kneading the bare flesh, his thumbs digging in possessively as he tilted your head back and shoved his tongue down your throat. You didn’t draw a proper breath until you felt the soft give of a mattress beneath you, his weight momentarily shifting as he broke the frantic kiss.

Rafe had one knee wedged between your thighs, pressing insistently against your damp heat. He watched you, a predatory gleam in his eyes, watching the way your chest heaved, your breasts threatening to spill entirely from your bralette top. God, you were a mess, a beautiful, insatiable mess. He pressed his knee harder against you, and you bit your lip hard, stifling a moan that threatened to erupt.

“Got nothing to say now?” He teased, his hot breath ghosting over your face as he licked your jaw, his tongue leaving a slick trail across your skin before his lips began planting slow, deliberate kisses down your neck.

“Shut the fuck up,” you managed to gasp out, your hips instinctively grinding against his knee, a slick heat building with every friction.

“Seem a little desperate, don’t you?” His hand trailed down your body, his fingers ghosting over your sternum, dipping into your navel, before finally bunching your skirt up to your waist, not wasting another second. His fingers slid through your wet folds, expertly teasing your clit. You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood, desperate to keep the whimpers trapped in your throat. “Yeah, you fucking like that, don’t you?” His fingers were at your entrance, prodding and teasing, and then his lips were back on yours, a smirk playing on his mouth as he tasted the copper from your bitten lip.

But now, with your lips moving against his, his index finger slipping inside you, a strangled moan finally escaped, his mouth swallowing the sound completely. Then a second finger joined the first, pumping at a relentless pace that had you gripping the bedsheets, your breath coming out in short, ragged gasps.

Rafe watched you writhe beneath him, a sheen of sweat slicking your forehead, your face flushed. He had you completely at his mercy, the incoherent sounds of pleasure bubbling up from your throat, he was in control now. “You close?” He didn’t really need an answer; he could feel the insistent clenching around his fingers, your face scrunched up in concentration, your eyes squeezed shut. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting how close you were, how his fingers had you teetering precariously on the edge.

And just when you were about to let go, a frustrated cry building in your chest, he abruptly pulled his fingers out, shoving them into your mouth. “Not yet, princess,” he murmured, making you taste yourself, lick his fingers clean of your slick juices. A frustrated whine escaped your throat around his fingers. “Wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you glared at him, once he finally pulled his fingers from your mouth.

“Be patient, princess,” he smirked, patting your cheek lightly in a deliberately condescending manner. “I’ve got you.”

He stood up, stripping his clothes off in a haste that spoke volumes of his barely contained desire. Your moans, the way your mouth had greedily sucked on his fingers, had his cock throbbing with a primal urgency.

You were propped up on your elbows, watching him with this weird mix of ‘oh god, here we go’ and a slightly morbid curiosity as he gave his cock a few practice pumps. The head was all swollen and this startling shade of pink. It was… well, let’s just say it looked like it meant business. Your heart decided to stage a drum solo against your ribs, a frantic little beat of pure nerves. Holy shit, how the actual fuck is that supposed to fit inside you? You shoved that delightful thought down, right next to all the other anxieties you usually kept tucked away. You were so goddamn over being a virgin, tired of waiting for the right guy to come along. You just wanted to get it done, tick it off the life to-do list, right next to ‘learn to parallel park’ and ‘figure out what the hell a Roth IRA is.’ How hard could it really be? Every girl you’d ever semi-confided in about this whole virginity saga always said it only hurt for a hot minute, like a sharp little sting, and then BAM! Instant good times. 

And God, you desperately wanted some instant good times, even if it was just for a little while and with the resident Kook prince. He fumbled with the condom wrapper for a sec, looking like a total doofus, but eventually wrestled the little rubber raincoat on. Right then and there, you kind of wished you’d paid more attention in sex ed.

Rafe grabbed your ankles, pulling you roughly to the edge of the bed. You still had your bralette on, your skirt a tangled mess bunched around your waist. He didn’t bother with formalities, didn’t bother to undress you further. He was feral in his need, and honestly, a part of you was too.

He spread your legs wider, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Been wanting this for so fucking long,” he groaned, his voice thick with lust as he positioned himself between your thighs. The head of his cock slid through your slick folds, the tip brushing against your ridiculously sensitive clit, sending a jolt straight to your core. His grip on your hips was bruising.

“What you waiting for then?” You managed to get out through gritted teeth, the anticipation a sharp, almost painful ache. You were half-filled with a reckless excitement and half-terrified of the unknown. He was big, thicker than you’d imagined, and you had absolutely no clue what to expect sensation-wise. His prolonged teasing wasn’t exactly helping your nerves.

“So fucking impatient,” he hissed, kissing his teeth as he lined himself up at your entrance. “Need to fuck that bratty attitude right out of you,” he spat down at your opening, smearing it with his tip, a crude attempt at extra lubrication that did little to soothe your growing fear.

“I swear to you, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m fucking leaving—“ The threat died in your throat, your breath hitched as you felt him push inside. It was met with immediate, searing resistance. A sharp whimper escaped you, the stretching sensation intense as his thick mushroom tip tried to wedge its way past your tight walls. Your muscles clenched reflexively, your body screaming in protest, trying to physically force him out, “—fuck.”

“Fucking relax— you’re squeezing so fucking hard,” he grunted, pushing in a fraction more. The pain was sharp, like being torn apart. Tears burned in your eyes, and you squeezed them shut, but they still escaped, hot and wet against your temples. “Fuck— you good?” Rafe hovered over you, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb.

“It fucking hurts,” you whimpered, your voice small and shaky as he finally bottomed out, the sensation of being completely full almost unbearable. “Ow fuck, fuck, fuck.” He was so deep inside you, you could practically feel him pressing against your stomach.

“Just relax, you’re so tense,” he murmured, wiping your tears away with his thumbs. “Relax for me, princess.” He stayed still for a moment, letting your body try to accommodate his size, his impressive girth. It felt less like pleasure and more like a goddamn baseball bat was currently trying to tear you in two. “Hey, open your eyes.” He demanded softly, and your eyelids fluttered open, your blurry vision focusing on his face looking down at you, his expression holding a strained restraint as he fought the urge to fuck you dumb.

“Just move— fuck—“ Maybe if he pulled out, you wouldn’t feel so stretched, so full. Maybe if you got a moment of relief, it wouldn’t feel so… “FUCK!” You yelped as he pulled out almost completely and then thrust back inside, the force sending another wave of searing pain through you.

“What? What? What’s wrong?” He stilled inside you again, his arms braced on either side of your head. “Just relax, you a virgin or some shit?”

“So fucking what if I am? It’s not your fucking business,” you snapped, even through the throbbing pain, your default defense mechanism kicking in.

“What the fuck?” He sat back on his knees, pulling out of you completely, making you hiss at the sudden movement. He looked down at the sheets, a prominent red stain blooming on the white cotton. The condom he’d used was stained a worrying shade of pink, and a few droplets of crimson were still trailing down your inner thighs. “You’re a fucking virgin?” He stood back up, tossing the condom into the overflowing trash can and pulling on his discarded boxers. “Don’t you think that’s something worth mentioning?” His voice was tight with a mixture of shock and a definite hint of panic.

“The fuck is your problem?” You sat up on the bed, wincing slightly at the unfamiliar rawness between your legs. You awkwardly adjusted your skirt back down over your hips, feeling exposed. One minute Rafe was inside you, all heat and urgency, and the next he was pacing around his room like a caged animal. “If this is about the sheets, I’ll fucking clean them for you, you uptight prick.” You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to project an air of nonchalance that you definitely weren't feeling. He was being kinda melodramatic right now.

“You’re. A. Fucking. Virgin,” he said slowly, his voice laced with disbelief and something that sounded a lot like regret as he squatted down in front of you, his gaze intense.

“You don’t have to sound so disgusted,” you snapped, a defensive prickle rising up your spine.

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me that?” He pressed his fingers to his temples.

“Why the fuck does it matter?” You retorted, avoiding his gaze. “How does it affect you?”

“It fucking matters because that shouldn’t have been your first time!” He exclaimed, his voice rising with genuine frustration, a look of self-disgust flashing across his face. He looked like he wanted to punch a wall, or maybe himself.

“I wasn’t exactly expecting fucking candles and rose petals from you, Rafe,” you shrugged, trying to play it cool, even though a small, wounded part of you was screaming. “This is just a hook-up, right? That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

“No. It’s not. That’s not how your first time is supposed to be… fucking hell, you’re so fucking annoying sometimes,” he muttered, running a hand roughly through his hair.

“HEY! If me being a virgin is such a fucking inconvenience, I’ll fucking leave,” you shot back, jumping to your feet. You managed to take a few wobbly steps before he was spinning you back around, his grip surprisingly gentle this time.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, his eyes pleading.

“No, I heard you loud and clear, fuck you—”

“No, hold up,” he cut in, his voice suddenly softer, almost… bummed out? It was weird. “Listen, I’m actually kinda feeling like a dick right now, not gonna lie. God, I would’ve totally done that whole thing differently. Like, way differently. That was a total shit show, my bad. I would’ve, you know, been gentler and stuff. Maybe even, like, actually kissed you properly, all over. Fuck sake, you’re making me sound like a total tool, and yeah, maybe I am one right now.” He took a deep breath, his gaze losing some of that hard edge. ““That’s why you should’ve told me, so I could’ve… I could’ve made it special for you. I don’t give a fuck if you’re a virgin. I just… I wish it hadn’t been like that for you.”

“Dude, it’s fine, you’re not my boyfriend. Doesn’t matter,” you said, trying to play it cool with a sarcastic little punch to his shoulder, shifting awkwardly on your feet. Okay, maybe it mattered a little. Scratch that, it mattered a lot. “Now that we’ve had the super fun virginity reveal, uh, can you maybe drop me home?”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Fuck,” Rafe muttered, taking a step closer. When you didn’t bolt or even flinch, he took another, placing his hands gently on your hips. He backed you up slowly until the backs of your knees bumped against the edge of the bed. “Let me… let me make you feel good, first. For real good. Then I’ll drop you wherever the hell you want.”

“Yeah?” You ran your fingers through his short, spiky hair, the texture surprisingly soft.

“Mhmm,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your forehead with a tenderness that made your stomach flip. “Let me spoil you, princess.” He kissed you again, and the urgency from before was completely gone, replaced by a slow, sweet tenderness that melted some of the tension in your shoulders. Your fingertips traced up his chest, drawing him closer until there was barely any space left between you.

He left a trail of soft kisses down your jawline, his lips lingering at the hollow of your throat before moving lower, towards your cleavage. Your lacy bralette shielded your breasts, your nipples already hard and poking against the fabric.

“I’m taking this shit off,” he grunted softly, his fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp before pulling the straps down, revealing your bare skin.

“So fucking perfect,” he breathed, his eyes dark as he admired your exposed breasts. The cool air was instantly replaced by the wet warmth of his mouth as he latched onto your nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip, his hand cupping your other breast, squeezing it gently. He swapped over, his kisses sloppy and adoring as he pushed your breast deeper into his mouth, savoring every inch of your skin.

It felt like a do-over, a second chance. Not one you’d asked for, but one that Rafe seemed determined to give you, like you deserved it. Before, he’d been so caught up in his own head, his own needs overpowering everything else. He’d been so consumed by the fact that he finally had you in his bed, a fantasy he’d chased for way too long, that he’d rushed it, been too rough. He’d seen the tough exterior, the way you acted like nothing fazed you. But beneath the sharp thorns underneath all that sharp-tongued, don't-mess-with-me attitude, he now  sensed a delicate bloom, untouched and sweet. And now, a newfound reverence stirred within him. He yearned to linger, to inhale the intoxicating scent of your vulnerability, to coax your petals open with exquisite care, until you unfurled completely beneath his touch.

“Rafe,” you gasped softly as he bit and nipped at your scorching skin, sending shivers down your spine. His free hand moved down from your hip, his fingers gently caressing your inner thigh.

“Hmmm?” He finally unlatched from your breast, his gaze now softer, more focused on you. He sat up on his knees, his hands hovering near the hem of your skirt before slowly, deliberately pulling it down your legs. “This okay?”

“You just had your dick inside me ten minutes ago, and now you’re asking if taking my skirt off is okay?” you said, a hint of your usual sass returning, though your voice was still a little breathless.

“If you didn’t have such a sharp mouth, you’d be so much fucking hotter,” he grumbled.

You instinctively snapped your legs closed, giving him an unimpressed look. “Sorry,” he smirked, gently forcing your legs apart again. Lying completely nude in front of him felt surprisingly intimate, the way his hungry eyes were taking you in. He leaned down, leaving a trail of kisses down your sternum, his lips tickling your navel, making you squirm.

“Gotta taste you, yeah?” He looked up at you, his eyes full of a raw desire that made your breath catch. You gave him a shaky nod, and he followed the path of his kisses lower, towards your mound.

He took his time, his gaze reverent as he admired your body. Drool glistened on his lower lip at the sight of your swollen vulva, your labia glistening with the sticky residue of your arousal, your tight little entrance aching to be filled. Damn, you were pretty. Pretty, pretty pussy, and all his… well, soon to be his again.

He pushed his face into your heat, the softness of your inner lips sending a jolt of pleasure through his body. He stroked his flattened tongue up and down your folds, groaning loudly when you instinctively pushed at his head, a pathetic attempt to regain some control. Rafe gently but firmly kept your thighs apart, a cruel smile playing on his lips as he continued to lavish attention on your most sensitive spot, taking his time to savor the taste, the smell, the sound of your wetness splashing against his tongue. His groans mingled with yours, the vibrations adding another layer of delicious torment. He sucked gently on your lips, humming against them before releasing you with a soft pop and then gently swishing his tongue around your tight little hole.

His tongue then lapped languidly over your pulsating clit, with absolutely no intention of rushing your pleasure. Tasting you, making you writhe beneath him, hearing his name fall from your lips in an anguished cry of need was all the reward he needed for his exceptional willpower in not just bending you over and taking you again.

He used his nose to bump teasingly against your clit while stretching your opening with his hot, wet tongue, sending a wave of sensation that made your eyes cross. You squirmed beneath his hold, a whimper escaping your lips, all semblance of control lost. You could only cling to his hair, your thighs trembling as you endured his loud, wet slurping and the intoxicating vibrations that accompanied his low growls. Your desperate cries turned into breathless gasps as he ate you harder, your grip on his hair tightening as more moans bubbled up from your chest, slowly melting into the overwhelming stimulation, teetering on the very brink of release.

“Rafe, please,” you gasped, your head falling back against the soft pillows, your mouth hanging open as trickles of pleasure slowly seeped from your core, and Rafe happily licked them up.

“Can’t wait to make this pussy mine,” he breathed against your slick skin, planting one last, lingering kiss on your swollen clit, panting heavily from having spent a continuous, uninterrupted half-hour between your legs. It was a pleasure unlike any you had ever experienced; your thighs were still trembling with aftershocks, a light sheen of sweat glistening on your forehead and neck, which he was now licking off as he moved back up to your lips, planting a firm kiss, making you taste yourself.

*

Despite your attempts to pry his boxers off, Rafe restrained your hands telling you "not tonight". You didnt fight him too hard because your body was exhausted. After a quick shower with him, you were wrapped in a soft cotton shower gown and back in his bed. He’d followed you in, only pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and now he was wrapping his arms around you from behind, his chest pressing against your back under the covers.

“Stay,” he murmured into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp. “Just for a little longer.”

You didn’t immediately pull away, “I should probably get going,” you said, though the words lacked any real conviction.

“Come on,” he tightened his grip slightly. “It’s late. Just… stay the night. We can order takeout, watch some stupid movie.”

“And then what?”

He chuckled softly, his lips brushing against your ear. “Then… we can figure that out in the morning.” He paused, his tone becoming more serious. “I missed you, you know.”

You scoffed softly, though a small part of you felt a strange warmth at his admission. “Yeah, right.”

“No, seriously,” he insisted, his chin resting on your shoulder. “It was… weird without you around. Even with all the yelling and the drama.”

For some reason, with him, it felt different. With your friends, you’d plastered on a fake smile, told them it was ‘challenging but ultimately transformative,’ spewed all the therapy buzzwords you’d been forced to learn. But with Rafe… maybe it was because you’d genuinely thought he couldn’t care less, that you were just a fleeting annoyance in his life. Maybe it was the anonymity of his perceived indifference that made it easier. Whatever the reason, the carefully constructed wall you’d built around your rehab experience felt like it was starting to crumble.

“It was… awful,” you admitted, the words feeling surprisingly easy to say out loud to him.

“Awful how?”

“Just… everything,” you sighed, a wave of the remembered misery washing over you. “The forced group therapy where everyone shared their ‘feelings flowers’ and talked about their ‘inner child.’ The mindfulness exercises that just made my anxiety worse. The daily affirmations that felt like I was lying to myself twenty times a day. It was like… my own personal version of hell.” You paused, then added with a dark chuckle, “I genuinely think I would have preferred a lobotomy.”

Rafe was quiet for a moment, his arms still wrapped around you. Then he squeezed you gently. “Sounds pretty rough.”

“Rough is an understatement,” you said, a bitter laugh escaping you. “It was torture. Being forced to talk about myself, to dissect every single messed-up thing in my head with a bunch of strangers and some overly enthusiastic therapist who kept telling me to ‘embrace the journey.’ I just wanted to punch someone.”

“So you didn’t, though?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Tempted,” you admitted. “Very, very tempted. But surprisingly, I managed to restrain myself. Mostly.”

“Well, I’m glad you're back.”

“I'm not.”

He frowned slightly, his thumb gently stroking your arm. “Why?”

You sighed, the weight of the past six weeks suddenly pressing down on you again. “Honestly? Not really. It’s… complicated.” You hesitated, then decided to just lay it out there. You were so physically tired of the charade. “I’m staying with my aunt right now. Things with my mom… they’re not great.”

He didn’t pry, just nodded slowly, his eyes full of a surprising amount of understanding.

You continued, the words tumbling out now, a dam finally breaking. “God, I’m so sick of pretending everything’s fine.....” You trailed off, the raw honesty feeling both terrifying and liberating.

Rafe listened intently. He reached out and gently stroked your arm. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice low and sincere. “If you ever… if you ever need somewhere to crash, you can always come here. Seriously. I’ve got the spare rooms, plenty of food. I’ll even… I’ll even try not to be a complete asshole.” He nuzzled his nose in the crook of your neck.

Yeah, right. Rafe offering you a safe haven? That’s about as likely as pigs flying over the Outer Banks. You brushed off his words as some kind of weird post intimacy dream. There was no way he was that nice, no way he actually cared.

The exhaustion from the emotional rollercoaster of the day, finally caught up with you. Your eyelids felt heavy, and the warmth of Rafe’s body next to yours was surprisingly comforting. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist:

@yktayy9669 @urmomaahoe @rafesgurl @rafesdrew @sophreakingfunny @hannaa20002000 @furiouscopshepherduniversity @mirellef2001 @colbysbrocks @drewstarkeytruelove @luzstarkey @sassyvilliantrope @wintercrows

@lolasangelz @scream4mami @pixieflu @beavee11 @wtfisastiles @pandxra @Ivxstarr @kissylec @hannieskzzz @soulsearchinginkauai @mysticbby2009 @matildalittlefreak @giouvarlakia @yncoded @my-name-is-baby @harryzcherry @lilithblackkk @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ethanthequeefqueen

@angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd @chillgal135 @angeldiaryy @bee-43 @chirpchirp69 @klarxtr

[hunzzzzz]

OBX TWEETS: part 11

TW: mentions of eating disorder

You were hunched over your laptop in the library, the glow of the screen doing little to cut through the fog in your brain. Barely a hundred words of your assignment stared back at you, each one a monumental effort. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic rhythm that echoed the ringing in your ears. A sheen of sweat slicked your palms, even in the cool library air. The impending date with Rafe – just the thought of it sent a shiver of dread down your spine.

“Hey,” a voice, laced with concern, cut through the buzzing in your head. “You good?”

You blinked, your focus snapping back to the present. A hand waved gently in front of your face, and you finally registered John B sitting beside you, his brow furrowed in worry.

“Huh?” You looked up. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just… trying to get this shit done.” You gestured vaguely at the screen.

His eyes followed your hand, “You’re shaking,” he pointed out gently, his voice soft as he watched your fingers tremble above the keyboard. “Have you eaten anything today?”

A wave of dizziness washed over you. The memory of the black coffee and monster you’d chugged down that morning, hoping to kickstart your focus, felt like a cruel joke now. The caffeine was a jittery current beneath your skin, amplified by the gnawing emptiness in your stomach. “Uh, just coffee,” you mumbled.

His eyes softened with understanding. “You don’t look so well,” he said, his voice laced with genuine worry. He reached out and placed a warm hand on your shoulder, “Come on, let’s get you out of here. I’ll take you home.” He was already efficiently packing up your laptop and notebooks, slinging your bag over his shoulder.

“What about the others?” you asked. Normally, the Twinkie was the designated transport, and John B the unofficial chauffeur for your crew.

“Nah, they all… uh, went to get some grub,” he said, his tone casual.

You nodded, too preoccupied to question it. You let him gently guide you towards the car park, his hand a steadying presence on your back. Your legs felt like jelly, and you leaned into his support. In the passenger seat of the Twinkie, you instinctively curled into a fetal position, knees drawn to your chest, head resting heavily.

Why were you so anxious? Why did the thought of this date with Rafe make you feel so sick? Because it was Rafe. The Rafe you’d heard countless warnings about, the one your friends practically spat venom at. You were willingly walking into an evening with him. But beneath the surface of that obvious dread, something else churned – a potent, unsettling mix of nerves and… vile attraction.

Your fingers twitched, a phantom sensation of reaching for your phone. You’d caught yourself doing it all day – a quick check to see if he’d viewed your story, a nervous refresh of his Twitter, the small sting of disappointment when his messages took longer than you expected. A shameful part of you even wondered if, subconsciously, you’d pushed things with Topper to create this very scenario. A disgusting, thrill-seeking part of you craved the danger, the wrongness of it all. You knew he wasn’t good for you. Yet…

Your breath hitched as a vivid image of his stupid smirk flashed in your mind. Those eyes, usually so vacant, held a strange intensity when he looked at you, a brief flash of something that reminded you of the ocean’s depths. What the fuck was wrong with you? This had to be some kind of self-destructive streak, a twisted form of self-harm disguised as attraction. 

The click of the front door latch echoed in the sudden silence. You stepped inside, the familiar scent of home usually a comfort, today it felt suffocating. And then you saw them.

Your mother, her face already crumpled with worry, sat on the edge of the sofa. Your grandfather, usually stoic, had a rare look of concern etched onto his weathered features. JJ, Pope, and Kiara sat in a row of dining chairs, their expressions a mixture of awkwardness and genuine care. And then there was your aunt, her kind eyes filled with a sadness that mirrored your own growing dread. It hit you like a physical blow. This wasn't just a casual gathering.

“Is this an intervention?” The question ripped from your throat, sharp and laced with a panic that threatened to overwhelm you. Every head in the room snapped towards you, their expressions confirming your worst fears.

“Honey, we just want to talk to you,” your aunt said softly, her voice gentle as she started to move towards you.

“Uh-huh, yeah. Just one sec, I think I left something… in the car.” You started to backpedal, your eyes darting towards the door, a desperate escape route forming in your mind. But just as you thought you might make it, your back collided with a solid chest. John B. Of course it was John B, the final, insurmountable obstacle.

You whipped around, your eyes locking with his. “Just sit down,” he pleaded, his voice low and earnest. “Let’s just talk.” 

It felt like a punch to the gut, a cruel twist of a knife you thought you could trust. He knew. He had to have known. This was his idea, wasn't it? The thought solidified in your mind, a heavy weight of hurt settling in your chest. “We just want to talk, please?” His voice held an underlying desperation that, under different circumstances, might have swayed you. But right now, all you felt was the sting of his perceived betrayal.

With a heavy sigh that felt like surrendering a battle you hadn't even started. You avoided everyone's gaze, your eyes fixed on a loose thread in the rug.

Your mom, as expected, was already dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, her silent tears adding another layer of guilt to the already thick air. Your aunt reached over and gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze before standing up, her gaze steady as she began to speak.

She took a deep breath, “Honey,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “we want you to know that we all care about you, so deeply. We all love you. And please, please don’t think of this as anything other than that. This is a judgement-free zone. We are all here because we want the absolute best for you… We really do.” Her eyes, filled with a genuine warmth that usually offered so much comfort, now felt like an accusation.

She then reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a folded piece of paper, her hands shaking slightly as she unfolded it. She took another deep breath and began to read, her voice thick with emotion:

My darling niece, I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday. Your tiny hand wrapped around my finger, and in that moment, you became like my own daughter. The world felt brighter, full of possibility, the day you came into it. And I have had the absolute joy of watching you grow, of seeing you blossom into the intelligent, witty, and beautiful woman that you are today. You have a light inside you, a spark that can illuminate any room

I know you have had a difficult relationship with food, my sweet girl. I’ve seen you struggle for so long, the battles you’ve fought in silence. But you are so incredibly brave. Three years ago, you took that monumental first step and sought help, and I have never, ever been prouder of you than I was that day. You faced your demons head-on, and that takes a strength that most people can’t even imagine.

But we also know that recovery isn’t a straight line. Every day is a challenge, every day a new battle. And while I may not fully understand the intricacies of what you are going through, the weight you carry, I know this much: you are not doing okay right now. And that’s alright. Relapsing is a part of the journey, a stumble on a long and winding path. It doesn’t diminish the progress you’ve made, it doesn’t make you any less strong, it only makes you human. We all falter, my love.

I want you to get better for yourself, not for us, but for you. I want you to live a long, healthy life, filled with joy and laughter and all the things that make your eyes sparkle. I want you to be able to achieve all of your goals, to chase every single one of your dreams without this holding you back. I want my niece – my bright, fierce, incredible niece – to be strong and healthy and vibrantly alive. You deserve that, more than you know.

I love you more than words can say, my darling. We all do. And we are here for you, every single step of the way.

The fragile sense of connection you’d momentarily felt shattered as your mom dramatically tossed the crumpled tissue onto the coffee table, her eyes red and puffy. She stood up, her posture stiff, and unfolded a piece of paper with a sharp, rustling sound. Her voice, when she began to speak, was tight with suppressed anger and a raw, self-pitying edge.

Writing this letter is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, but frankly, I don’t know what else to try. I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, consumed by worry. It’s a constant ache in my chest, this fear of what’s happening to you. And honestly, it’s starting to take a serious toll on me.

I just wish you could be honest with me, just once. When I ask you how you are, I’m not just making polite conversation. I’m your mother! It’s my job to worry, but you make it impossible when you constantly lie. You have no idea the anxiety I feel every time you walk out that door. Is this the day…? That’s what runs through my head constantly. It’s exhausting.

You lie to me every single day, and it’s getting harder and harder to pretend I don’t notice. I thought maybe a skipped meal here and there was just a phase, something teenage girls do. But it’s so much more than that, isn’t it? You tell me you eat a full lunch at college, but John B, bless his heart, felt he had to tell me the truth. You apparently tell them that you eat a big dinner here at home! What am I supposed to think? It makes me look like a fool.

And why the secrecy? If you’re struggling so much, why can’t you just confide in me? Why won’t you just get the help you so desperately need? We went through this before, remember? Three years ago. It was incredibly difficult for all of us, but we got through it. You got better! So why are you doing this again? Don’t you remember how hard that was on everyone? Especially me?

Honestly, if you can’t even do it for yourself, then please, just do it for me. I can’t keep living like this, walking on eggshells, constantly wondering if I’m going to get a phone call. I can’t stand by and watch you disappear like this. You’re a shadow of the vibrant, happy person you used to be. Sometimes I look at you, and I feel like I’m looking at a stranger. It breaks my heart.

I feel like such a failure as a mother. What did I do wrong? How did I let this happen again? It’s a constant weight on my shoulders, this feeling that I can’t even help my own daughter. And it’s so frustrating because you won’t let me in. You push me away, you refuse to talk. You are making me feel like I’ve failed you, and that’s a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone–

At that point, your aunt, her face etched with concern and a hint of disapproval, she placed a hand on your mother’s arm. “Why don’t you sit back down for a moment?” She gave your mother a pointed look, a silent reprimand for the letter’s overwhelmingly self-centered tone. Your mother, still sniffling, reluctantly sank back into her seat, her gaze fixed on you with a mixture of accusation and wounded pride.

JJ unfolded the crumpled paper, and along with Pope and Kiara, the three of them took turns reading short sections, their voices a blend of concern and earnestness. Their joint letter expressed how worried they all were about you. They emphasized that what they were witnessing wasn't healthy, and it was impacting their friend in a way that was deeply concerning. They reiterated their unwavering support and pleaded with you to consider getting help, stressing that they missed the old you and simply wanted their friend to be healthy and happy again.

Your grandfather, a man whose silence often spoke volumes, stood up slowly. He looked at you, his eyes filled with a familiar warmth that had always been a source of quiet comfort. He didn't read from a letter, didn't offer any lengthy speeches. He simply said, his voice a low rumble, "I love you, angel." It was his nickname for you, a term of endearment he'd used since you were a little girl with scraped knees and boundless energy.

He then walked over and enveloped you in a hug. His arms, strong and familiar, felt like a safe harbor in the storm of emotions swirling inside you. It was a hug that spoke of years of unspoken love and understanding, and in that moment, it was exactly what you desperately needed. 

A lump formed in your throat, and you had to fight back the tears that threatened to spill over. Emotions were a messy, unwelcome guest in your carefully constructed inner world. You had always viewed them as a weakness, something ugly that should remain locked away, buried deep inside. This intervention, this forced exposure of your vulnerabilities, was your absolute worst nightmare. Having to sit there, under the scrutiny of everyone you knew, listening to their worried words and seeing their pitying glances, made you want to disappear. You wished the earth would just open up and swallow you whole, offering a swift and silent escape from this agonizing reality.

And then it was John B's turn. The silence in the room seemed to thicken, becoming heavy and suffocating. You kept your gaze fixed on the worn pattern of the rug, your vision blurring slightly at the edges. You couldn't bring yourself to look at him. Not yet, maybe not ever. This betrayal felt different, deeper than any other you had experienced. It burrowed under your skin, a cold, hard knot in your stomach.

He knew. That was the thought that kept repeating in your mind, a relentless accusation. He knew you. He knew how much you valued your privacy, how much you despised being the center of attention, especially like this. He knew how fiercely you guarded your inner world and how much you would resent this forced exposure. So for him to go to your mother, behind your back, to orchestrate this… it felt like a fundamental violation. A tearing of the trust you had placed in him, a trust you had believed was unbreakable.

You couldn't reconcile it. You couldn't understand his reasoning, even if he had the best intentions. It felt like a betrayal of your friendship, a disregard for your feelings. A mental wall had slammed down in your mind, a solid barrier that prevented you from separating the act from the person. It wasn't just something he did; it felt like a revelation of who he was – someone who, despite your closeness, ultimately didn't respect your boundaries or your wishes.

Did he care about you? A small, reluctant voice whispered in the back of your mind that he probably did. But right now, that didn't matter. The hurt, the sense of being ambushed by someone you considered a safe person, was too raw, too overwhelming. Could you ever look at him the same way again? Could you ever truly trust him after this? The answer, echoing in the hollow chambers of your heart, was a resounding and painful no.

I’m so sorry. I know this is probably the last thing you wanted, and believe me, it wasn’t easy for any of us. But I didn’t know what else to do. Watching you… watching someone I care so deeply about struggle like this, all by yourself, it felt like I was drowning too. I kept thinking about all the times… all the times we’ve been there for each other. Remember that pie-eating contest at the county fair when we were kids? You were so determined to beat Topper, and you did, even with blueberry all over your face. I was laughing so hard I almost choked on my apple pie. You were always so competitive, so full of life.

And remember when you used to spend hours in the kitchen, experimenting with all those crazy recipes? You were only ten, but you were already talking about becoming a chef, opening your own restaurant. You’d make these incredible, elaborate meals for all of us, even if it was just a Tuesday night. You had this passion, this fire in you. And lately… lately that fire has been dimming, and it scares me.

I knew I could never forgive myself if anything were to ever happen to you, if I just stood by and watched you disappear. I had to try something, anything. I want you to know that I love you, every version of you. Whether you’re the life of the party or hiding away, whether you’re feeling strong or just a tiny fragment of yourself. I love your laugh, your stubbornness, even your eye-rolls when Pope gets too nerdy. I just want you to get better. I want you to be whole again, because that’s what you deserve. You deserve to feel that fire again, to chase those dreams you had. And I really, truly hope that one day, you’ll understand why I did this, and maybe… maybe one day you’ll even forgive me.

Your aunt stepped forward again, her expression gentle but firm. “Honey,” she said softly, “there’s a car waiting outside to take you to a rehabilitation facility. We’ve already arranged everything.”

Panic flared in your chest, a desperate urge to bolt. “No,” you said quickly, your voice rising. “No, you don’t understand. I can do this. I promise. I’ll make a meal plan, I’ll stick to it–” It was a lie, and you knew it even as the words left your mouth, but the thought of going away, of being confined in some strange place, was terrifying.

Your mother cut in, her voice sharp and devoid of the earlier tears. “I can’t listen to any more lies,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “You need professional help. You need to be in a place where people know how to deal with this. This isn’t something you can just promise your way out of anymore.”

A strange sense of resignation washed over you. You were tired of fighting, tired of the constant tension and the worried looks. And honestly, a break from your mother sounded… almost appealing. You made a decision, right then and there. Not because you suddenly had a burning desire to get better, not because you were ready to confront the gnawing voice of your eating disorder, but because you needed an escape. You needed to get away from all of them, from the weight of their concern and the suffocating atmosphere of this intervention. The sheer embarrassment of having your vulnerability laid bare in front of everyone you knew was unbearable. You couldn't face them, not right now.

“Okay,” you said, the word feeling heavy and foreign on your tongue. “Okay, I’ll go.” You avoided making eye contact with anyone, the shame burning in your cheeks. You just wanted to disappear.

The goodbyes were a blur, each hug a bittersweet farewell to a life you were momentarily leaving behind. Pope squeezed your hand tightly, his usual cheerful demeanor clouded with worry. Kiara pulled you into a fierce embrace, whispering, "We'll be here when you get back. Promise."

Then it was JJ. He wrapped his arms around you, his hug a comforting, familiar pressure. He swayed you gently, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "Hey," he mumbled into your hair, "don't go making any new friends in there now! None of them will ever be as crazy as me! I probably got, like, schizophrenia too, let me come with you." Even in this mess, JJ could make you crack a small involuntary smile.

You finally turned to John B, who stood awkwardly by the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and you could see the faint outline of his fingers fiddling with something small – probably a quarter. You walked towards him, each step feeling heavy and final. When you reached him, you didn't say anything, you just wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close. His arms, stiff with surprise for a moment, slowly circled your waist, his face burying itself in the crook of your neck. You could feel the faint tremor in his shoulders.

"I'm gonna go to rehab," you choked out, the words thick with unshed tears. "And I'm gonna get better." You sniffled, the disgusting emotions you usually kept locked away spilling out in a messy torrent. You pulled away slightly, just enough to look him in the eye, though you couldn't quite meet his gaze. "Don't call me, don't text me, don't contact me ever again." The words were sharp, meant to cut, to create a clean break.

You finally looked up at his face. His eyes were red-rimmed, brimming with unshed tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. His mouth was slightly ajar, a silent testament to the shock that rippled through him. "Goodbye, John B," you whispered, the words laced with a pain. You reached out a trembling hand and pressed a fleeting kiss to his cheek, a final, bittersweet gesture before turning and walking out the door.

Taglist:

@yktayy9669 @urmomaahoe @rafesgurl @rafesdrew @sophreakingfunny @hannaa20002000 @furiouscopshepherduniversity @mirellef2001 @colbysbrocks @drewstarkeytruelove @luzstarkey @sassyvilliantrope @wintercrows

@lolasangelz @scream4mami @pixieflu @beavee11 @wtfisastiles @pandxra @Ivxstarr @kissylec @hannieskzzz @soulsearchinginkauai @mysticbby2009 @matildalittlefreak @giouvarlakia @yncoded @my-name-is-baby @harryzcherry @lilithblackkk @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ethanthequeefqueen

@angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd @chillgal135 @angeldiaryy @bee-43 @chirpchirp69 @klarxtr

[hunzzzzz]

Love i need an update on fighting for you pleaseeeee 😭😭

OMG MY SUCCESSION FANDOM😭😭 I promise you I haven’t abandoned you!! I’m trying to come up with some ideas but I fear I have none left???

Pls feel free to give me some inspiration or some direction in what to do with this story😩🙏🏼

[hunzzzzz]

hey bbg! i love your obx tweets 🫶🏻 honestly comedy gold!! not to pressure you or anything but do you know the next part will come out ??? xx

Hey bby!! TYSM 🥰🥰🥰

Okay so basically I have part 11 done but it’s another cliffhanger. So I’ve been writing part 12 so I can post them both at the same time BUT part 12 is a long juicy chapter and it’s taking a bit longer.

Just a few more days! Hang in there baby girl😘😘

[hunzzzzz]

You guys are killing me😭😭😭😭 I will pick whoever wins the vote becuz I LOVE THEM BOTH too much. Why can’t throuples thrive???

team rafe i’m so serious🙏🏼🙏🏼

Taglist: @yktayy9669 @urmomaahoe @rafesgurl @rafesdrew @sophreakingfunny @hannaa20002000 @furiouscopshepherduniversity @mirellef2001 @colbysbrocks @drewstarkeytruelove @luzstarkey @sassyvilliantrope @wintercrows @lolasangelz @scream4mami @pixieflu @beavee11 @wtfisastiles @pandxra @Ivxstarr @kissylec @hannieskzzz @soulsearchinginkauai @mysticbby2009 @matildalittlefreak @giouvarlakia @yncoded @my-name-is-baby @harryzcherry @lilithblackkk @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ethanthequeefqueen @angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd @chillgal135 @angeldiaryy @bee-43

[hunzzzzz]

team rafe i’m so serious🙏🏼🙏🏼

Taglist: @yktayy9669 @urmomaahoe @rafesgurl @rafesdrew @sophreakingfunny @hannaa20002000 @furiouscopshepherduniversity @mirellef2001 @colbysbrocks @drewstarkeytruelove @luzstarkey @sassyvilliantrope @wintercrows @lolasangelz @scream4mami @pixieflu @beavee11 @wtfisastiles @pandxra @Ivxstarr @kissylec @hannieskzzz @soulsearchinginkauai @mysticbby2009 @matildalittlefreak @giouvarlakia @yncoded @my-name-is-baby @harryzcherry @lilithblackkk @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ethanthequeefqueen @angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd @chillgal135 @angeldiaryy @bee-43

[hunzzzzz]

OBX TWEETS: part 10

A/N: Rafe stans I’m so sorry😭😭😭😭 And John B stans.... enjoy❤️ ALSO if i missed anyone on the taglist im sorry😩 pls let me know!

The Twinkie coughed its way up your driveway, sounding like a dying lawnmower gargling gravel. That low, insistent beep was pure John B – no subtlety, just a persistent, slightly annoying demand for your attention. You yanked the blinds up, flipping him the bird before you even properly registered his ridiculously sprawled-out form in the driver's seat. Reclined so far he was practically horizontal, he still managed his signature grin and a cheesy blown kiss. Ugh. He was adorable.

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain, but a tiny smile twitched at the corner of your mouth. You added one final coat of lipgloss, grabbed your bag and headed out.

Nervous? Nah. More like your stomach was doing the Macarena. This was John B. Your John B. The one you'd been causing trouble with since you were tiny humans. You remembered that time in first grade when he convinced you that if you buried your baby teeth under a full moon, they'd turn into pirate gold? You'd spent half the night digging holes in your mom's prize-winning petunias, only to find dirt-covered Chiclets the next morning. You were furious, naturally, but even then, covered in mud and tears, you couldn't help but laugh at his goofy, hopeful face.

Third grade was when things got serious academically. You got promoted to the brainy blue reading group, and you dramatically informed him he was officially too slow-witted for your sophisticated company. Cue the daily arrival of his rusty bike, leaving skid marks of betrayal on your perfectly manicured lawn as he’d badger you to come play sharks and minnows in the sprinkler. He was relentless, that boy.

He was just always there. Birthday parties fueled by questionable sugar rushes and even more questionable clown performances. Christmas mornings where his presents were usually some bizarre, half-broken treasure he’d found washed up on the beach, but somehow, they were always exactly what you didn't know you needed. Summers were a blur of sandcastle wars that always ended in soggy collapses, and pretending to be mermaids in the murky lake, convinced you were royalty (he always insisted on being King Neptune, obviously). He even tried to teach you how to ride a bike, his hands hovering nervously behind you until you finally wobbled your way to freedom (and a scraped knee). And then there was the legendary driving lesson in the Twinkie. Let’s just say your attempts at mastering the stick shift resulted in more jerky starts and near-misses than actual smooth cruising. Good times. Mostly.

He knew you better than you sometimes knew yourself. That awful time in middle school when those bullies were picking on you after school? You were convinced you were going to get your lunch money stolen, maybe even worse. Suddenly, out of nowhere, John B appeared, all skinny limbs and righteous fury. He might have been smaller than them, but he stood his ground, yelling some ridiculous pirate threats until they finally backed off, muttering about crazy Pogues. You felt like the damsel in distress in one of your cheesy romance novels, and even though you’d pretended to be annoyed by his dramatic entrance, you were secretly so grateful.

And then there was the time he made you laugh so hard you snorted milk out your nose. You were probably ten, maybe eleven, and you were trying to build this ridiculously complicated Lego castle. He'd started doing this impression of your grumpy old neighbor, Mr. Henderson, trying to chase away seagulls from his garden, complete with flailing arms and a high-pitched squawk. You’d lost it, the milk incident happening mid-snort. You were both in hysterics for a good hour, tears streaming down your faces. That's just John B – finding the ridiculous in the everyday.

He was even the one who’d gently nudged you towards getting help when your relationship with food started getting… weird. He’d noticed the subtle shifts, the way you’d suddenly become obsessed with calorie counts, the excuses you’d make to skip dinner. Or when you’d go to the bathroom straight after eating in attempts to get it back out of your system quickly. He’d approached you with this quiet, unwavering concern, his usual goofy grin replaced with a look of genuine worry. He hadn’t judged, hadn’t pressured, just… been there. Listened. That’s just the kind of friend he was.

And now, this. A date. The idea had always been this little what-if in the back of your mind, a tempting but terrifying possibility. Your friendship was this solid, dependable thing in your chaotic world. The thought of messing that up, of potentially losing him in a whole new, much more complicated way, made your palms sweat.

High school had been a blip, a weird two-year period where you’d both kind of drifted into your own orbits. During junior and senior year you were all about the AP classes and escaping to some fancy college far, far away. He was still John B, chasing legends and living life on his own terms, surrounded by his Pogue crew. Polite nods in the hallway replaced the easy banter, and you’d missed him more than you cared to admit, a constant little ache in your chest.

But then college happened, and suddenly, it was like no time had passed at all. The old spark reignited with a familiar crackle, and you’d seamlessly integrated into his world, becoming close with Kie and JJ. Pope, with his quiet smarts and shared love of obscure documentaries, had always been a friendly face.

But this felt different. This felt like stepping off a familiar dock into uncharted waters. You’d always known, deep down, that John B had a little something extra for you. He wasn’t exactly subtle with the lingering looks and playful nudges. And okay, yeah, you’d occasionally thrown a little flirtatious bait his way, a harmless game you both seemed to enjoy.

But this wasn't a game anymore. This was real life, with real-life consequences. You liked him. Like, really liked him. He was hot, in that wind-blown, sun-kissed, totally-his-own-person kind of way. You cared about him, loved him even, in that deep, platonic-but-maybe-not-anymore way that was both comforting and utterly terrifying. What if this went sideways? What if the date was a disaster? Or worse, what if it went amazing, and then… didn’t? Could you even imagine a world where you and John B couldn’t hang out, couldn’t share your weird inside jokes and comfortable silences? You shared the same friends, the same history, the same deeply ingrained OBX DNA. You were already mentally drafting the awkward post-breakup avoidance strategies. Textbook overthinker, party of one.

“Finally,” John B groaned dramatically as you slid into the passenger seat of the Twinkie.

“Lose the attitude, Routledge,” you shoved his shoulder. “Appreciate my glorious presence or I’ll bail.”

“Yes, of course, apologies, m’lady,” he said with an exaggerated bow of his head, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

“Ugh, stop being so cheesy,” you scrunched up your nose in mock disgust, but inside, your stomach did a weird little flip-flop.

“Ugh, stop being mean to me,” he whined, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “You know it turns me on.” He bit his lip dramatically, and you shoved him harder this time, knocking his beloved SnapBack askew.

“You’ve forgotten your outdoor manners. I trained you better than this,” you declared, adjusting his hat for him, though not without a little extra push.

“You’re, like, ten times bitchier than normal today,” he pouted, turning the key in the ignition.

“Do you want me to beat you again?” You raised your eyebrows, lifting a hand threateningly, making him flinch.

“Hey!” he said pointedly, pulling out of your driveway. “No abusing the driver. At least make it a fair fight.”

“You’re gonna have another black eye if you keep pissing me off,” you muttered, rolling your eyes and pulling down the visor mirror to check your makeup.

“You look beautiful as always,” he said, glancing over at you with that soft eyes that caught you off guard.

“Stop it,” you mumbled, feeling a blush creep up your neck.

“What?”

“Stop looking at me like that. It’s unsettling.”

“Can’t I admire the view?” he sighed dramatically, gesturing vaguely in your direction.

“Focus on the road.”

“You’re no fun,” he grumbled, shaking his head but still grinning.

“At least tell me where we’re going, lover boy.”

“Trust me,” he winked, reaching over and briefly squeezing your hand. “You’ll love it.”

The engine of the Twinkie coughed its last breath as you pulled up to the dock. John B practically bounced out, already wrestling with the moorings of his perpetually battered motorboat, the HMS Pogue, which, surprisingly, looked like it had seen a bar of soap sometime in the last decade. He flashed you that ridiculously charming grin, the one that still managed to make your insides do a little involuntary happy dance despite your best efforts to maintain a cool exterior.

"Ready for adventure, Captain?" he called out, his eyes bright as he held a hand out to help you onto the slightly questionable deck.

His grip was warm and familiar, sending a tiny jolt of something you refused to acknowledge up your arm. "Try not to sink us," you muttered, stepping onto the boat. As you settled onto one of the sun-bleached benches, your gaze landed on a wicker picnic basket tucked under the other seat. Seriously?

John B caught your eye, a hopeful expression on his face. “I can be romantic too, you know!” he declared, puffing out his chest slightly.

He then dramatically produced the champagne, popping the cork, "A drink perhaps, for m’lady?" he asked, holding the bottle aloft. "Only the finest for you. This bad boy cost me, like, twenty bucks. Worth every penny!" He then fumbled in the basket, pulling out two red Solo cups with a sheepish grin. "Uh, about the glasses… Turns out JJ and I may have… uh… utilized the last of the fancy ones in a particularly intense game of beer pong last night. My bad?" He looked at you with that classic puppy-dog eyes look.

You snorted, "Of course you did. Just like the time you two dumbasses used my mom’s ridiculously expensive guest hand towels to mop up the beer you spilled all over my sofa.”

“Hey! At least I tried to clean it unlike JJ!” he defended himself, looking genuinely offended.

“Yeah, by smearing it around more,” you countered, raising an eyebrow. “In JJ’s defense, I think he was actually trying to lick it clean.” You couldn't help but laugh at the memory of their utterly inept cleaning attempt.

“More like he didn’t want any perfectly good beer to go to waste,” John B snorted, pouring the bubbly into the red cups. He presented one to you with a flourish. “M’lady?”

“Ma’lord,” you grinned, taking a sip. Huh. The champagne was actually surprisingly decent. Maybe this wouldn’t be a complete train wreck after all.

“Alright, Captain,” he’d said earlier, practically vibrating with excitement as he gestured towards the small steering wheel. "Your turn to take the wheel! Time to show me those mad sailing skills I taught you."

Your eyebrows shot up. “I can’t,” you said flatly, shaking your head. You’d only steered a boat a handful of times, and your track record wasn't exactly stellar.

“Yes, you can! I’m right here to save you if you decide to reenact the Titanic… or, you know, just steer us into that sandbar over there.” He moved to stand directly behind you, his presence suddenly making the small space feel even smaller.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in ridiculously romantic shades of orange and pink, he stood close behind you, his hands lightly resting over yours on the small steering wheel. Every so often, his fingers would brush against yours as he adjusted your grip, a fleeting, innocent touch that sent a surprising little jolt through you. Focus, you thought, trying to ignore the sudden awareness of his body so close to yours. He's just preventing me from steering us into a rogue wave, not trying to recreate a scene from a cheesy rom-com.

Now, with the sky on fire, he murmured, "A little more to starboard. You're gonna have us sailing straight into that flock of seagulls. Unless that's your master plan?" His breath was warm against your ear, sending another shiver down your spine.

"They deserve it," you retorted, trying to ignore the way your skin prickled where his hand had just been. 

"How could I ever forget your vendetta against them," he chuckled, his chest vibrating slightly against your back as he laughed. Okay, maybe this is a little bit of a romantic movie moment.

“It’s not funny! It was a life or death situation!” You elbowed him. 

“A seagull stealing a can of beer that you left unattended at the beach is not life or death.”

“So you hate me?” 

“If hate means obsessed with you. Then I hate you soooo much.” He leaned down closer, his cheek brushing against yours, his arms wrapping around your waist as he hugged you from behind. 

Sure, you and John B were always touchy feely, random hugs, drunkenly dancing together, cuddled up together watching movies— it wasn’t out of the ordinary….. but why was your nervous system so acutely aware of it now?

"Remember, a little to the left there," he'd instructed earlier, his voice close to your ear. "Not like you're trying to plow into that poor duck."

"Shut up and stop passenger seat driving! I almost had it.” You grumbled.

"Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, remember? I taught you that, by the way. Seems my genius lessons are fading fast." He’d feigned a wounded expression, but his eyes were sparkling with amusement.

"Maybe if you weren't so busy chasing gold, you'd have more time for refresher courses," you shot back, as the wind whipped through your hair, carrying the salty scent of the lake. 

Finally, he cut the engine in a secluded cove, the water still and reflecting the fiery sky. He pulled out the picnic basket with a grin. "Alright, feast your eyes, Captain!"

The sight of the food in the picnic basket sent a fresh wave of anxiety washing over you. Oh great. Food. Your nemesis these days. Your appetite had officially gone on an indefinite vacation, and even the thought of swallowing felt like a Herculean task. You’d plastered on a convincing smile each time John B had asked you if you were okay, assuring a concerned face that you were totally fine, just a bit preoccupied with assignments and family drama. Liar. Now, you were facing down a club sandwich that suddenly looked the size of a small toddler. Performance time.

"Club sandwiches? My favourite!" you chirped, trying to sound enthusiastic. Internally, your brain was screaming, Swallow? How do humans even do that anymore?

John B beamed, clearly taking your forced enthusiasm as genuine delight. "And I didn’t forget," he produced the bag of Jalapeno Cheddar Lays with a flourish, "for the discerning palate, a little extra crunch."

“You remembered! You’re a quick learner." you exclaimed, your inner monologue adding, More like a mind reader who knows I used to inhale these things before my stomach decided to stage a revolt.

John B unwrapped a club sandwich, meticulously adding a layer of crushed jalapeno cheddar chips. "Behold! The culinary masterpiece. Extra crunchy, just the way you like it." He handed it to you with a hopeful look.

You took the sandwich, the bread feeling suspiciously thick. "Thanks," you mumbled, taking a tiny nibble. It felt like chewing cardboard.

"Everything good?" John B asked, a slight crease appearing between his eyebrows. "You're a bit… quiet over there."

"Yeah, all good," you said, forcing a brighter tone. "Just admiring the view. You picked a pretty sweet spot." Distract, distract, distract.

He watched you for a second longer, his gaze knowing. "You barely touched your sandwich. Not feeling it?"

"Nah, just not starving, you know? Had a late lunch," you lied, internally cringing at the lameness of the excuse.

John B didn't push this time, thankfully. He just kept munching on his sandwich like a starved animal. You took another pathetic nibble, your gaze fixed on the sunset, half-heartedly plotting the sandwich's watery demise.

"This is actually… really nice, Jombie," you said, the words feeling a little heavy. The quiet cove, the way he'd remembered the stupid chips – it was undeniably sweet.

He grinned, that familiar, easy smile reaching his eyes. "If I knew all it was gonna take was a tweet to convince you, I would've spammed my followers years ago."

You snorted, tearing off a piece of crust and flicking it into the water. You watched the little ripples spread. "Please. My Twitter DMs are a wasteland of weirdos. You're not exactly a unicorn."

"But I'm your weirdo," he smirked, flicking a rogue chip in your direction.

You just shrugged, keeping your eyes glued to the water.

"Are the fish more captivating than my dazzling personality?" He huffed, crossing his arms in mock offense.

"No, sorry," you sighed, rubbing your temples, trying to quiet the frantic thoughts swirling in your head. One look at your face and the playful glint in his eyes faded, replaced by a familiar understanding.

He shifted closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders from behind and pulling you back against him, your head fitting perfectly under his chin. "What's got your brain in a knot?" he murmured, his voice low and comforting.

"Everything," you mumbled into his chest.

"Anything in particular?" He asked, gently stroking your hair.

"What is this?" You pulled away, turning to face him, sitting cross-legged on the boat seat. "What are we doing right now?"

He furrowed his brows, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. "We're on a date? I thought… are you not having a good time?"

You tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, shaking your head. "No, I am. And that's the problem!" You threw your hands up, exasperated. "I'm having a great time, but… but we're friends. You're my best friend. You're my Jombie."

"Okay…" he nodded slowly, still looking a little lost.

"But I don't… I don't want us to screw this up," you blurted out, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I don't want us to get into something and then have it blow up in our faces— oh god, we're gonna be like Sarah and Mike from that summer camp, remember? They dated for two weeks and then spent the rest of the summer avoiding each other like the plague. That's gonna be us! I'm gonna be the awkward one hiding behind the snack shack."

"Hey, hey," he said softly, reaching out to take your hands in his. His grip was steady and reassuring. "Stop. Just breathe. None of that's gonna happen, okay? And if anyone's ending up alone behind a snack shack, it's probably gonna be JJ looking for discarded hot dog buns."

You pulled your hands away, "I'm being serious!"

"Okay, okay, sorry," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "Look, you know I've been… not exactly subtle about how I feel about you, right? I like you, like, really like you. And if I don't try this, if I don't see where this could go… I'll spend the rest of my life wondering 'what if?' and probably kicking myself every time I see you. I gotta at least try, for me."

"But what if it doesn't work?" you whispered, the fear finally bubbling to the surface. "What if we can't make it work? Will our friendship even survive that?"

"What kind of a question is that?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of hurt.

"A real one," you whispered, tears pricking at your eyes. "Will you still want to be my friend? Will you still care about me when this… this experiment fails? Or have you just been waiting all these years, hoping for this?" You laid it all out there, every raw, insecure thought.

"You will never lose me," he said, his gaze unwavering. "No matter what happens with this… date, with whatever this becomes. You're stuck with me, remember? Since kindergarten and the wormy apple incident."

"Pinky promise?" you whispered, holding out your pinkie, a childish habit that somehow felt incredibly important in that moment.

He immediately interlocked his pinky with yours, his grip firm. "Pinky promise." He leaned in, his eyes searching yours, and you didn't pull away. He cupped your jaw, his thumb gently stroking your cheekbone. Your eyes locked, and then his lips were on yours, soft and hesitant at first, then deepening. Your hands found their way to his neck, pulling him closer, and you barely registered him pulling you onto his lap, straddling him, the world narrowing to just the two of you and the fading light of the sunset.

You were kissing Jombie right now. Had you thought about this moment a million times before? Yes. Did you ever think about acting on it? No. Never in a million years did you imagine his tongue in your mouth, the way he was gently nibbling on your bottom lip, the way his hands were gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Breathless, he pulled away, his forehead resting against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for so damn long,” he muttered, his breath warm against your face as he nuzzled his nose against yours.

“You have cheddar and jalapeño breath,” you wrinkled your nose, because of course you had to. Leave it to you to inject a dose of reality into the moment. But John B just laughed, a familiar, easy sound. He was used to your brand of brutal honesty.

“Hey, at least I made it out of the friend zone line, right?” He smirked, looking ridiculously proud of himself.

“About that line…” You grimaced, a sudden thought clouding the moment. “There’s actually someone else in that line too…”

“Who am I in competition with?” He asked with a lazy smile, gently brushing a stray strand of hair back from your forehead.

“Rafe.”

“What?” His smile vanished instantly, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”

“No, not like that,” you quickly explained, a wave of panic washing over you at his reaction. You launched into the convoluted story about the stupid bet with Rafe – the one where you had to lay off the online insults against him and Topper or face a date with the blonde menace.

John B’s face was unreadable as he processed the information. “So that’s why you’ve been letting Topper breathe these days. I thought it was the apocalypse or something.”

“Yes!” You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “It’s been absolute torture.”

“Do you think you can do it?” He asked, his voice laced with a hint of concern.

“I have to. And I will,” you assured him, trying to sound more confident than you felt.

“And I believe in you.” He smiled faintly. “But just for argument’s sake… what if you can’t? Will you actually go out with Rafe then?” A shadow of sadness flickered in his eyes.

“John B,” you sighed, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “That’s not gonna happen, because I don’t lose. That’s why I haven’t lost my virginity yet. Because I never lose.” You tried to inject a bit of your usual bravado, hoping to lighten the mood.

But he didn’t so much as quirk a smile. “So… what? What does this mean?” The unspoken words ‘for us’ hung heavy in the salty air.

“We’re still us,” you said softly. “Let’s just… see how this goes. Just go with the flow.”

“Okay… so you want to keep it casual?” He confirmed, his eyes searching yours.

“Is that okay with you?” You asked, your heart sinking a little. “Because we can just stop this right now. We can just stay friends. Nothing has to change between us.” The words felt heavy and wrong as they left your lips.

“No,” he said firmly, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. “No, I don’t want to just be your friend anymore. I can’t be around you without wanting to kiss you, without holding you, without feeling you.” He peppered soft kisses along your jawline.

“So…”

“So, screw it,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’ll take you any way I can get you. Even if it’s just a little bit of you. Even if I have to fight off every other idiot who’s ever looked at you. I’ll tear them apart, limb from limb, until it’s just me left.”

And then his lips were on yours again, fierce and passionate, like he was afraid this was the only chance he’d get. The heat from the kiss spread through your entire body, from your lips down to your core. His hands roamed, trailing on the bare skin of your back under your slightly too-big t-shirt.

You helped him out, pulling your shirt over your head, leaving you in your worn-out bra. It wasn’t anything special, you hadn’t exactly planned for a romantic interlude on a boat, but in that moment, under the moonlight, it just felt right. The sky was a canvas of stars, the crickets chirped their nightly symphony, and a light breeze rustled the leaves on the nearby shore.

He laid you gently back on the deck, his gaze lingering on you as he knelt above you. His eyes, usually so full of carefree laughter, held a flicker of something else now – a deep concern that tugged at his heart. He couldn’t ignore the way your ribs seemed more prominent than they should, the sharp definition of your collarbone, the way you looked… smaller, somehow. He knew, with a sickening certainty, that the darkness you’d fought so hard to overcome was creeping back in, and it tore him apart to see you like this, so fragile. But he also knew that pushing, saying the wrong thing, could send you spiraling. All he could do was be here, hope, and maybe, just maybe, this closeness could offer some small comfort.

“What?” You asked, misinterpreting his gaze, tugging his arms down until his lips met yours again.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against your lips, kissing down your neck, his voice thick with emotion. “So beautiful.”

The sound of another boat’s engine, carrying laughter and music, forced you both apart, a shared smile and a roll of your eyes passing between you. You ended up tangled in each other’s arms for the rest of the night, looking at the stars, calling the Sheriff with anonymous tips about Topper being the Kildare Killer (just for kicks), you even braided his surprisingly soft hair at one point, though his attempt at braiding yours ended in a tangled mess. At some point, exhaustion claimed you both, and you drifted off to sleep, the gentle rocking of the boat your lullaby.

It felt right with John B. Familiar. Comfortable. Maybe nothing had to change. Just baby steps. You’d see where this went. And no matter what, you wouldn’t lose him. He had pinky promised.

Taglist: @yktayy9669 @urmomaahoe @rafesgurl @rafesdrew @sophreakingfunny @hannaa20002000 @furiouscopshepherduniversity @mirellef2001 @colbysbrocks @drewstarkeytruelove @luzstarkey @sassyvilliantrope @wintercrows @lolasangelz @scream4mami @pixieflu @beavee11 @wtfisastiles @pandxra @Ivxstarr @kissylec @hannieskzzz @soulsearchinginkauai @mysticbby2009 @matildalittlefreak @giouvarlakia @yncoded @my-name-is-baby @harryzcherry @lilithblackkk @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ethanthequeefqueen @angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd @chillgal135 @angeldiaryy @chirpchirp69

[hunzzzzz]

hi hunz i love you you are so deeply funny lets kiss

Pucker up princess 😙😙

IM YOUR BIGGEST FAN 😩🫵🏼 Broken ribbons and perfect fists has my heart🫶🏼🫶🏼

[hunzzzzz]

i need you to know that #shartopper made me laugh so hard i felt like i was having heart palpitations

HAHAHHAHAHHAHA WHEN I meet a fellow topper hater my heart acc swells up with joy!! ILY TWINN😩🤞🏼

If Topper has a million haters I'm one of them.

If he has one hater it's me.

If he has 0 haters I have died.

If the world is against Topper… I am with the world,

if the world is for Topper… I am against the world.

[hunzzzzz]

Bitch ur literally the funniest person ever like omg I love you pls have my kids ur obx tweets are what I LIVE for ugh i love u mwah mwah

Stop this (pls don’t stop🥰) !!!!

I love love love you!! TYSM for reading and interacting, I try to respond to every comment and submission but I’m not on Tumblr that often😭 I just update and then close the app.

Sometimes I be laughing so hard when I’m writing (it’s the voices in my head) and I’m always thinking I can’t wait for everyone else to laugh as hard as me.

My heart acc gets a whole ass boner when you guys tell me I made you laugh (I need attention)😩🫶🏼🫶🏼

LOVE YOU QUEEN❤️❤️❤️

[hunzzzzz]

OBX TWEETS: part 9

A/N: Sorry for the wait!!! I got too in my head about the plot😭 but I realized it's never that deep and I'm back now. Decided to add a little bit of writing because there's no way to thicken the plot without it. Lmk if you guys like a bit of writing here and there or prefer the social media pics only.

💙🦋🐟🔵🚙🐬🧢🧞‍♂️🥏🐳🦕🪣🩵🚹🪁🫐🌐🐋🫂

You had been dancing all night, a dangerous cocktail of tequila, wine, fireball, and vodka Red Bulls battling it out in your bloodstream. It felt like a frantic race to oblivion, anything to outrun the quiet ache in your chest. And after that first shot at the club, the memories became fractured, skipping like a broken record. That was the joy, and the damn problem, with being friends with Danny the bartender; free shots flowed like apologies you didn't deserve. You’d long since lost count, each one a tiny hammer blow against the wall of grief you refused to acknowledge. Empty stomach? Who had time for food when there were feelings to drown?

You were swaying precariously, the bass thrumming up through the floor and into your skull, your neck struggling to keep your head upright under the strobe lights. Your friends…gone? Had they ditched you, or were you fleeing their concerned faces, their whispers of "home"? It was all a blurry, swirling mess.

Then, calloused hands clamped onto your shoulders. Large, heavy. You blinked, trying to focus through the kaleidoscope vision, and slowly, like a Polaroid developing, Rafe's buzzcut came into view under the pulsing red lights.

"What the?" You mumbled, the word slurring like thick syrup. Lurching onto your tiptoes, you reached out, drawn to the familiar texture of his scalp, running your fingers through the short, prickly hair. "Ewww," you recoiled with a dramatic shudder, pulling back your hand and wiping it on your already stained shirt. "Hedgehog. Definitely a hedgehog."

"Enjoying the… wildlife exhibition?" Rafe’s voice was dry, laced with an edge of something you couldn't quite place. He held your shoulders steady, a solid anchor in your swaying world, his eyes narrowed, assessing. God, he looked good.

"Was," you declared dramatically, placing your hands on his chest, intending to shove him away, to re-establish the distance, the feud. But your arms felt like lead, and instead of pushing, your palms simply rested against the firm muscle, seeking a strange kind of… support. "Until you crashed the party."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, that cocky, infuriating smirk. "You invited me, remember?" He glided his tongue over his teeth, a gesture you usually found intensely irritating, but tonight… tonight it was just… Rafe.

"Did I?" A giggle bubbled up, escaping in a rush of air. You doubled over, laughter turning into a hiccup, burying your face in the solid wall of his shoulder. You had no recollection of what you had been posting on your story all night, let alone what you had been texting people.

"Uh-huh," Rafe rumbled, his hand moving from your shoulder to your back, surprisingly gentle as he pulled you upright, enough to get a better look at your face. He leaned down, his face invading your blurry personal space. "How much you drink tonight?"

"Oh! Oh! Shots! Let's get shots!" You bounced on the balls of your feet, grabbing his hand, tugging him towards the bar, the urgent need for more alcohol overriding everything.

Rafe hesitated, glancing towards the bar, then back at you, his brow furrowed. What the fuck indeed, he thought, watching you tug him forward with the unsteady enthusiasm of a toddler heading for a candy store.

Usually, seeing you at a party meant bracing for impact – the ‘accidental’ drink spillage, the sharp-tongued insults, the constant game of one-upmanship. He remembered the bonfire, the icy plunge of his new sneakers in the lake, your delighted laughter echoing across the water… God, you were infuriating.

But tonight… tonight was different. The game had changed. You weren't playing, you were… unraveling.

You were dealing with your own shit. Shit that had been piling up for weeks, months maybe. Felt like a tidal wave about to crash. Your eating disorder was back, teeth bared and snarling, a familiar monster you thought you'd caged years ago. It was a sick comfort in a way, the control, the emptiness. Lately, your diet consisted of energy drinks and black coffee – fuel for a machine that was running on fumes. Someone on twitter said smoking weed would help with appetite. Idiot. All it did was make you nauseous and guarantee whatever pathetic bite you managed to choke down came right back up, whether you did it consciously or subconsciously, you weren’t sure.

And then there was your Mom. Always. Psych ward threats were her go-to move whenever you dared to be anything less than perfectly happy and functional. 'Get better for me,' she’d whine, tears welling up, all about how she couldn’t stand to see you like this, how as a mother, you were just killing her. It was never about you, never about what you were feeling, never about actually helping. She wanted you fixed, fast, so she wouldn’t have to deal with the mess of you. So she wouldn’t have to confront whatever it was in herself that made your pain so unbearable for her to witness.

Then Ms. Johnson died. Ms. Johnson from the bakery. More than just a coworker, really. She’d become… something else. Almost like a stand-in mom, if you dared to admit it to yourself. Over the past year, scooping dough and chatting about everything and nothing, you’d gotten close. Unexpectedly, shockingly close. You'd even gone to her place, played with her grandkids. Little sticky fingers, bright smiles… And now… gone. Just… gone.

But dissecting your feelings and dealing with the grief? No fucking way. Not happening. Instead, you did what you always did best: avoid. Deflect. Bury it all under layers and layers of noise and nonsense instead of talking about it. And tequila. Lots and lots of tequila. Because feeling? Feeling was for pussies.

Rafe let you pull him a few steps, then planted his feet, a solid wall against your drunken momentum. "Hold up, shot queen."

He steered you towards the bar, yes, but positioned himself between you and it, effectively blocking your path to Danny and his arsenal of liquor. He signaled Danny, catching his eye and subtly shaking his head. Danny, bless him, seemed to understand, nodding almost imperceptibly. Rafe ordered a water, then turned back to you, a his face was somewhere between exasperated and… something else. Something that might almost be concern. He poured the water into a glass, handed it to you with a forcedly bright smile.

"Wha’ zis?" You sniffed at the glass suspiciously, wrinkling your nose. You swayed again, catching yourself on the bar.

"Just a simple vodka sprite," Rafe insisted. "Trust me. Drink up. Electrolytes are key, you know. Especially when you’re… pacing yourself like you are."

"Pacing…" You latched onto the word, repeating it slowly, as if it were a foreign concept. Then, eyes narrowing again, you poked him in the chest with a surprisingly steady finger. "You’re not drinking anything! Why not?" You hiccuped again, the sound wet and pathetic. Rafe’s hands instinctively went to your hips, steadying you as you wobbled dangerously close to the edge of your balance. "You just tryna… get me drunk." You declared, the accusation ringing with drunken certainty. "Hate to break it to you," another hiccup punctuated your sentence, "plan… failed."

"Right," Rafe nodded, a sardonic edge to his voice, but his eyes remained fixed on you, watching you with a strange intensity. "Totally busted. Because, you know, before I showed up, you were the picture of… sobriety."

You giggled, a soft, almost childlike sound that was utterly out of place with the smeared makeup and defiant clothing. "You want… you want…" You trailed off, chewing on your lip, searching for the word. "You want…" You pointed at him, a sudden flash of drunken insight. "You want the cookie sooo bad!" You took a large sip of the water, then another, playing with the straw, your earlier suspicion seemingly forgotten.

At some point you whipped out your phone and snapped a photo of him, posting it on your story without giving it a second thought.

"Hey, uh, where are your friends?" Rafe asked, his gaze sweeping the crowded dance floor, a genuine concern creeping into his voice. You were, undeniably, a disaster waiting to happen. He’d almost take you home himself, but he knew you’d sooner spontaneously combust than let him play knight in shining armor.

"Shhh!" You hissed, whipping around, eyes wide with mock-paranoia. "Agent Double-Oh… Drunk is undercover!" You pressed a finger to his lips, smushing them together. "Hiding. From… them."

"Why are you hiding from your friends?"

"’Cause…" You swayed again, leaning into him for balance. "’Cause they wanna send me home!" You wailed the last words, drawing them out dramatically, as if it were the ultimate betrayal.

"Right," Rafe nodded slowly, his gaze drifting to the bouncer who was indeed now eyeing your increasingly erratic behavior with open suspicion. When the water glass slipped from your grasp, shattering on the polished floor with a sharp crack, Rafe knew. Curtain call.

"Okay," he said decisively, turning you firmly, keeping his hands anchored on your hips. "Operation… Fresh Air. Let's go outside, yeah?" He propelled you forward, guiding you away from the bar, your body leaning back against his, trusting, for once, in his lead.

"Eeesh, fuck it's cold!" You shivered the moment you stepped outside, hugging yourself tight, your teeth starting to chatter.

"Where's your jacket?" Rafe asked, exasperation creeping back in, but it was tinged with a different flavor now, something closer to… weary protectiveness.

"Jacket?" You blinked at him, as if the word itself was unfamiliar. "Didn’t bring one."

"Why. Not." Rafe asked, the words clipped, but laced with a resignation he hadn't anticipated feeling.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, though the gesture was undermined by your wobbly stance. "'Becuz. Didn’t. Go. With. My. Fit'," you enunciated each word carefully, as if speaking to a particularly dense toddler. It was, clearly, the most obvious, self-explanatory thing in the universe.

Then he sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire night. "Okay. Just a little further down. My car's right around the corner." He tightened his hold on your hips, guiding you forward again, away from the pulsing music and into the relative quiet of the night.

"Why… car?" You leaned your head back again, your breath warm against his neck.

"Because…" Rafe hesitated, thinking fast. Lying felt… surprisingly natural at this point. "Because… it's… uh… it's got, like, extra warmth in there. Heated seats. You know." He tested the lie, wincing internally at how lame it sounded, but you, blessedly, bought it without a flicker of suspicion. You just nodded, humming softly, content in his grip.

He opened the passenger side door of his jeep, like some overly polite chauffeur all of a sudden, and basically shoved you inside, clicking the seatbelt shut like you were a toddler escaping a stroller.

“Seat warmer…” you breathed out, sinking back into the plush leather like it was a cloud made of marshmallows and sunshine. “Soooo good. It’s a hot water bottle for my ass. Genius invention, seat warmers. World peace could be achieved with universal seat warmers.”

“Yeah?” Rafe mumbled, glancing over like you’d just announced you’d won the lottery or something equally amazing.

“Yeahhh.” You stretched out your legs, letting the heat radiate up. “It’s like… a massage. But, like, a warm one.” You started wriggling around, just to really get the full effect. “On your thighs, and… oh god…” you moaned dramatically, for added effect, “and your ass.” It was basically heaven in car seat form. “It’s like… warm heavenly hands,” you elaborated, because he clearly wasn’t grasping the sheer bliss, “just… melting you away.”

From the corner of your eye, you could see Rafe’s shoulders shaking. Stifling a laugh. Rude. He was laughing at your profound seat warmer experience? Normally, sober you would’ve launched into a tirade about his lack of appreciation for the finer things in life, accused him of kidnapping, maybe even thrown an elbow for good measure. But drunk you? Drunk you just… melted. Pliant. In his car. Babbling about butt massages.

“What’s so funny?” you asked, head lolling back against the headrest, turning to him with what you were pretty sure were impressively half-lidded, come-hither eyes. Probably just looked cross-eyed, let’s be real. “Let's hear the joke then, comedian.”

“Nothing,” he chuckled, shaking his head again, but this time there was a definite grin playing around his mouth. He was definitely laughing at you. Bastard.

“I wanna laugh too!” you protested. “I can’t always entertain, you know! I need a night off!” You groaned. “It’s exhausting being the funny friend! Justice for the funny friend, I tell you! We have rights too, you know!” You might’ve punched the dashboard lightly for emphasis. “Sometimes,” you confided in a stage whisper, “sometimes I wanna say, like… sad shit, but it goes completely against my whole… mysterious aura.” It was a burden, really.

“What are you sad about?” He actually asked, his voice softer now, the amusement still there, but… something else too? Curiosity maybe?

“Just… life, man.” You muttered, turning to stare out the window at the blurry streetlights rushing by. Deep, profound statement right there. Life. So sad. So… life-y.

Before he could say another word, sober or otherwise, your brilliant brain had an idea. A fantastic idea. Window down! Wind! Yes! Like a dog! Except, like, a chic, stylish dog, in a jeep. Before Rafe’s slow, human brain could even process what was happening, you were cranking down the window, jamming the button with drunken enthusiasm, and sticking your face out. Wind. Glorious, cold, rushing wind. It whipped through your hair, like a wild, free spirit, and because why not, you opened your mouth, letting the wind puff out your cheeks like a squirrel stuffing nuts. This was living!

“Hey! Hey! Get back inside, you maniac!” Rafe yelled, suddenly all panicked dad-mode. He yanked the steering wheel with one hand, swerving slightly – oops, sorry pedestrians – and then, like lightning, his other hand shot out, grabbing your shoulder and yanking you back inside. Window up! Safety first, apparently. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathed out, all exasperated and… something else? Actually worried? Nah, couldn't be.

“You’re no fun,” you pouted, crossing your arms over your chest in a dramatic display of wounded dignity. “You’re cramping my style.”

“You’re more unhinged than usual tonight, even for you,” he grumbled, his jaw ticking, a muscle jumping in his cheek. Definitely panicked-dad vibes. “You good? Like, actually?”

“Nah, man.” You shook your head with exaggerated solemnity, because dramatic head shaking was key to conveying true emotion. “We not doing this.”

Rafe looked at you, eyebrows raised, head tilted, classic ‘question mark’ expression. Waiting for you to… elaborate? Explain? As if.

“We not having a heart-to-heart about our… shit,” you clarified. “My shit is my shit. It’s for my eyes only. Classified. Top secret. Need-to-know basis only. And you, sir,” you pointed at him, swaying slightly, “do not need to know.” Solid logic, right there. Drunk logic was the best logic.

“Is that why you got wasted tonight? Because of your top secret shit.” he asked after a beat, his voice softer now, thoughtful. Actually thoughtful? Rafe? Who knew.

But before your brain could engage the ‘deflect and deny’ protocols, your mouth, traitorous drunk mouth, was already spilling. “Ms. J, man…” You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling a weird mix of bubbly and… not bubbly. Sad bubbly? “She was a real one.” You bumped your fist against your chest twice, BAM BAM, and then pointed a finger upwards, gesturing heaven-ward. “Taken from us… too soon.” Tears might’ve even welled up a little. Damn seat warmer was making you emotional now.

Rafe actually clicked his tongue. Clicked it! In… understanding? What was happening? “So, this was… a goodbye party, in a way?” he said, slowly, like he was piecing together some complex puzzle, “A… tribute?”

“You just get it,” you breathed out, blinking rapidly to dispel any actual tears. Nope, no crying tonight. Just… tribute-ing. You smiled, a wobbly, watery smile, and lightly bumped your fist against his arm. He got it. Rafe. Actually got it. Maybe seat warmers could bring world peace. Or at least, some kind of… understanding. Between you and Rafe. Who knew? Tonight was weird. But, like, weirdly… okay.

You started feeling a bit…off. Wheezy. Yeah, wheezy was the word. And definitely pale. Looking in the reflection of the passenger window, you resembled a ghost who’d just seen a ghost. Rafe, surprisingly observant for a buzzcut-wearing jock, actually noticed. He pulled into some brightly lit gas station, the kind that smelled vaguely of stale coffee and desperation, and announced, “Water. You need water.” Like he was a doctor prescribing life-saving medicine.

While Mr. Doctor was off playing Florence Nightingale, you, naturally, pulled out your phone. Duty called. The duty to tweet incoherent thoughts to the vast expanse of the internet. Honestly, someone should have staged an intervention for your phone tonight. The tweets were… abstract. Philosophical. Probably mostly misspelled.

Rafe, bless his cotton socks, actually returned relatively quickly, brandishing a plastic bottle of water like he’d wrestled it from a dragon. He handed it over, and you immediately wrestled with the lid. Stupid tiny lids. World problems, really. He sighed dramatically – seriously, who was the dramatic one here? – and twisted it open for you. So… helpful. So… weird.

“You’re being weird tonight,” you mumbled, taking a long, slightly slurping sip of the water. “Like, weird-weird.”

“Am I?” He actually sounded offended.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, nodding seriously. “Yeah you’re being… nice.” You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to figure out the angle. Was this a trap? Was he lulling you into a false sense of security before… before what? You weren’t sure. “Like… suspiciously nice.”

“I’m always nice,” he grumbled, finally putting the car back in drive, letting the blessed AC fill the stale gas station air. “You’d see that,” he continued, in a deeply wounded tone, “if you didn’t have this… this vendetta against me.” He actually said ‘vendetta’. Dramatic much?

“Ugh, stop!” you groaned, covering your face with your hands again. The dramatics were contagious, apparently. “Just… stop it!”

“I’m not doing anything,” he protested, sounding genuinely confused now, “but taking your drunk ass home.”

“No, stop being so… so fucking…” you trailed off, pulling your hands away, squinting at him in mock-accusation. His face was a perfect picture of bewildered confusion, brow furrowed, mouth slightly open. Adorable confusion. Wait, no. Stop that thought. “You’re just begging for me to kiss you!” you declared dramatically, because clearly, that was the only explanation for this weird ‘nice’ act. “Just fucking stop because it’s. Not. Happening!” You punctuated each word with a little head wobble for extra emphasis.

For a second, Rafe just blinked, staring at you, speechless. Then, a slow, disbelieving smirk started to spread across his face. “What?” he asked, his voice low and musing, like he was turning the words over in his head, examining them for hidden meanings, “what did you just say?”

“Nothing!” you squeaked, suddenly feeling a blush creep up your neck. Damn seat warmer making you feel… flushed in more ways than one now. “Just… drive!” You waved a hand dismissively, trying to act like you hadn’t just said something completely insane and possibly revealing. Nope, nothing to see here, folks. Move along.

And surprisingly, he did comply. He actually just… drove. But that stupid, infuriating, yet undeniably… smirky smirk? Yeah, that stupid smirk didn’t leave his face. Not even a little bit. Bastard knew exactly what he was doing, the smirk-wielding jerk.

Something about his face tonight… it was different. Maybe it was the soft light from the dashboard, or maybe it was the fact that your eyes were still doing the double-vision thing, but suddenly, really suddenly, you noticed… he was actually… good-looking. Like, objectively, undeniably, good-looking. Sharp jawline, those light blue eyes that weren’t just annoyed all the time, the way his buzzcut actually framed his face… Huh. Who knew? Sober you would probably deny ever thinking such a thing, but drunk you? Drunk you was all about unfiltered truth.

That damn seat warmer. It was definitely plotting something. Seriously, who invented those things and what were their real motives? Because tonight, that seat warmer was a straight-up emotional rollercoaster, engineered for maximum chaos in your brain.

First, it was all innocent. Pure, unadulterated comfort. Like sinking into a warm bath, but for your backside. A blissful hug for your thighs and… well, you knew. It was like the seat warmer was whispering, “Relax, baby, everything’s gonna be alright.” And for a glorious few minutes, you actually believed it. World problems? Gone. Existential dread? Melted away. Just warm, soothing… comfort.

Then, BAM! The sneaky bastard switched gears. Comfort turned into emotion. Specifically, Ms. J-shaped emotion. Warmth wasn't just comfort anymore, it was… tenderness. Like Ms. J’s hugs. Like the warmth of her kitchen, filled with the scent of baking cookies. Suddenly, the seat warmer wasn’t just warming your ass, it was warming your heart. Except, heart-warming in a gut-wrenching, tear-jerking way. All those feelings you’d been burying, all that grief you’d been dodging? The seat warmer was coaxing them out, like a gentle hand unearthing buried treasure… except the treasure was sadness. Dammit, seat warmer, you were supposed to be comforting, not making you cry about cookies and lost mother figures!

And then, as if sadness wasn't enough drama for one night, the damn thing went full-on rogue. Suddenly, the warmth wasn't just comforting or emotional, it was… flushing. Specifically, face-flushing. Rafe's stupid, smirky face was suddenly right there, in your personal space, and all that seat-induced warmth just… migrated upwards. Cheeks burning, pulse quickening, suddenly noticing things like jawlines and dark eyes and the general… Rafe-ness of Rafe. Ogling? Yes, you were definitely ogling. And it was all the seat warmer’s fault! It had lulled you into a false sense of security, made you all soft and vulnerable and… and perceptive about Rafe’s… prettiness. Unacceptable!

Taglist: @yktayy9669 @urmomaahoe @rafesgurl @rafesdrew @sophreakingfunny @hannaa20002000 @furiouscopshepherduniversity @mirellef2001 @colbysbrocks @drewstarkeytruelove @luzstarkey @sassyvilliantrope @wintercrows @lolasangelz @scream4mami @pixieflu @beavee11 @wtfisastiles @pandxra @Ivxstarr @kissylec @hannieskzzz @soulsearchinginkauai @mysticbby2009 @matildalittlefreak @giouvarlakia @yncoded @my-name-is-baby @harryzcherry @lilithblackkk @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ethanthequeefqueen @angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd

[hunzzzzz]

Anyone else have this deep rooted fear that Rafe is gonna sacrifice himself for Sarah in season 5. Because he’s a better man now, and it’s what his dad did to protect her?

Anyone? No? Just me?😭😭😭😭

I’m preemptively mourning 😩😩 MY SHAYLA💔💔 🙏🏼

[hunzzzzz]

OBX TWEETS: part 8

Taglist:

@yktayy9669 @urmomaahoe @rafesgurl @rafesdrew @sophreakingfunny @hannaa20002000 @furiouscopshepherduniversity @mirellef2001 @colbysbrocks @drewstarkeytruelove @luzstarkey @sassyvilliantrope @wintercrows @lolasangelz @scream4mami @pixieflu @beavee11 @wtfisastiles @pandxra @Ivxstarr @kissylec @hannieskzzz @soulsearchinginkauai @mysticbby2009 @matildalittlefreak @giouvarlakia @yncoded @my-name-is-baby @harryzcherry @lilithblackkk @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ethanthequeefqueen