luvbugwriting

[luvbugwriting]

MEET. . . LOVER BOY!JJ

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . ALWAYS says the i in 'i love you,' 'i miss you,' and even the occasional 'im sorry,' when he knows hes in the shithole.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . met you at a bonfire he hadnt wanted to go to in the first place, going to brush you off when you spilled some beer on him, but being hooked the second his eyes landed on you.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . pined, and i mean pined, after you, regardless of the consequences and who warned him to back off. constantly sent you flowers, whether it was emojis, or to your address every other week after the first time you two hung out. even dropped comments like "im always here for you, sweet girl," because why not.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . almost threw a party the second you agreed to go out with him because he wanted you for oh so long. took you to your favorite place on the island, barely containing himself when you leaned in at the end of the date.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . constantly sends you selfie updates while hes at work or out with john b and pope. sometimes he keeps them silly, doing goofy faces or holding a funny pose, other times... he knows exactly what hes doing.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . will work himself to death if it means he can buy you something youve wanted for a while, and he wont ever make you feel like shit if he stole it.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . conspires with john b and pope to come up with new date ideas because hes damn well sure hes overused most of them by now. usually will find a, what he considers, new date idea, still repeating old ones but adding a spin to them.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . will constantly be touching you because hes gotten that used to you being there. whether its an arm around your shoulders, your pinkys looped, him rubbing a hand up and down your arm, kissing your shoulder, anything.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . always texts you about how much he misses you, even after hes just dropped you off after a date. always sweet, sometimes frisky. an 'im thinking bout you,' sprinkled in there. an 'i love you,' and even an 'i miss you and the scratch marks on my back, mostly you,' which is always followed by a 'come over, baby?'

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . is very protective. plain and simple. he doesnt allow anyone to disrespect you, he lets the occasional joke slide from the pogues when he knows theyre messing around. but its best to not poke the bear.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . sends you songs that remind him of you, has pet names for you, (baby, princess, sweet girl) saved every voice message you send him, would screen record calls between you two if his storage wasnt so full with pictures of you and the pogues.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . doesnt know whether to go hard or take it slow during sex. because on one hand, he loves 'making love' to you, as corny as it sounds, relishing in the moment and not just doing it to do it. but on the other hand, loves when you entice him to go further by doing literally anything.

↓ LOVER BOY!JJ WORKS HERE ↓

✎ texts w/ lover boy!jj

𐙚⋆ pt. 1 pt. 2

✎ soft smut with lover boy!jj

✎ jj finds texts from kelce on your phone

✎ a school day with lover boy!jj

✎ a kegger with lover boy!jj

✎ lover boy!jj's music taste

✎ lover boy!jj's protectiveness

✎ lover boy!jj with a baby

a/n: im ACTUALLY in love?? pls send asks about lover boy!jj because im about to have a TIMEE.

[luvbugwriting]

Hidden in the Rainfall

Starring: Photographer!Reader and Racer!Rafe

Warnings: Swearing, descriptions of child abuse, mentions of blood (minor)

Two. Three. Four.

You felt it immediately—the change, the shift in the air when he locked eyes on you. The weight of his gaze surely could've suffocated someone.

Goosebumps crawled their way up your body and down your spine. Not from fear, no. You weren't afraid of him. You weren't afraid of anyone or anything; especially not a little boy living off daddy's money.

It was apprehension. Apprehension because you knew that you were the odd one out, even after you'd tried so hard to belong.

So you adjusted, instead of letting the apprehension you felt show. You straightened, set your shoulder back, tucked your hair behind your ears. And when you stood, you couldn't help but glance at the watch on his wrist again. It was golden and ancient. Like something that had belonged to his father and his father before that and so on and so forth. Something cheesy.

That watch could've bought at least half a year's worth of food. You could buy a new camera with that, even if you were still holding on to hope that maybe you would find yours. That watch was probably worth more than everything you owned.

They didn't even recognize how blessed they'd been in this life. Maybe Linda did, and maybe that was why she was so obviously clinging to her youth like she was. But Rafe Cameron... he could have easily been born into a family like yours. He could have easily had to learn and adapt to life the way you'd learnt.

You were so out of place here. You knew that. They knew that. They just hadn't done anything about it yet and you couldn't help but wonder when they were going too. He was too close now. Not crowding you but staring you down with intrigue and annoyance in his eyes and just like that, you were the scared little girl you'd been so many years ago.

Suddenly you were eleven and chewing on your lip and staring up up up at your mother as she gripped your face far too tightly and dotted concealer to the purple blooming on your cheek.

"Stop squirming," She had snapped, her nails digging digging digging into your skin. "These need to be covered up, you hear me? I'm not going to teach you again, and if these aren't covered up then something bad will happen to your dad and me. Do you want that, kid? Do you want us to get hurt?" You shook your head. "Good. Then hold still and maybe it'll hurt less."

You tried to listen. You really did. You were just so scared and the lights were so bright and she was so angry and Dad was really angry too and when she slapped you, you didn't see it coming. You cried and cried and cried and she yelled and yelled and yelled, and when you went to school the next day, your teachers were none the wiser.

"Dear? Oh, poor thing, she's been rather pale all morning," Linda said, her voice hazy and slurred. You blinked, flinching as she patted your cheek. Rafe's eyes narrowed at the movement, his lips pulled tight.

"I'm fine." You managed, standing as Linda did. You pushed down the waves of nausea crashing through your system and pushed your nails into your skin so deep, blood must have drawn.

He didn't offer a hand. He seemed so relaxed—hands in his pockets, shoulder set back, easy smile overtaking his previous expression. He almost looked approachable, nothing like the asshole from last night. "You're the photographer I'm working with?"

As his demeanor changed, you almost felt relief. This is a game that you could play. Linda was playing a bizarre game of chess that you were sorely unprepared for, but this? A game of shape shifting? Of chameleon? You could play that game. And you'd win too.

So you let your tongue fall from the roof of your mouth, let your shoulders fall back in a way that said you weren't worried, let an easy, practiced smile fall onto your lips as well. And when you stuck out a hand, you banished whatever memories your brain was attempting to flood your system with and eased into the persona you'd so carefully crafted.

And when you nodded and told him your name, you shaped your voice into something akin to honey. Men loved that voice—Tony certainly did. Sure at first glance something as small as a change of tone might not change anything, but when you put it all together? You've already won and they don't even know.

He glanced at your hand and, for a second, you wondered if he would take it. He didn't seem to buy your curated performance and you hated yourself for that. You must have done something wrong. That little moment of panic earlier has to be the problem.

But he did take it. You shook your hands in greeting, his grip firm and commanding, like he'd done this so many times before. His gaze wasn't annoyed and intrigued any longer. No, now it was calculated. Analytical. Controlled.

"Rafe Cameron." He said, his voice as sweet as yours had been and you almost smiled.

"The Greaser." You challenged, baiting him.

"The journalist." He responded immediately.

You both started at each other then, reading each other, analyzing each other. You recognized the pattern his eyes took when he scanned you. It was the same pattern you had used the first time you saw him, and the second time too. It was cold and efficient. And maybe a little curious. He glanced between you and Linda, his brows furrowed slightly.

Linda stood between you too, looking slightly awkward. You had to force yourself not to laugh at that. "You two know each other, then?"

"No." You both answered at the same time, eyes falling back on each other. Your brows furrowed too.

She nodded, looking between you too. "Right. Well," She clasped her hands together. "As I've already explained to the photographer, you are the racer she'll be following around most. The fans just can't get enough of you, Rafe. Must be your good looks, hm?" She joked, attempting a smile.

You fought a scoff. He didn't even look at Linda. He just continued to stare you down. You stared right back.

Linda looked between the two of you, and cleared her throat once more. "Alright," She began, "You two are going to be spending a lot of time together. So, dear, you have your first assignment."

Your head swiveled, even though you wished you'd continued your facade of cool indifference. You saw a ghost of a smile grace Rafe's lips from the corner of your eye. "Yes?"

She reached into her bag, taking out a large yellow legal pad and flipping through various pages of notes. She stopped and read through them quickly. "60-90 second b-roll clips are needed every day for daily digest on the social media of his sponsors as well as grid and podium shots, all edited and due by two AM for press loops."

"Midnight?" You questioned, knowing you'd be forced to scrape off hours of sleep to meet that deadline. Not that you slept much in the first place. You hadn't slept well since your parents snatched you up from your bed and tossed you in the back of their beat up truck and moved to another little town in the middle of nowhere.

Linda nodded, patronizingly. "Mhm. Two AM. Fans want round the clock content. You can keep up, can't you?"

Rafe smirked at that and you sent a glare his way. "Yes. Mrs. Greene, I assure you, I am more than capable."

She rolled her eyes and continued. "Your little photographer here, Rafe," She gestured to you. You clenched your jaw. "She'll be following you around for all of these in order to get the candid shots the fans love. She'll also sometimes need to make 15-30 second reels and TikToks for the fans."

You nodding, already knowing this. Rafe didn't seem phased, and you tried not to gain any satisfaction from the fact that he was still staring. "The assignment, Mrs. Greene." You urged quietly.

"I'm getting there, dear, just hush for a moment, hm?" She glared up at you, lips pulled too-tight across her face. You wanted to hit her, but you settled for knowing that her husband didn't love her. And maybe that was evil and maybe that made you a bad person for relishing in knowledge you weren't supposed to know, but she deserved it. She's a bitch and you hate calling a woman such a demeaning term, so you really meant it when you called her one. She's a raging bitch who hides behind her makeup like it's armor.

She reminded you of your mother.

"Rafe has been training six hours a day, six days a week, to be prepared for this racing season, and, for your first assignment, you will be flying to Buri Ram in Thailand for the season opener race. I need you to make a short, daily digest clip as well as a 30-60 second reel of the flight and the training before the race."

You nodded slowing, thinking it over. "I'm flying out of Norfolk, then?"

"Yes, and I assume you have a camera ready to go?"

You paused, chewing your lip. Your camera was stolen and you hated yourself for that so much. But, you smiled and nodded like it was. Like you had everything under control. "Yes. Yes, I have my camera ready to go. When do we leave for Buri Ram?"

Linda looked down at her legal pad, then to Rafe, and then to you. "Tomorrow."

Rafe wasn't surprised, you could tell. But you were. You didn't know it was that soon. Fuck, you hated yourself for that. Your fingernails dug further into your palm, and blood seeped its way into your mouth.

How the hell were you supposed to scrounge up enough money for a camera by tomorrow?

taglist: @rafessbaby

[luvbugwriting]

Hidden in the Rainfall

Starring: Photographer!Reader and Racer!Rafe

Warnings: Swearing, creepy man

One. Two. Three.

A/N: Sorry for the long wait!!

"What do you mean the most you can do is check for surveillance?!" You snapped at the police officer, hands at your hips.

"Ma'am, I know you're upset, but that is the most that we can do. No finger prints were left at the scene and you weren't hurt. We'll file a report and check surveillance, like I said," She responded, matching your stance. She at least had the decency to not look smug, though bored wasn't much better.

You ran a hand over your face. "I need that camera back, you don't understand. I just got signed by Hon-"

"Ma'am, I've done what I can. Now all we can do is wait. This is the procedure." You stared after her retreating form, hands shaking, gaze turning up at the apartment building. The apartment building where your studio was. The studio that had gotten robbed.

You clenched your fists. It wasn't even on the fucking Cut. This neighborhood was supposed to be crime free.

Finding out had been pretty shit too.

Your fingers had wafted through a cardboard box sitting on the hardwood floors of your apartment for what felt to be hours. You'd gone through each of the five boxes placed sporadically about the room, in hopes you'd put it away and hadn't remembered.

Lenses wrapped in layers of shirts, smaller containers full of old photos from your Polaroid phase, discarded digital cameras you hadn't touched in years, practically everything but what you wanted were in the boxes.

By the time you grazed the brown cardboard bottom, everything a professional photographer carried was accounted for—except a goddamn tripod and your goddamn camera. The chaos of the things almost rivaled the mess of post it notes strewn about.

How the hell were you supposed to meet the PR team that you're photographing for without a goddamn camera?

"Shit," You whispered, rubbing your forehead. "God, they're going to hate me."

They'd think you're unprepared. That you didn't care. Maybe they'd revoke the offer. Could they even do that? You did already sign the contract, but they could probably find someone else if they didn't like you, right?

Besides that, you were rather underqualified. You'd shot baby showers and weddings. You did freelance photography, for fucks sake, you'd never done anything this big.

The way you got the job in the first place wasn't any better. You'd only gotten the job through an... acquaintance, at best. A sleazy, slimy, pig of an acquaintance.

You'd met him—Tony—at the Wreck while waitressing. His gaze drifted towards your chest when you spoke, and you let him eye you up despite the way your skin crawled.

You only did it because you knew who he was. He was a consultant for Honda, offering words of advice on who was the next big thing. Not to mention he had connections. He was powerful. And if he liked you, slowly, he would drip the honey, the power, onto your lips to latch you on until you couldn't bear to leave.

Or, he would have if you didn't know any better. You knew men like him, and you knew their game.

So you let him sneak a few feels. You let a little too much show when you leaned forward to place his food, his beer. You put on bright red lipstick and make your eyes oh-so big. Like a doll. You let yourself look like a helpless damsel in distress.

You hated it. You hated it so goddamn much. You hated the twists in your gut when he placed a hand on your back, the shiver in your spine when he copped a feel. You fucking hated it.

But you let it happen.

And, when you offhandedly mentioned you were a photographer, he took the bait. He was far too eager to please, eyeing you up as you sat and twirled your hair, staring at your chest. Then, when you let yourself linger a little too long, glance at your watch, and stand, Tony stood too, wanting so badly for you to stay.

"Oh, really Tony, it's alright. Just a dumb little thought," You had said, placing a hand on his arm. You felt him inhale, eyes finally drifting upwards to meet yours. He said he'd make some calls. Two days later, you got an email from exactly where you hoped you would.

And the contract? It was better than you could have dreamed of. A three month contract to photograph HRC Castrol was huge.

You knew, deep down, what you were doing was wrong. You knew that using your body to your advantage was wrong and it filled you with an angry, bitter rage when he sexualized you, but fuck it. Men do it all the time and you did what you had to do to survive. This is how it'll get better. You hated doing it. But did you regret it? Not for a fucking second.

Possibly the only thing you did regret was letting him think that you owe him something. And maybe you did, but God could strike you down if you ever let him try to even the scoreboard before you could.

You chewed on your lip, walking into the coffee shop where you'd meet the head of the PR team.

You were nervous and you didn't like it. You didn't have control of this situation and if you didn't have control, then someone else did. Sure you'd done your research on the PR head: Linda Greene, a rich socialite who was surprisingly capable.

She's a vain woman, from what you could gather online, whose a tad overly fond of things that you have absolutely no idea about. She likes shoes and tennis and expensive bags and paychecks and aged wines and making Honda look good.

You respected the two of the six.

But what a goddamn luxury to be able to appreciate all the finer things in life like people weren't begging for scraps on the side of the road, only to be treated like an unwanted urchin. Like you don't skip meals to pay rent. Like you don't fall behind on rent just so you can buy used equipment.

And, despite your great aversion, you'd spent the better half of last night researching everything you could find about the topics. Sure you felt like a lamb to the slaughter, but at least you were prepared. You were always prepared.

Then you heard it. A shrill, over the top calling of your name with every syllable drawn out.

When you turned to attach a face to the voice, you were met with a surprisingly tall woman dressed as if she were from an 80's music video. Her lips were painted a bold, matte scarlet, her eyelids shaded in purples. The blonde blowout seemed garish and juvenile against her orange-tanned skin.

This is the PR head?

Jesus.

No wonder there weren't any photos of her online, despite how odd it is to not, especially for a representative of a company.

You forced the ends of your lips upwards as she approached with her arms wide. You tried not to gag when her perfume clouded everywhere around you, her hands holding your shoulders.

"You are her, aren't you? The photographer that my husband told me about? Oh God, he was just raving, darling, you should have seen him-"

"Husband?" You interrupted, trying not to breathe. "Tony, you mean? And yes, I'm the photographer."

"Yes! Yes, Tony. God you are as pretty as a doll!" She gently tapped your cheek, letting go of your arms.

You stiffened, the gesture far too intimate, too familiar, for your liking. "Sit, hm?" She gestured towards the chair.

Swallowing the bile crawling up your throat, you obliged. You knew he was married; you just didn't know he was married to her. Not that it would have stopped you. It's not like they had kids—at least you think—and even if they did, it's not like they're that close even if she's acting as if they are.

If they were, then Tony wouldn't have lipstick on his shirt collars. He wouldn't smell like your drug-store perfume when he came home to her.

"Are you alright, dear? You look a little pale," She picked up a menu, fingers toying with the fraying edges. "A little spray tanning never hurt anyone, you know,"

You forced yourself to nod. Your fingers twitched under the table. "Yes. Sorry, I'm alright. Just um," You cleared your throat, willing the blood back to your face, trying to take some control of the conversation. "I'm fine. I had a few questions. For one-"

"Excuse me, yes, hi, I'd like a coffee? Black," Linda interrupted, telling a passing waitress.

"Oh I'm not your-" The girl began.

"Thank you!" Linda turned back to you, plastic smile plastered to her face. "You were saying?"

You blinked. "Yes, um, I had some questions. For one, I assume that I've already gotten the job since I signed the contract or is this an interview?"

"Oh, Tony just insisted that I absolutely must give you the position. He said that you were divine. You would just not believe the way he went on and on about you, dear," She sighed, shaking her head as if wistful and looking at the menu again. "'Said you were as pretty as a doll. I think that you could use a little makeup and, quite frankly, dear, you could do to lose a few pounds, but some day, maybe you-"

"You didn't answer my question." As hard as you tried, you couldn't keep the edge from your tone. Fuck, she was getting to you. She had the power and she knew it. She probably knew about Tony too. Maybe that's why she's playing offense in a game you felt extremely ill-prepared for.

Your tone didn't phase her. She just kept reading the menu, flipping it over to the blank back side and eyeing the thing distastefully.

"Mrs. Greene-"

"I heard you," She looked up then, a wide smile crossing her cheeks when the waitress brought her coffee. "Thank you, dear, aren't you just a doll,"

You waited, attempting to control your rapidly increasing breaths. Your nails dug into your palms, crescent moon imprints left in their wake.

"Mrs. Greene, do I have the job or not?"

The woman sighed, smile disappearing as quick as it came. "So impatient," she shook her head. "Yes, dear, you have the job-"

Relief flooded your very being, happiness prickling at your core. You nodded like you weren't surprised.

"-but it's not going to be easy, and I hope you know that. You will not be photographing the entire Castrol team, that would be a disaster with your rudimentary skills-"

"Rudimentary?" You repeated, eyes narrowing. Your leg twitched.

She continued, paying you no mind. "Instead, you'll be photographing three of the racers individually. You will travel with whichever of the three you are assigned on that specific day, and you will not distract them from the races." she added two packets of Splenda to the cup. "The racers stay in hotels during the racing season, as well as travel both nationally and internationally, as I'm sure you're aware of,"

"I am."

"Good. Your hotel rooms will be paid for in full, as well as any other traveling expenses including most but not all flights—we prioritize racers above staff, so you'll likely fly economy or business at best. The three racers you're to photograph are expected to be photographed not just while racing. One of these racers in particular is growing rather popular, meaning the fans want pictures of him outside the track. They want an inside look at his life, and you are expected comply with that. Can you?"

"Yes." You answered immediately, mentally scolding yourself for seeming over eager.

"Good. The racer I mentioned previously is the one you'll be picturing and following about most. You-" She paused at the ring of the bell above the cafe door, and smiled, waving at the man from their little table.

You turned, eyes widening. His gold watch and leather jacket, his unkempt buzz and bright blue eyes gave him all away.

"The greaser." You muttered, mentally face palming. "Of course."

"And here he is now: Rafe Cameron." Linda grinned.

taglist: @rafessbaby

[luvbugwriting]

storm watching

[luvbugwriting]

Hidden in the Rainfall

Starring: Photographer!Reader and Racer!Rafe

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of blood and violence (not between main characters)

Introduction. One. Two.

A boy staggered backwards, drawing the back of his hand to his lips. He dragged it along his mouth, spitting out a bit of blood. He said something to the two boys in pink and green taunting him. To the assaulters. You didn't hear it, too quiet.

Click. The lens shuttered, an image of the stand off now stored inside the memory card of your camera, just like all the others were. Dozens of photos now were stored in there, a button press away from viewing. Photos of scruffages, of two tribes on one island.

Now one of three boys in yet another scruffage will join them. Three boys standing in a golf course, two with golf clubs and one with boxes of rattling bottles.

You'd have many more soon, with this new contract. The first big job you'd gotten. It would fly you all over the world to international races. God, you needed this one to land.

The boy shoved the one in a light pink shirt, and the one in the green charged towards him, reminding you of an angry child whose mother had taken away his iPad.

You tilted your head, watching, and wondering briefly where it all stemmed from. Does the rivalry not get old? Do the enemies not grow tired of their resentment?

As if answering your questions, pink-shirt begun to yell rather loudly. Dirty pogue this, dirty pogue that. All very trivial.

The fun was short lived, however, when a cop rolled in on a green golf cart, stopping and stepping out. Hands on his hips, standing like a dad, he raised a disappointed brow, "Everything alright here, boys?"

You inched forward from your hiding spot in the foliage. Click. You checked the lens. Inched forward. A twig snapped beneath your feet.

"Shit," you muttered, ducking your head back into the brush. A shiver traveled up your back, goosebumps trailing your skin as you felt the gaze of the four pore into you.

The officer's brows furrowed, stepping closer.

You held your breath.

A beat passed.

Another.

Finally, the man sighed. "Goddamn critters." He turned back to the boys, raising his brows.

"All good Shoupe," Pink shirt forced a smile. The other two followed suit. Green shirt threw an arm around the Pogue's shoulders. The boy clenched his jaw.

Click.

Shoupe, you assumed, did not appear convinced. "You sure Topper?"

Pink shirt—Topper?—remained smiling. "Yes sir. No trouble here. In fact, me and Kelce were just inviting Pope to the bonfire later."

Shoupe turned towards Pope. "Is that right?"

He forced a smile. "Sure is, Shoupe."

The officer looked between the three, as if trying to weed out any malintent. There was, of course, and Shoupe knew this, but it wasn't as if he could necessarily stop them without evidence. He clenched his jaw and sighed. "Alright. You boys move along. But if I find out y'all are planning something—and I will find out—I will not hesitate to put y'all in jail."

You watched them leave, slightly disappointed that you wouldn't be able to take anymore photos of the spat.

You dipped your head towards the upper lens, tapping the gallery button. They were alright, the photos. The lighting wasn't particularly good. Too bright. If only you'd been closer. Next. Shit, this one wasn't good either. Too much of a glare. Angle was off.

"You taking damn photos again?"

You jerked your head up, surprised to find the officer standing just in front of you. Shit.

"Oh, get out of the bushes, I know you're in there."

Double shit. "Hiya Shoupe," You mumbled, sheepishly stepping out of the greenery.

He raised a brow, hands on his hips again. "Don't 'hiya Shoupe' me, missy. Did you take them damn photos again?"

"No." You answered immediately.

"Really?" He deadpanned. "That isn't a camera in your hand?"

You paused. "This is my diabetes tracker."

A beat of silence passed, disbelief crossing Shoupe's face. "Your—Your diabetes tracker?"

You swallowed, forcing a smile. "Yep."

"Your camera shaped diabetes tracker?"

"...yep. I, uh, I ordered it customized. It was on clearance. I was gonna bedazzle it too, but I, uh, I ran outta time. You know how it goes."

Shoupe blinked, jaw slightly opened. He squeezed his eye shut, hand coming up to rub his temple. He opened his mouth to speak, interrupted by someone over the police radio. He paused, listening in, then sighed again. "I'm going to pretend that this whole thing didn't happen, but you better find a new hobby."

"Taking photos isn't illegal," Your brows furrowed as you spoke.

The officer paused, looking back. "No. But it is if it interferes with my job, and I am allowed to confiscate that. So find a damn hobby. A new one."

You stilled, fingers freezing on the camera. "Confiscate?" Your voice came out quieter this time, less sure of yourself.

He nodded, appearing almost as bored as you were nervous. "Yes. Confiscate."

"Like forever?" It was shakier this time, even as you fought to cover it with indifference.

He ran a hand over his face. "No, kid. Not 'like forever'. Look just—just stop with the damn photos,"

When Shoupe turned to leave this time, you didn't stop him. Just watched, one holding the camera a little too tightly, and the other pawing your necklace.

Your fingers twitched, itching to take another photo. And had you known the events that would follow, perhaps you would have. But alas, you do not possess that ability nor did you take a photo, despite the ache in your bones, the whispers in your mind that begged you too. That begged you to document your melancholy existence on this little planet.

Later, when the sun had disappeared to the other side of the world, and the stars had begun to dance across the great, dark blue, you sat on the curb of the empty sidewalk of a gas station, looking up in wonder. Awestruck.

You didn't understand why more people weren't admiring it. Why no one had stopped dead in their tracks and gazed up at the beautiful blue, wondering what they had done to deserve such a beautiful Earth. The night sky was so glorious here; the light pollution being essentially non-existent.

It wasn't like this anywhere you'd lived before. All those big and bright cities, trying to attract as many people as it could. Like a fly to something sweet. Something rotting.

Too bad you didn't have your tripod with you, but maybe you could set it up on your front porch when you got home. You'd never been able to take a good photo of the sky without it.

Your eyes drifted towards the sole person around. A man, buzzed hair and a thick leather jacket, filling up his bike. You rested your chin in your hand, watching, eventually taking your camera out of your bag.

Click. You zoomed in close to him, examining him through the lens.

He was handsome, you supposed. He was handsome in the way that girls love and guys spend so long trying to become. He was handsome in the way that made you nervous. Prettiness gave people power. And if life's taught you anything, it's that power is dangerous if you're not the one holding it.

He didn't look like Topper did. He was kook, noting the bike and the jacket, but he wasn't wearing the entitled golfer dress code the others seemed to live by. His buzz was longer, unkempt, whilst Topper's hair was immaculate, like he'd spent hours perfecting it. He looked like he didn't give a shit.

His clothes weren't unkempt, necessarily, but he didn't appear to have hired someone to pick all stray pieces of lint or dirt off like Kelce had. Kelce's clothes were too clean for the Outerbanks. No wrinkles, no faded colors. Brand new, straight from the rack, clothing.

His clothing was more on-brand with the OBX, you supposed. Jeans and a simple blue T, a leather jacket, and a gold watch to top it all off.

You tilted your head, examining him further like you'd done half the people on the island. Shoupe liked him, you gathered, or at least tolerated him. He's the type to get away with things. His shiny credit card and gold watch, his unkempt attire, all screamed rich boy. Kook.

Kooks got let off with a warning that meant nothing. Pogues got let off with a warning that meant fuck up again, and I'll send you to the mainland for real processing or no warning at all.

A shadow flickered in the light of the upper lamp. The man from the gas station, you assumed. Paying for it. He'd be gone in a few minutes.

You lowered your camera, fingers finding the gallery button once more. You clicked through them with the arrows. They were better than the ones on the golf course.

"Hey,"

You pressed the arrows again, brows furrowing down at the most recent one. It's better, you told yourself, chewing your lip. The lighting's a little off though. Not to mention a bird was flying to close to the camera and it didn't focus on him. "Fuck this." You whispered. "Fuck proof."

"You. With the camera."

Slowly, you lifted your head. "Me?"

The man walked towards you, broad shouldered and narrow waisted. He had his hands in his jacket pocket. "You always take photos of people?"

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Do you always dress like that?"

His brows furrowed. "What does that have to do with you taking photos of me?"

"It doesn't. It's just very..." You grasped for a metaphor. "Outsiders. Very Greaser. Very Dally."

His brows narrowed. "Yeah? Who are you supposed to be then, Cherry? With your little soc get up?"

Why was he humoring you? "I'm a soc? That's funny coming from a kook."

The man's lips twisted upwards in what she imagined was supposed to be a smile, but it wasn't friendly like they're supposed to be. It was too practiced. "You new here? You don't look like a pogue."

Tilting your head, you thought about how you want to play this. You'd already ruled out the ditsy and dumb option with your Outsiders comment. You couldn't be the nice and sweet and quiet girl, not with the teasing.

Then, deciding, you allowed a smile to fall on your lips. You stood and adjusted your skirt, letting it rise a little higher than necessary. Your glossy bottom lip stuck out just slightly, not enough to look pouty, but enough to draw attention. Reaching up, you pawed your necklace. "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not."

His brows furrowed and his smile changed, his eyes scanning you. His next words were a bit slower, like he was trying to figure out what had changed. He glanced down at the camera. "Just delete the fucking photo, yeah? Fuck knows I don't need any goddamn journalist wannabe's tryna photograph me."

You lost the smile as quickly as it had appeared. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Journalist wannabe. So just delete the photo and leave the journalism to the professionals, yeah?"

You clenched your jaw. I'm not a journalist, I'm a photographer. A photographer that just got signed to a really big company for a super exclusive job that you couldn't even dream of."

"Oh, big fucking deal." He sighed. "Look, just delete the photo, alright? I don't-"

"No."

His eyes darkened, arms crossed. "No?" A humorless laugh fell from his mouth. He shook his head. "Whatever. Goddamn journalist. Always wanna photo of the racer."

You watched as he stalked off to his bike, eyes narrowed and arms crossed.

"Asshole." You muttered as he rode away, fingering hovering over the gallery button. On second thought, maybe you'd keep the photo after all.

[luvbugwriting]

Hi babes! Call me luvbug or whatever you want, really. The picture above in the aesthetic of my current fic, Hidden in the Rainfall. Check it out!

I mainly write Rafe Cameron fics, but I'll occasionally write JJ Maybank or Jason Todd fics. Check out my Wattpad!

Masterlist. Rules. Readers.

[luvbugwriting]

New Series!

Introducing, Hiding from the Rainfall

Starring Photographer!Reader and Racer!Rafe

Introduction. One. Two.

Any contract that you pick up has to be done well. It's the only way you'll ever earn notoriety and gain access to the higher paying, bigger contracts. So far, all you've had are baby showers and wedding shoots.

But this?

This is big. A three-month-long contract to shoot a professional-fucking-racer for Honda is fucking huge. This is the break you've been waiting for. If this goes well for you? If you can do this, then all the doors will be unlocked and you'll win.

There's just one problem.

The racer you were hired to shoot? The man who holds the keys to your success?

He's a dick.

An entitled, egotistical boy playing with his toys. Rafe Cameron. Play/fuck boy who thinks that he's the shit. You hate him. He was handed everything to him on a silver—scratch that, a gold platter. He has never had to work a day in his life. This is just a hobby for him, and you hate it. You hate him.

And he hates you. He's doing everything in his power to make this job a living hell. He knows you're being paid to shadow him, to get the 'inside look' at his personal life. And he relishes that feeling of power. The look you give him when you're pissed off. He loves it.

NOTE!!! In this fic, Ward is still alive and was wounded when saving the pogues from Singh (season 3). Sarah and Rafe both know he's alive, but the Pogues do not. Neither Ward nor the Pogues have a huge impact in this, but both Sarah and Ward will occasionally make an appearance. JJ didn't die in season four, he was still stabbed but not fatally. The Pogues didn't pursue treasure again because of what happened to JJ. They live somewhat normal lives now, and the surf shop is doing well again.

[luvbugwriting]

Introducing...

Racer!Rafe paired with Photographer!Reader

Racer!Rafe who relishes the fleeting rush of adrenaline when he races his bike. He's good too. Good enough to get signed by Honda. He won't even touch coke anymore, not after feeling the addiction of adrenaline.

Racer!Rafe who only feels like a "man" if he's putting his life in danger. If he knows that one wrong move, and his entire body could be destroyed. And he loves it.

Racer!Rafe who gets angry too fast and gives up on people too easily. He doesn't expect anyone to stick around, much less care.

Racer!Rafe who learned that vulnerability was a weakness, and crying wasn't "manly". He can't cry unless he's alone, and even then he gives himself crap for it.

Racer!Rafe who clings to any softness he receives, but bolts the minute things get hard.

Racer!Rafe who couldn't find it in himself to leave the OBX, even if he started hated the theatrics more and more. With Ward, Rose, Wheezie, and Sarah gone, all the pretending and entertaining was just so... draining.

Racer!Rafe who travels all over the world for races, coming back to Tannyhill with medals and trophies that litter his shelves.

Racer!Rafe who everyone in Kildare knows to leave alone. Sure they remember the parties. They remember how fun he used to be. Even his old friends, if you could even call them that, know that he isn't so fun anymore. He won't entertain or throw away his money so frivolously, so freely. He saw what that did to his father.

Racer!Rafe whose knuckles are always bruised, even if he doesn't remember why.

[luvbugwriting]

Introducing...

Photographer!Reader paired with Racer!Rafe

Photographer!Reader who brings her camera with her everywhere, just in case she sees something she likes, whether it be a cat, trees, water, anything and everything.

Photographer!Reader who is about as clumsy and as physically capable as a baby deer, but will curse you out if you try to call her weak.

Photographer!Reader whose parents taught her to pack all her belongings into boxes before she could read. She could charm the lollipops from an old lady's purse by the time she was seven, coming home with extra five dollars, a lollipop in her mouth, a bright red kiss on her cheek, and her parents wouldn't say a word.

Photographer!Reader who never really had any friends because her parents always moved her around. Moving to the Outer banks was the first real home she's ever had. Even if it doesn't feel like home. Even if the house falls apart if she looks away.

Photographer!Reader who lives on the edges of the Outer banks. Far enough from the chaos of the two clans that they don't really notice her, even if she sort of wished they did. The Kooks and Pogues only know her as just another waitress at The Wreck.

Photographer!Reader who pledged to document everyday with an camera or a post it note (which are often left littering her mirrors and doors as reminders) or even a journal entry to "prove that she was there".

Photographer!Reader who isn't a Pogue, but isn't a Kook either. She finds the whole thing quite amusing, and photographs any scruffage she can. She wouldn't give it to Shoupe, though, not even if he asked. Just to have. To remind herself that she was there. That even if no one noticed her, she had existed there.

Photographer!Reader whose used to not taking up much space. She's used to being pushed aside and left. She's used to shutting down and shutting up during conflict. It's what she was told to do since she could say a word.

Photographer!Reader who might be quiet, but will never take anyone's crap. She'll put you right back in your place and take a photo of your shocked expression afterwards.

Photographer!Reader who won't hesitate to change her personality in a moment. To switch her colors like a chameleon if it suits her. If it'll get her something. Or even for something as simple as fun.