#Trump: A Second Chance? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

itneverendshere · 11 months ago

Text

THE OTHER SIDE OF PARADISE - r. c (+18)

WARNINGS: smut; kidnapping; violence; blood. pairing: maybank!reader

◛ masterlist

The sun dipped low, painting the Outer Banks marshes in shades of fiery orange. Tensions between Kooks and Pogues had hit a fever pitch, and in the middle of it all?

Rafe Cameron, the last person you'd want to encounter.

Ever.

Every run-in with him left a bitter taste in your mouth. It was like he had a knack for getting under your skin. Arrogant, volatile, downright psychotic — he was a fucking walking disaster. Each interaction with him sucked the life out of you, you were convinced that nothing good could ever come from being around him.

And yet, there you were, another Maybank, caught in the mess of the island's most influential family feud. You knew the risks, but loyalty drove you forward. And now you were in deep shit.

Your plan had been reckless, driven by the desperate need to save Sarah from her deranged family and retrieve Pope's stolen cross. Everything had gone smoothly until chaos erupted, and you found yourself abruptly yanked away from the corridor by a strong grip on your arm, before you could even call out for your brother and Kie.

Another hand clamped over your mouth, stifling any attempts to scream. In a mattr of seconds, you were dragged into a dark cabin, the men's hold on you unyielding. Struggling was futile and stupid against his iron grip, he tossed you inside like you were trash, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him.

The gravity of your situation hit hard immediately – you were alone, at the mercy of the Cameron's. Ward Cameron, the man who'd silenced anyone who dared oppose him, even going as far as faking his own death, kidnapping his own daughter, and manipulating his son into committing murder.

Because in his sick twisted world, family trumped everything, even murder.

Great. This was fantastic.

Your mind raced as you took in your surroundings. The cabin was small and sparsely furnished: a bunk, a tiny porthole high on the wall, and a single chair bolted to the floor. There was a hum of the ship's engines, reminding you that you were far from land and any chance of immediate rescue.

You quickly checked your options but there weren't many, the door was solid, and you didn't have anything strong enough to force it open. Fuck, fuck fuck.

You took a deep breath, trying not to lose your shit, panic wouldn't help; you needed a plan. But then, like a nightmare come to life, the devil himself stepped into the room, his eyes piercing as they landed on you. The man who had captured you stood behind him, a smug grin on his face.

Rafe was visibly surprised to see you, but he quickly concealed it behind his usual deranged expression. His forehead glistened with sweat, his hair damp and sticking to his temples while his shirt clung to his back, soaked through from the scorching heat, beads of perspiration trickled down his face. He wiped his brow with a weary hand and his gun gleamed ominously in the faint light.

"Well shit,” Rafe's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Look what we have here. Didn't expect to see ya again so soon pretty Maybank.”

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but your mind was racing with questions. Where were your friends? Were they safe? Was your brother even alive?

Before you could ask, Rafe continued, his tone mocking.

"Your brother really did a number on you, huh? Left you behind without a second thought. Typical Maybank shit, always knew your kind was unreliable."

Son of a bitch.

You clenched your fists, fighting to keep your composure. "You're lying," you countered, "He wouldn't leave me."

Not unless he was forced to.

Rafe chuckled, a humorless sound. "Believe what you want. They left, now, you're my problem. Lucky me."

“You’re lying.”

His eyes gleamed dangerously as he walked towards you, you took a step back, but there was nowhere to go. The cold, metal wall pressed against your back, mirroring the chill that settled in your bones.

It felt like you were being hunted.

"What am doing with you?" he mused, tilting his head as if genuinely contemplating your fate. The gun in his hand swung lazily at his side, but you knew better than to think it wasn't ready to be used at any given moment. You knew what he'd done before.

You swallowed hard, your mind frantically searching for a way out of this hellhole. He was unpredictable and volatile; years of snorting cocaine and family trauma did that to some people. But maybe you could reason with him. You were always a litte too good and hopeful for your own good.

“Rafe, listen. You don't have to do this. Let me go and we can both walk away from this. No one has to get hurt."

Again.

His laugh was bitter, like you were trying to humor him,"You think I'm gonna let you go just 'cause you asked nicely?" He stepped closer, his breath hot against your face. "Nah. You're going to stay right here until I decide what to do with you.“

You tried to keep your breathing steady, but all you felt was fear, the odds had never been so against you.

"What do you want? The cross? We can make a deal."

No, you couldn't.

His eyes narrowed, the amusement fading.

"You think this is about money? About that fucking cross? This is about power. Control. And right now...huh, shit, I control you." He leaned in, his voice a deadly whisper. "The cross is mine now. How do you feel about the Bahamas?”

What the fuck did that even mean?

Your top lip curled in disgust, “I’d rather drown.”

His smile twisted into something even darker. “I think you’re worth more alive, at least for now.”

You refused to show him any more fear.

“To you? Or Ward? Do you only get this cocky when daddy’s not around to rein you in?”

Rafe’s expression hardened, you knew you were pushing it.

He leaned in close, his blue eyes unforgiving even in the dim light, “Watch your fucking mouth, Maybank. You don’t know anything about my family.”

You laughed bitterly, unable to stop yourself. If you were going to die you might as well take advantage of it.

“Yeah, no. You're right. Just that you're dad’s little lapdog, doing his dirty work while he pretends to be some upstanding citizen. And where’s your mom in all this? Oh! She left.”

The punch came so fast, you didn’t see it coming.

Pain exploded across your jaw, and you tasted blood while grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. “You don’t fucking talk about her, dirty pogue.”

Anger took over you hotter than the pain, yeah your jaw throbbed, but the rage was stronger. You wanted to hit him back, to wipe that smug look off his stupid face, make him feel the hurt he had inflicted on you.

Your fists clenched at your sides, every muscle in your body burning with desire for retribution. You spat blood at his face, proud to see him flinch while glaring up at him defiantly.

“You’re just a puppet. Your sister hates you, your dad uses you, and deep down, you know you will never be more than his bitch.”

His grip tightened painfully, rough fingers digging into your flesh, lips twitching into a snarl, but you didn’t flinch. If you were going down, you’d go down fighting.

His eyes flickered with something you’d never seen in him, before he released you, stepping back. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? So tough.”

“Smarter than you,” you shot back. “At least I know who I am. What are you, Rafe?“

He stared at you, tongue pressed against his cheek, eyebrows furrowed. Then he laughed, a harsh, grating sound that sent chills down your spine. His hand reached out, and your breath stilled throat tightening as he fiddled with a lock of your hair. He’d let out another laugh, entirely dismissive of the way you’d felt.

“You’ve got guts, Maybank. It's gonna get you killed.“

You wiped the blood from your mouth, “I’ve survived worse than you.”

And you had.

If anything prepared you for violence, drugs, and pain, was living with Luke Maybank your entire life. Maybe if you didn’t hate Rafe with every fiber of your being, after everything he’d done, you’d feel sorry for him. But you didn’t, and he sure as hell didn't feel sorry for you.

The room was silent except for the sound of the ship’s engines, but then Rafe turned on his heel, motioning to the man by the door.

“Watch her. Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.”

“Do I look like fucking Michael Phelps? Where the fuck would I go? We’re on a ship you crazy bastar—Hey! Rafe! Open the fucking door!”

The door slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the small cabin. You listened to his footsteps fade away, feeling a sense of dread settle in your chest.

What the fuck had you gotten yourself into? They could kill you, dispose your body in the ocean and no would care. No one would think you’d gone missing, because you were a Maybank and that’s what your kind of people did, apparently.

Your brother would probably assume you were dead, he’d try to get justice and fail in the end, because the rich always won.

The musty air of the cabin felt oppressive as you turned away from the small porthole, where the bright sun and endless expanse of blue ocean mocked you from beyond.

The days melded into one another, marked only by the delivery of meals and the sporadic presence of Rafe. You had hoped for some clarity, some clue of what your future looked like, but his visits offered nothing but insults or complete silence.

Charming.

You paced the small room, your mind racing with the possibilities of what they had planned for you. The guard remained a silent sentinel, a constant reminder that escape was not an option. But then, the cabin door creaked open again, and you tensed as Ward Cameron stepped in.

Great, because crazy number one hadn't been enough.

He gave a nod to the guard, who stepped out, leaving you alone with the man who held your fate in his hands. A fucking lunatic with enough means to play for all the dramatics he enjoyed. Great.

"Get comfortable," Ward announced, "We're almost there."

"Almost where?"

"The Bahamas," he replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "A little slice of paradise, if you will."

"And what happens then?" you pressed, needing to know more.

Ward studied you for a moment, “Keep out of sight, stay quiet. Rafe and I have some business to attend to, and we can't afford any distractions."

"And if I refuse?" you challenged, though you knew the answer.

Ward's smile widened, but there was no warmth in it, you knew he enjoyed watching people squirm around like worthless worms.

"Let's not be stupid, sweetheart. You're here because you know too much. Refusing isn't an option. Cooperation, however…”

A chill ran down your spine at his words.

The answer was very clear, and you realized that your only chance was to play along, at least until you could figure out a way to escape this nightmare.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Eventually, you felt the ship slow, the engines quieting as you approached your destination and when the door opened again, Rafe was there, that stupid frown always attached to his face.

"Time to go," he motioned for you to follow, hardly sparing you a look. "Move."

You stepped out onto the deck, the warm, salty breeze hitting your face as you looked around.

The sight of the lush, tropical landscape did little to ease your anxiety, you were being held captive. You were led to a smaller boat, and soon you were speeding towards a secluded island, the main landmass of the Bahamas visible in the distance.

You were a world away from the familiar streets and faces of The Cut.

It was straight out of a postcard, something you and JJ would fantasize about while high of your asses and writing bucklists.

God, JJ.

You only hoped he made it, you’d never gone a day without each other before you were dragged into this mess last summer. It wasn’t fair. You only wanted enough money to get by, an easy fix to get everything sorted, finish college, ship your dad somewhere far away from you two. But Ward’s greedy ass had to ruin everything.

As the boat neared the shore, you couldn't ignore the feeling of impending doom. Were you going to die out there? In between pristine beaches and swaying palm trees? Alone?

Rafe’s hand gripped your arm, his grasp tight, blunt nails digging into your tanned skin as he led you onto the sandy beach, Ward followed close behind, as he surveyed the scene before him.

"This way," he said, his voice cutting through the sound of the waves crashing against the shore.

You followed obediently, your mind already racing with possibilities.

Escape seemed unlikely, but there was still a slim hope that you could find a way out of this mess, eventually, even if it took you months.

The path led deeper into the heart of the island, the dense foliage casting long shadows as the sun began to set. You could feel Ward and Rafe's gazes on you, watching their prey.

Finally, you reached a clearing, and your heart sank as you saw what awaited you...a small house, in the middle of nowhere. Oh god, you were a dead woman.

“This will be your home for the time being." Ward said it like he was offering you a vacation rental and not kidnapping you, such a fucking lunatic.

You wanted to demand more answers, but you knew it was futile and there was little fight left in you from how tired you'd been feeling.

“Rafe will be keeping you company."

The way Rafe’s head snapped in his father’s direction told you more than what you needed to know.

Once again, daddy dearest was calling the shots without taking his opinion into consideration. Ward’s casual cruelty was suffocating, reminding you of the power he had over everyone.

As he turned to leave, leaving no space of negotiations or pleadings, Rafe’s eyes bored into yours, no questions asked, only blind devotion to his father.

The door slammed shut, leaving you alone with him once more. He looked at you, resentment playing across his face, like this was your fault and not theirs.

“I’m not going to make this easy for you," You hissed, “I’m not dying here. Not with you.”

Rafe chuckled, greasy bangs moving as he shook his head, “You really think you have a choice here?” He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming in the confined space, “You think you’re special? Nah, Maybank. He’ll get rid of you eventually, don’t worry.”

“Exactly. He will, not you. You don’t have any control either and I think you hate being here as much as I do, that shit makes us both prisoners.”

He blinked, momentarily thrown off guard, “Stay out my fucking way or I’ll kill you myself.”

You were sure he wouldn't, only if Ward asked him to.

He’d fucked up enough before, when he accidentally shot Sarah and didn’t look the slightest bit apologetic. You knew he wouldn’t do it again, not if he wanted to keep his head on his shoulder and his trust fund. Ward Cameron hated slips ups, hated even more the monster he raised, but he sure came in handy when he needed him.

"Empty threats," you squared your shoulders. "I've dealt with bigger monsters than you."

He only stared at you, eyes bloodshot red, perhaps from the lack of sleep or maybe because he was high off his mind, you didn’t care to ask. Just as quickly, his usual sneer returned.

"Enjoy your stay, Maybank.”

With that, he turned and left the room, him and the stupid slamming of doors.

You had to get out, you knew it wouldn't be easy, but you were a Maybank—survival was in your blood. You took stock of your surroundings once more, this time with a sharper eye.

The walls were thin, the windows barred, but there had to be some weakness, some way to exploit the situation. You ran your fingers along the seams of the walls, looking for anything that might give.

Your mind raced through every piece of advice JJ had ever given you about breaking and entering. You’d done a lot of that over the years, and while most people thought you pogues were simply criminals, they never cared enough to ask why you and your brother spent so much time in and out of the sheriff’s department.

So, what if two dirty, no-good kids were barely hanging on for dear life? No one gave a shit.

Weeks blurred into each other marked by the same routine.

Rafe's visits, Ward's passive aggressive threats, and the endless search for an opportunity to escape.

You watched Rafe carefully, noting his every move, his every interaction with Ward, noticing how the later belittled him at every chance he got, treating him more like a tool than a son.

It was a toxic dynamic, one that made you wonder if Rafe was as much a victim as you were. You’d seen bits and pieces before, but Sarah had described Ward as some sort of saint up until recently.

She hadn't done the same for Rafe. Their dynamic was so different from what you were used to. You and JJ were like two peas in a pod, you’d die for him and you know he would do the same, no questions asked. If there was one good thing in your life, it was your brother.

You couldn't help but feel a little pity for him, despite everything he'd done. He was a product of his environment, molded by a father who saw him as nothing more than a means to an end. It was easy to spot his weakness if you spent enough time in the same room, the secretive moments of doubt and vulnerability.

His hands would shake every time Ward raised his voice, he would bite his nails to hide the embarrassment booming in his cheeks and he never walked into his father’s space or any other room without announcing his presence.

It gave you whiplash.

You began to argue less with him, your animosity giving way to a grudging understanding. You hated feeling so…forgiving, this boy had done unspeakable things to you and your friends, to your family…and there you were.

Feeling sorry for him like you didn’t know better.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the small house, Rafe brought you dinner. He placed the plate on the table, his movements tense, his expression unusually subdued, strangely so, you’d memorized that expression.

You didn’t even have to ask to understand what had gotten under his skin.

"Why do you let him treat you like that?" you asked, not understanding why you did it.

You regretted the words the moment they came out of your lips, but there was something inside itching you to ask.

His eyes snapped to yours, "What the hell do you know about it?" At this point he just sounded tired.

"I understand,” you replied, thinking of your own father. "I know what it's like to want to prove yourself, to be more than what they think you are."

Rafe's jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to the floor, for a moment, he looked lost, like a boy searching for something he could never find.

"You don't know shit," he muttered, but there was no conviction in his voice.

"I know enough," you said quietly. "You don't have to keep doing this. You don't have to be his puppet."

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "You think it's that simple?"

"Maybe not. But you can choose to be better than him. You can choose to stop this.”

Rafe looked at you, really looked at you, for the first time and it was borderline unnerving. The weight of his stare, how way your stomach flip-flopped under his attention.

“Shut the fuck up and eat, Maybank."

But beneath it all, there was something else, you’d seen before, when you looked at yourself in the mirror after you took the biggest beating of your life and Luke finally got thrown into jail: hope.

He didn't say anything, just turned and walked out, leaving you alone.

The days continued to pass, but something changed. Rafe was less hostile to you, more contemplative. He didn't treat you as roughly, didn't hurl as many insults. It was a small change, but it was there.

That's when you finally began to see a way out, not just for yourself, but, maybe, for him too.

You knew what he did, what he was capable of, but no one deserved to rot in hell with someone like Ward. You needed to bide your time, wait for the right moment, and when that moment came, you had to be ready to act.

Another day began with the same oppressive humid heat, the sun had just started to rise, casting golden hue over the island. You were in the small kitchen of the house, preparing a meager breakfast from the limited supplies you had that day.

The routine had become almost mechanical, a way to keep your mind occupied and stave off the panic.

Rafe entered the kitchen, eyes barely open as he wiped the sleep away. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, the sound of the liquid hitting the glass breaking the silence. Very healthy.

He stood with his back to you, staring out the window.

“What’s Luke like?”

You froze, your hands pausing mid-motion. It was more than an unexpected question, it made you want to hurl on the spot even though you hadn’t had anything to eat yet.

“Why do you want to know?" you asked cautiously, wondering if it was some kind of trick question.

He shrugged, still not turning to face you. "

Just curious. You Maybanks are a tight bunch, right? So what's he like?"

Tight bunch…that was one way to put it.

You took a deep breath, trying to decide how much to reveal. "He’s a drunk, a thief. But he's still my dad."

He finally turned to look at you, his eyes narrowing. "So why do you stick around? Why not just leave him?"

You knew what he was trying to do, giving you a taste of your own medicine. You couldn’t blame him.

"Because he's family, and sometimes, family is all you have. Even when they’re terrible, even when they hurt you, sometimes you can’t just walk away."

"Family's supposed to be everything, right?" His voice carried a bitter edge, hinting at his unresolved inner conflicts that you'd grown accustomed to.

"That's what they say."

He took another sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Must be tough, having a dad like that."

Tough? It was heartbreaking. Knowing that the one person who was supposed to love you, cherish you and protect you for life never gave a single fuck about his kids? Yeah, sure it’s “tough”.

"Guess we have that in common.”

Rafe looked away, "Yeah, we do." He set his glass down with a heavy thud, the sound resonating in the small kitchen.

The two of you stood in silence, but then he took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging slightly.

"I get it," he said quietly. "More than you know."

You watched him, the way his fingers ran along the rim of the glass. "Then why do you keep doing this? You don’t have to."

“It's not that simple," he snapped. "I killed someone. For him.”

It was the first time he had said those words out loud, it made him sick to his stomach. He'd been scared and high enough to do something so reckless, just so they wouldn’t take away his dad.

"We always have a choice," you countered, "Maybe not the best ones, but we can always choose to be better."

He shook his head, turning away. "You don't know anything," he muttered, but there was less conviction in his words than before.

"I know enough," you watched his retreating back. "And so do you."

He paused at the doorway, his hand gripping the frame tightly.

Without turning around, he spoke, his voice strained. "I'll see you later."

As he left, the kitchen felt colder, but you knew you had reached him, even if just a little, and that gave you hope.

After that, Rafe’s visits were less frequent, and when he did come by, there was an uneasy tension between you both. You couldn't tell if it was because of your last conversation or the sheer exhaustion of being trapped in this toxic cycle. Still, every interaction seemed to chip away at the walls he'd built around himself, showing you little glimpses of the person he might have been, had his life taken a different path.

Tonight, the air is still, the only sound is the gentle lapping of waves against the shore.

You have been biding your time, watching for the perfect moment to make your run for it. The house is quiet, Ward is gone and you haven’t seen Rafe in two days. By now, you know how the guards outside fell asleep before 2am like clockwork.

You can it.

This is your chance, you can’t afford to waste it.

You move silently, slipping out of the small bedroom and into the hallway. Every creak of the wooden floorboards seems to echo in the stillness, and you hold your breath, praying you won’t get caught.

Your heart races as you slowly turn the handle of the front door, wincing at the faint click that accompanies the action. Once outside, you glance around, ensuring the coast is clear, then make your way towards the small boat moored at the edge of the beach.

The plan is simple: get to the boat, start the engine, and head for the main island where you can find help. You keep low, moving quickly but cautiously, like a cat. The boat is within reach when a noise behind you makes your blood run cold.

The crunch of gravel underfoot makes you want to cry.

You turn sharply, and in the moonlight, the silhouette of one of the guards emerges from the shadows, it's the asshole who got you here in the first place. He’s closer than you had anticipated.

Your heart pounds, adrenaline moving through your veins as you break into a sprint, abandoning stealth for speed.

"Stop!" the guard shouts, his voice carrying across the trees.

You don’t dare to look back, your eyes locked on the boat when you hear a loud noise split the night—a gunshot. That's when you feel a searing pain in your arm, but you don't stop, pushing through, your goal now just a few yards away.

Another gunshot rings out, but you are too focused to notice where it lands. You reach the boat, hands trembling as you fumble with the ropes. The pain in your arm intensifies, but you force yourself to keep moving, when suddenly, a heavy hand grabs your shoulder, spinning you around.

You struggle, kicking and thrashing, but he’s stronger as he knocks you to the ground, pinning you down as he radioes for backup.

"Get your hands off me!"

It feels all to familiar. You hate very second of it.

"Got her," he says into the radio, his terrible breath hot against your ear. You try to wriggle free, but his grip only tightens and moments later, two more guards arrive, hauling you to your feet and dragging you back towards the house.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

The sting in your arm is painful reminder of your failed attempt as they pull you inside, your brief taste of freedom slipping away.

You were so fucking close.

Moments feel like hours as you sit in the chair, the pain in your arm throbbing with each heartbeat, they don't even try to stop the bleeding.

Then the quiet murmurs of the guards outside is interrupted by the heavy, hurried footsteps of someone approaching. The door flies open, and there stands Rafe, disheveled and wild-eyed, a gun clutched tightly in his hand.

“What the fuck is going on?” he barks as his gaze scans the room, landing on you.

The sight of the blood staining your arm makes his expression change from bewilderment to fury. He storms towards you, his eyes blazing.

“What happened?” he all but demands. Before you can answer, he whirls around to face the guards who re-enters the room. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Rafe shouts, waving his gun erratically. “She’s bleeding! I try to sleep in peace and this is what I fucking come back to?”

The guards exchange nervous glances, shifting uncomfortably under his glare. “She was trying to escape, Mr. Cameron,” one of them stammers out. “We had to stop her.”

His expression twists with rage.

“So you fucking shot her?” His voice drips with incredulity. “Do you even understand what you’ve done? My father wants her in once piece.”

The guard who caught you tries to explain, but Rafe cuts him off.

“Shut up. Just... shut up.” He turns back to you, his eyes softening slightly as he takes in the sight of your injured arm, or maybe the pain is making you delirious.

“We need to get that cleaned up,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. Without another word, he holsters his gun and gently takes your uninjured arm, pulling you to your feet as the guards look on, unsure of what to do or say.

He shoots them a deadly look. “Get out before I shoot you bitches myself.”

Once Ward’s men leave, he runs a hand through his long hair, pacing the small room before finally stopping in front of you.

He looks pissed as he sneers at you, his voice dripping with exasperation, "I thought you had some brains in that pretty little head of yours," he spats out, practically screaming in your face, "What were you even thinking? Do you realize how close you came to getting yourself killed?"

You try to speak, to defend yourself, but he doesn’t give you the chance. His words come fast, "You could've died out there! A bullet barely missed you—do you even understand how lucky you are?"

The monologue doesn't stop there.

His fists clench at his sides, "I just don't get it. Do you think you're invincible? Because you're not. You're just..." He stops himself, taking a deep breath as if trying to control his temper while he paces around th room, unable to stay put, "You're just reckless," he continues, his voice still seething, "You didn’t think about the consequences, about what it would do to..."

What?

"Don't act like you give a shit about me," you call after him, your voice trembling. You don't know if it's the pain or the weird pull in your stomach making you feel all weird and fuzzy inside.

He stops in his tracks, his back stiffening for a moment before slowly turning to face you.

"I don't," he retorts, "But my ass is on the line too. You think Ward won't come down on me if something happens to you?"

You take a step towards him, despite the throbbing pain in your arm, not buying his bullshit speech.

"So this is all about you, then? Your precious ass and how it looks to Ward? Typical Cameron bullshit, only caring about themselves."

Rafe's eyes narrow, "You don't know what you're talking about," his voice is dangerously low. "You think this is easy for me? Keeping you safe, dealing with all this? I gotta keep everything under control."

“Here we go again," You scoff through your nose. "Control? You think dragging me back here, shooting at me, is control? It's chaos, Rafe. You're just as trapped as I am, and you can't stand it."

His face twists showcasing his wrath, and he takes a step towards you, closing the distance.

"You don’t understand the pressure I'm under. The expectations, the demands. I didn’t ask for any of this."

"And neither did I," you shoot back, a strict finger aimed at his face in warning, “So shut the fuck up.”

He takes another step, his face inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged.

"You have no idea what you're talking about. You think this is just about me? It's about keeping everything from falling apart. It's about—"

Before he can finish, you grab the front of his shirt, pulling him even closer, your faces almost touching.

“I don’t care about your excuses, Rafe. I don’t care about your pressures or your fucking control. All I know is I’m not staying here.”

The look he gives you was filled with enough ire to have a hint of satisfaction sparking in your chest, the hollow beneath his dark brows deepening as his pretty features contorted.

His breath comes in short, sharp bursts, his hands come up, gripping your waist, not gently but not roughly either, as if he can’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.

"You're impossible," he hisses, like the snake he is.

"And you’re a coward.”

The next moment happens without much thinking, without any thinking, really.

Rafe’s grip tightens, before you can process what is happening, his lips crash into yours with a ferocity that you never saw coming.

His mouth is demanding, punishing, and you, like an idiot, kiss him back, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even if you want to push him away.

The kiss is all rough, there's only room for anger and frustration after all you been through, a collision of two souls damaged beyond repair to recognize the depths of their own pain.

You should know better.

And yet, beneath the layers of animosity and resentment, there is a stupid spark—as if you are both too messed up to understand how much you need each other. Each fingertip of his leaves an imprint wherever he touches, and some sick twisted part of you finds that attractive. It’s like he’s fighting to contain this fury within him, to keep it from overwhelming you both, but you want it.

If someone told you you’d be kissing Rafe fucking Cameron of all people just a month ago, you’d think they were crazy. And yet…

All you want are his hands on your body, his warm skin against your own.

Oh his hands.

They roam over your lower back, over your waist again. You breathe out a sigh of relief, taking the collar of his shirt in both your hands as you pull him closer, relishing in his warmth. He smells like whiskey and cigarettes, and while you grew up hating that particular combination, it worked on him.

He pulls away slowly, your lips the last to part, and blinks down at you. You watch him lick his bottom lip, swollen, wet with both of your spits, taking in the sight of you.

“’You’re bleeding—“

“Shut the fuck up.”

His blue eyes flare with renewed anger, turning almost black. He doesn’t answer verbally; instead, he takes a half step back before swooping you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly.

With a swift motion, Rafe carries you to the dining table, and you barely have time to register the cool wood against your back before he’s on you again, his body pressing down on yours with a desperation that matches your own.

There’s no tenderness there, don't be fooled.

He pries your lips apart again, his tongue sweeping in as he kisses you deeply, his mouth moving invasively over yours. His fingers grip your jaw with a vice-like hold, angling your head the way he wants to.

A strange sensation flutters beneath your skin, and you wrap your legs around his hips, closing the distance between your bodies as he presses flush against your center.

His hands move with such intent, slipping under your shirt, his fingers tracing every curve with a delicious blend of roughness and urgency. Your hands tangle in his hair, urging him closer as your kiss deepens, his body is so close it's making you breathless.

You tug at his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons because you just can’t wait. He lets out a deep, sexy growl that makes a shiver run down your spine. His hands are all over you, touching your skin and leaving fiery trails wherever they go.

"You're impossible," he repeats against your lips, all ragged as he leans down closer to your collarbone, to catch the scent on your skin, and he can’t tell if you are amused or annoyed from the way your cheeks round.

"And you’re an asshole,” your voice comes out breathless.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, the tip of his nose brushing against yours slightly "Drive me fucking crazy.”

"Good," you reply, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him down again. You can feel the tension in his body, you know he’s holding back on you, but you don’t want control.

You want to lose yourself in this moment, to forget everything you've been through and just feel.

Rafe seems to sense it, his hands becoming more insistent, his touch more possessive. He lifts you slightly, positioning you better on the table, his body slotting perfectly between your legs, the friction is exquisite.

"Rafe," He almost falls to his knees at the soft whimper that leaves your lips, unable to stop the jerk of his hips forward.

He responds instantly, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer as he kisses you with a fervor that leaves you dizzy. The table creakes under your combined weight, but neither of you care as your hand grabs his forearm, over the veins strained from his grip on you, your nails sinking into the skin exposed.

You break the kiss, gasping for air, your eyes locking with his. There’s a wildness there, and for the first time in your life, you like it.

You reach up, tracing his jaw with your fingers, feeling the grown out stubble beneath your touch as his mouth leaves a trail of fire in its wake on your neck. A noise of pleasure slips from your mouth as he palms at your tits, thumb grazing across your nipple as his teeth graze your collarbone, kissing down, littering your skin bite marks.

"I hate you," you pant, pouring as much venom into your words as possible. Your thighs tighten around his hips, feeling every inch of his cock against you.

“Your body doesn’t,” He replies, each syllable slowly drawn from his throat.

“Fucking asshole.”

“Fucking brat.”

You open your mouth to hiss something at him, to fight back, show him that you are the one in charge, but the intention dies the moment Rafe cups you through your shorts.

A pathetic excuse of shorts due to the heat.

Heat blooms in your stomach, melting into a torrent want that floods your skin and leaves you breathless. His determined blue eyes pierce into yours, watching as he presses the heel of his palm against the apex of your thighs, his middle finger tracing your pussy and applying light pressure to the sensitive dip between your legs.

“Cat got your tongue, pretty?” He asks, lips brushing over your mouth, loose bangs brushing against your brow. “Thought you had more fire in you.”

He moves your shorts and underwear out of the way and your lips part on a sharp inhale as you feel him touch you for the first time.

You can't think properly while he's doing this, it's been too long and your brain feels to mushy to form a proper sentence.

“Yeah, thought so.”

"God, I h-hate you," you whisper again, the words almost a prayer, a futile attempt to cling to the anger that has fueled you for so long.

But even as you say it, you know it’s was a lie. Partly. You hate how much you need him right now, how you crave his touch, his dominance.

Perhaps you’ve been locked away from society for too long, that’s gotta be the only plausible reason for you to let Rafe Cameron touch you.

He smirks, "No, you don’t.”

You do. At least you used to, everything is confusing now.

He teases you, his touch light, drawing out your frustration, your need. "Tell me what you want," he murmurs against your lips.

You bite back a whimper, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg. But the need is so overwhelming, you nearly give in.

“Fuck you," you spit out.

He chuckles, fingers finally slipping inside you, curling and stroking in a way that makes your hips buck against his hand. Oh, he was going to ruin you.

"That's right," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "Let me hear you."

A broken moan escapes your lips, and you arch into his touch, your body writhing with need. His fingers move easily with how wet you are, finding all the right spots, making you drip all over his hand.

You hate that he's so good.

"Rafe," you finally gasp, the words ripped from your throat by the pleasure. "P-Please, I need you."

You'd be embarrassed later.

His smirk widens as he pulls his fingers away, making you whimper in frustration. He doesn’t make you wait long, though. With swift, practiced movements, he frees himself from his pants, the sight of him hard and ready making your mouth water.

Without a word, he positions himself between your legs, the head of his pretty cock teasing your entrance.

"You ready?"

You nod, your eyes locking with his, "Please.”

He doesn’t need any further encouragement.

With a single, powerful thrust, he buries himself inside yo, not giving you any time to second guess it. The sensation overwhelming, your back arches involuntarily, your lips parting as fills you completely in a way you have never imagined.

He rolls his hips firmly against yours, and your head tips back as his cock rubs perfectly against you. You don't think you ever felt so full.

He doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath, giving you another firm roll of his hips, testing you out, figuring out his rhythm.

His movements are hard and relentless, pounding into you, knocking the breath from your lungs with each forceful thrust, barely giving you time to adjust. Not that you want slow.

You cling to him, your nails digging into his muscular back, your body moving in perfect rhythm with his. The table creaks and groans beneath you, but you don’t care.

All that matters is the man above you, his hands grip your hips, pulling you closer, deeper, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. You can feel him losing control, his need matching your own. Maybe it's been too long for him too.

Your eyes squeeze shut, blocking him out so you can pretend you weren't stupid enough to let the man that ruined your life fuck the living hell out of you.

"Eyes on me,” he growls, his voice all commanding. "Lemme see you.”

Even though you really want to shut him out, you just can’t fight the crazy pull he has over you. His voice is like a force of nature, making you open your eyes against your better judgment.

Seeing him above you, his face twisting with need and determination sends chills down your spine. His eyes are locked onto yours, filled with this intensity you never seen before and that leaves you breathless. No one had ever looked at you like that during sex.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with approval. It makes you want to run for the hills, "Fuck—Oh, fuck. Y-You're sucking me in so nicely, huh?"

With each thrust, he drives you closer to your orgasm, your body responding to him in ways you can’t hold back. He leaves you gasping, moaning, begging for more. You don't even know what you're doing anymore but his name keeps slipping from your lips in a broken, desperate plea, and he answers with his movements becoming more frenzied.

"Fuck," His is strained. "...Feels so fucking good."

You can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words. Your entire world has narrowed to the feel of him inside you, to the overwhelming pleasure that consumes you.

"Rafe," you whimper, the sound barely more than a breath. "I'm—I can't..."

He understands.

His pace quickens even more, his thrusts becoming almost brutal in their intensity. "Come for me," he commands his voice a whisper against your earlobe that sends shivers down your spine. "Let go."

His words push you over the edge, and you come with a scream, your body convulsing around him, squeezing him for all he's worth.

It's nothing you ever felt before, an explosion of pleasure that makes you lose it. So this was what great sex felt like?

Rafe follows you as you milk him for all he's worth, crashing through him with a force that leaves him shaking on top of you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged against your skin as he rides out his orgasm, groaning as his movements slow down, until he finally stills, still buried deep inside you.

For a moment, everything is still, but then he lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, there is something almost tender about him.

“Y-You—“ He sighs, pausing, “Don’t pull that shit again. I’ll get you out, okay?

“Rafe...“

Before you can process his words, before you can question or argue, his lips are on yours again. Differently this time. Gentle.

Devastating, almost.

“You’re still bleeding Maybank.”

Right.

He fucked you good enough to forget about the pain.

The moment of vulnerability between you evaporates, leaving you with the realization of your situation.

You just fucked Rafe Cameron. On a table. After being shot.

You push at his chest, forcing him to back off slightly, and hiss through clenched teeth when he twitches inside you.

“Then do something about it."

He just stands there, staring at you as if he has never seen you before, as if he’s truly seeing you for the first time despite having known you since you were seven, despite all the moments marked by violence and terror.

You hate every second of it because your heart is practically leaping out of your chest.

No one has ever looked at you like that before.

Then he simply shakes his head, coming closer again, resting his forehead against yours, hands back on your thighs, fingers pressing as if he needs to ensure that you are real, that everything’s real.

“We’re getting out.”

You want to believe in him more than anything. In that moment, it’s the only thing that matters. Even if it sounds stupid. You need it, at least for now.

“Yeah?"

“Yeah, pretty Maybank. You and me."

“Okay.”

#rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x pogue!reader #rafe cameron x maybank!reader #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe x female!mc #rafe x you #rafe x y/n #rafe smut #rafe fic #request #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron and y/n #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fanfiction

2K notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 5 months ago

Text

A Democratic media strategy to save journalism and the nation

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/12/the-view-from-somewhere/#abolish-rogan

As unbearably cringe as the hunt for a "leftist Joe Rogan" is, it is (to use a shopworn phrase), "directionally correct." Democrats suck at getting their message out, and that exacts a high electoral cost.

The right has an extremely well-funded media ecosystem of high-paid bullshitters backed by algorithm-gaming SEO dickheads. This system isn't necessarily supposed to turn a profit or even break even: the point of Prageru isn't to score ad revenue, it's to ensure that anyone who googles "what the fuck causes inflation" gets 25 minutes of relatable, upbeat, cheerfully sociopathic Austrian economics jammed into their eyeballs. Far right news isn't a for-profit concern, it's a loss-leader for oligarch-friendly policies. It's a steal: a million bucks' worth of news buys America's ultra-rich a billion dollars' worth of tax-cuts and the right to maim their workers and poison their customers for profit.

Meanwhile, the Democrats have historically relied on the "traditional media" to carry their messages, on the ground that reality has a well-known leftist bias, so any news outlet that hews to "journalistic ethics" will publish the truth, and the truth will weigh in favor of Democratic positions: trans people are humans, racism is real, abortion isn't murder, housing is a market failure, the planet is on fire, etc, etc, etc.

This is a stupid policy, and it has failed. The "respectable" news media hews to a self-imposed code of "balance" and "neutrality" that is easily gamed: "some people say that Hatians don't eat pet dogs, some people do, let's report both sides!" This is called "the view from nowhere" and it gets Democrats precisely nowhere:

http://archive.pressthink.org/2008/03/14/pincus_neutrality.html

Balance and neutrality are bullshit, an excuse that has been so thoroughly weaponized by billionaires and their lickspittles that anyone who takes it seriously demonstrates comprehensively that they, themselves, are deeply unserious:

https://www.techdirt.com/2024/12/10/la-times-billionaire-owner-hilariously-thinks-he-can-solve-media-bias-with-ai/

Press neutrality – the view from nowhere – isn't some eternal verity. In terms of the history of the press, it's an idea that's about ten seconds old. The glory days of the news were dominated by papers with names like The Smallville Democrat and The Ruling Class Republican. Most of the world boggles at the idea that a news outlet wouldn't declare its political posture. Britons know that the Telegraph is the Torygraph; that the Guardian is in the tank for Labour (and specifically, committed to enabling Blairite/Starmerite purges of the left); the Mirror is a leftist tabloid; and the Mail is so far right that its editorial board considers Attila the Hun "woke."

Writing for The American Prospect – an excellent leftist news outlet – Ryan Cooper proposes a solution to the Democratic media gap that's way better than the hunt for the elusive "leftist Joe Rogan": sponsoring explicitly Democrat news outlets:

https://prospect.org/politics/2024-12-12-democrats-lost-propaganda-war/

The country is a bleak landscape of news deserts where voters literally didn't hear about what Trump was saying he would do, and, if they heard about it, they didn't hear from anyone who could explain what it meant. The average normie voter doesn't know what a "tariff" is, and chances are they think it's a tax that other countries inexplicably pay for the privilege of selling very cheap things to Americans.

Ironically, this news desert is also a crowded field of hungry, unemployed, talented journalists. What if Dems funded free newsgathering and publication in news deserts that told the truth? What if these news outlets, by dint of being an explicitly partisan, party-subsidized project, refused to adopt all the anti-reader practices of other websites, like disgusting surveillance, intrusive advertising, AI slop, email-soliciting pop-ups, and all the other crap that makes the news worse and worse every day?

Cooper recounts how this was actually tried on a small scale, to modest good effect, when the Center for American Progress subsidized Thinkprogress, an explicitly leftist news outlet. This was going great until 2019, when corporate Dems and their megadonors killed it because Thinkprogress had the temerity to report on their corrupt dealings:

https://www.thedailybeast.com/thinkprogress-a-top-progressive-news-site-is-shutting-down/

And, Cooper points out, this isn't what happens with far-right subsidy news. Right wing influencers, personalities and writers can stray pretty far from the party line without getting shut down.

I love the idea of a disenshittified, explicitly political leftist Democratic news media. Imagine a newsroom whose purpose is to get its message repeated as widely as possible. It wouldn't have a paywall – it would be Creative Commons Attribution-only, allowing for commercial republication by anyone who wants to reprint it, so long as they link back to it. It wouldn't wring its hands over AI ingestion or whether a slop site that rewrote its articles got to the top of Google News. That's fine! If the point is to get people to understand your point of view – and not to attract clicks or eyeballs – other people repackaging your content and finding ways to spread it is a feature, not a bug.

Back in the Napster Wars, entertainment industry shills – like Hillary Rosen, who oversaw a campaign to sue tens of thousands of children before becoming a major Democratic Party power-broker – used to tell us that "you can't compete with free." That's not entirely true, but it's not entirely false, either. If your news is a loss-leader for a democratic society that addresses human flourishing and a habitable planet, then you can make that news free-as-in-speech and free-as-in-beer, and avoid all the suckitude that makes reading "real" news so fucking garbage.

For the past five years, I've been publishing a newsletter – this thing you're reading now – that has no analytics, ads, tracking, pop-ups, or other trash. As a writer, it's profoundly satisfying and liberating, because all I have to care about is whether people engage with my ideas. I literally have no idea how many people read this, but I know everything people say about it.

That's how the news worked back in the good old days that everyone says we need to return to. Writers and editors measured the success of a story based on how the public reacted to it, not based on clicks or metrics that told you how far someone scrolled before they gave up on it. The supposed benefits of "data-driven" editorial policy have not materialized – the "data-driven" part is the search for an equilibrium between how surveillant and obnoxious a website can be and your decision to stop reading it forever.

Outlets like Propublica have done well by adopting much of this program, albeit without any explicit leftist agenda (the fact that they seem leftist reflects nothing more than their commitment to reporting the truth, e.g., Clarence Thomas is a lavishly corrupt puppet of billionaires who've showered him with riches).

The fact that they've been as successful as they are on a national beat – and partnering with the scant few regional papers to do some local coverage – just proves the point. The Democratic Party doesn't need its own Joe Rogan – they need a nationwide network of local outlets, sponsored by the party, committed to never enshittifying, bringing relevant, timely news to a nation in desperate need of it.

#pluralistic #media theory #the news #democrats #democrats in disarray #uspoli #journalism #the view from nowhere #news deserts

582 notes · View notes

issybee06 · 14 days ago

Text

Baby of mine- trust the process final part

Ugh! This terrible terrible man that I love and hate.

Why couldn't you become a cool Dilf like Nolan😔

Soooo I present you with Dilf Thragg the hottest

I saw a post where the artist(I cant remember who but I absolutely loved their art) drew Thragg with Ursaal and Onaan as babies and he had his bigggg hands holding the tiny purple babies AGAHAGSSH AT HS

I think he's hot okay?

Can be read as a Part 3 to trust the process or be read on its own! This is longggggggg, like you might hate me because of his long it is, cause mama is not doing a part 4 sorry kids

Veryyyyyyyy ooc, like I might have created a completely different person.

I give you regretful breeding kink himbo, wife you wants to jump his bones now that she actually likes him, and three pet sperms

🔞

……………….……………….……………….……………….…………

“AH-AH-AH!~”

It was the first weekend without your kids in MONTHS and the second your parents took them off your hands the two of you hadn't left the bedroom.

He had you ass up face down now, moaning and crying into the torn pillows as feathers knit into your tangled hair. He's got one large hand on your hip, the other splintering your headboard, fucking you from behind so well you might pass out from pleasure.

“Oh-fuck-Thragg! Baby pleaseeeee!”

He groans above you, hiking you hips up higher to split you open. The new angle sent you spiraling, eyes rolled back as he leans down to press his sweaty body onto your bite-marked and hickey-painted back. He kisses your shoulder, “come on…you got one more in you, yeah? One more for your Regent?”

He didn't mean orgasms, he pulled 6 from you already from the multiple positions he had put you in. He wanted another baby, you knew that, he has been asking for a while.

With two boys Thragg was very pleased, but one look at Kregg and his newest daughter sent your husband into a girl-dad frenzy.

“Please my life…? Would you give me what I desire-ah…can you do this for me one last time?”

Oh fuck when he called you that? His life? His reason for existing?

You moan, clenching around him as you cum again, nodding and crying, “YES! FUCK THRAGG PLEASE!”

The screaming of an infant awoke the great and powerful Grand Regent, and he groaned into the pillows. He looks over at your sleeping face, a new head wound from you last battle wrapped tightly by him. He was going to let you sleep, you earned it.

He sat up with a sigh, reaching on the floor to pull his boxers on and up before moving to the crib. Big tearfilled eyes looked up at him, and his crankiness vanished.

“Hello starlight…” he whispered, picking the infant up and holding her closely to his chest. She was so little, fitting into the palm of his hand easily as he hushed her softly. He moves back to the bed, mindful of you and the baby girl on his chest.

“Mmm, hey.” you mumbled, and he looks over at you.

“You should be resting, my life,” he whispers softly, pointer finger stroking the babes back as she hiccups and snores softly.

“Can't leave you up alone…” he smiles at you, his free hand brushing a stand of your mused hair from your face. You're beautiful to him, absolutely gorgeous and You had give him everything he could have ever asked for. A beautiful wife, wonderful boys and a sweet little daughter, a new chance at life. He owed you his existence for that.

“You should sleep, I've got her…”

You huffed, cuddling into his side as you pass out, his two favorite girls with him.

“Why doesn't she have hair?” your youngest boy asked, eyes narrowed at the baby in the carrier. Lips pursed, brows furrowed, he looked like his father.

All your children did.

It wasn't fair, his stupid Viltrumite genes trumped yours. When your first boy was born, you were actually mad at Thragg because the baby you carried for 9 months and labored for 5 hours for looked like the guy who knocked you up.

“I hate you.”

“You keep telling yourself that, my life.”

Now, with the third and hopefully last child looking like him too, you lost hope for a “mini me”.

“She has hair, its just wispy.” Thragg spoke, looking way too good in a apron as he packed two lunches for school.

“I had more hair.”

You pinch his ear, “be nice.”

He whines, swatting you away, “I'm just asking a question!”

“Mom, do you know where my homework is?! I left it on the kitchen table and now its gone!” your oldest cried, frantically looking around the house for his notebook.

Thragg sighs, when he first pursued you and constantly asked for kids, he didn't expect the work he'd have to do. He thought you'd take care of it, stupid right? But he literally had no record and couldn't work Inna human setting so he became your reallllll sexy trophy husband.

You work, he keeps house.

Speaking of work…

“Oh shittttt-su. Shih tzu. Like the dog.” Thragg glared at you, and your two boys looked bored. You winced, answering Cecils call.

“Quick, whats the thing that goes around an angels head?”

“Uhhh…”

“Halo! Hey Cecil whats up?…uhuh…right now?”

You sigh, “duty calls…”

That's how Thragg ended up in the tiny car(tiny for him) with his three pet sperms he begged for. The boys were fighting, pushing and shoving and giving Thragg a headache. He loved his kids, yes, but he'd also love for them to be quiet.

“Dad?! When are we allowed to train?”

Thraggs eyebrows raised in slight surprise at the kids question, he knew it would come up sooner or later, but he didn't expect it so soon. He took a moment to consider how to answer the boys.

"Because times are different now then when I was born... your mother and I... we didn't think it was necessary to train you two from birth. You two don't have to be soldier…" He said in a cautious tone, the true reason he didn't want his kids trained is because he didn't want them to have to face the same childhood he did. Bred to be a weapon, he never expected love to ever be in his cards.

Not until he found you.

“Mom told you no…didn’t she?” your oldest spoke with a bored tone.

Thragg's gaze averted a bit as he heard what the kid said, his eyebrow raised ever so slightly, he let out a small sigh.

"She did." He said in a slightly low tone, confirming what the kid said. It was true, you had strongly opposed the idea of the kid being trained from birth to be a warrior. At the time, Thragg was angry, but now he couldn't agree more.

“Moms the worse…I could have been cool.”

“Me too!”

Thraggs eye twitched slightly at hearing the kids say that, he let out a small but gruff huff

"You are cool kids, you got my genes in you after all."

He said in a bit of a gruff tone, he knew the boys didn't mean it as an insult, but he still didn't like it when his children spoke ill of their mother. He loved his fiery human wife.

The car stopped in front of the elementary school, and oldest boy scoffed, getting out of the car and slamming the door.

The youngest shrugged and waved with a smile, running off to his friends.

Thragg watched the boys get out of the car, he let out a small sigh as he saw the kids expressions.

"Have a... good day at school boys."

He sighed, looking in the back seat at his little princess and smiled sadly, “ hey baby girl…”

She blows raspberries, looking out the window. A small smile forms on Thraggs face as he looks down at the baby girl, watching as she blows raspberries out the window.

"At least you are pleasant..."

He leaned his chin on his hand, lost in thought for a moment, still thinking about his sons complaints and attitude. The kids attitude was starting to wear on him.

Suddenly, his phone rang, breaking him out of his thoughts. He looked down at it, seeing it was a call from you.

“Hey baby.”

Thragg can't help but have a small smile form on his face, hearing your voice.

"Hey." He says in a slightly gruff tone of voice, he doesn't want to admit to himself how much he missed your voice already.

“You miss me?” you giggled through the phone.

A small gruff scoff leaves his lips, as he hears you ask that question.

"You've only been gone for a few hours, love."

He says in a flat, yet slightly amused tone. He doesn't want to admit how much he missed you, even though it had barely been any time at all.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He can't help but roll his eyes, knowing damn well that he missed you.

"...maybe a little"

He said with a grumble, he knew you were grinning from hearing his reluctant admittance to missing you already. He played with the baby, large finger waving and entertaining her as she tried to gum on it.

“How were my little crotch goblins?” you snickered and he rolls his eyes again as he hears your giggling, he can't help but let out a small huff of amusement.

"They're fine. The boys are currently giving me a headache with their complaining and whining about school. And the girl is blowing raspberries at me."

“They have names Thragg.” you giggled. He lets out another small huff as he hears you say that, he can practically hear the smirk in your voice.

"Yes, I know they have names. I just find it more entertaining to refer to them as 'boy' and 'girl'."

He said with a smirk, leaning back in the drivers seat, he couldn't help but have a small amused look on his face as he talked to you like this. He enjoyed the way you two would bounce off each other, it made things entertaining.

“Oh how lovely…some children get “baby” or “cupcake” or “champ” but my children get called their genders.”

He lets out a small chuckle, enjoying this little banter he's having with you on the phone.

"Hey, I'm not good at cutesy names, you know that. Boy and girl are good enough for me."He says with a smirk, unable to keep the small amused look off his face as he spoke you on the phone.

“Okay so ill call you alien.”

He barks a laugh, "Fine. Then I shall continue calling you human."

He said with a smirk, the word "human" left a bitter taste in his mouth, not having used that word to call you since day 1, but at the moment he is finding teasing you too much fun to care.

You burst into giggles, sighing, “okay...hey, I'm gonna meet you and the baby girl at our favorite coffee shop, kay alien?”

"Alright, human. I'll meet you there.” He says with a smirk, the thought of seeing you again makes him feel a mix of excitement and anticipation, he couldn't wait to see you.

You were waiting for them when Thragg walked in, his 6’10 ass having to duck under the door frame. You grin, taking the baby from his arms, holding her and smiling, “ohhh my baby.”

He huffed, slightly ticked off and in a brand new shirt. Tag still on it.

You raised a brow.

"Yes. Your baby. Not mine. Don't forget that." He said with a slight hint of frustration in his voice. He leaned against the wall, watching you coo over the baby.

“She spit up on you didn't she?”

"Yes, she did. All over my shirt."

A small look of displeasure briefly flashing across his face as he remembered the incident, but quickly replaced by an expression of amusement as he looked at you, holding the baby girl.

“Awww, did you spit up on daddys shirt? Did your little tum tum hurt?” you coo, sitting in the booth. Thraggs eyebrow twitched at hearing you say that, he can't help but feel a mix of annoyance and amusement at the way you were cooing at the baby. He sat down across from you in the booth, and let out a small sigh.

"Yes, she did spit up on my shirt. But her little 'tummy' didn't hurt. She's fine."

He said, a hint of irritation in his voice, he was tired from dealing with the kids all morning.

You smirk, “Hey, if I remember correctly someone told me the first time we ever spoke that he wanted an ARMY of babies.”

Thragg's eyes widened slightly as he heard you bring up that memory he had almost forgotten about. He leaned back in the booth, a look of mild irritation, as he remember what he had said so long ago.

"I... I was being facetious. I didn't mean an actual army."

He said with a small huff, his irritation replaced with slight embarrassment.

“You were actually very persistent.”

He glared at you, and you grinned at him. Still a black cat…

“I thought it was cute, In a weird breeding kink gone extreme kinda way.”

Thragg's expression shifted to one of flustered annoyance as he heard that. He let out another small sigh and rubbed his face with his hand, slightly embarrassed by your comment.

"It... It wasn't a 'breeding kink'."

“…you knocked me up first try.” not the first time you two had sex, first time going raw.

Thragg's expression went completely stoic, as he realized you were right.

He averted his gaze for a moment, his embarrassment growing as he was forced to realize that he had, in a way, fulfilled his request for an "army of babies", by getting you pregnant so quickly.

You giggled, taking a sip of tea.

He lets out a small huff, as he sees you start to snicker and take a sip of tea. His expression remains stoic, as he tries to think of a retort to your amusement. But he can't help but feel a bit embarrassed at the situation.

He can't find any words to say, and the only sound he makes is a small grumble under his breath. He can't help but grimace a bit as he sees his daughter gum on the muffin and drool all over it.

He was never one for messes or anything wet and sticky unless it was your puss-

“You like them.”

You say, not looking up from the menu.

He gives another small sigh as he listens to you. He knew you were right. Despite his best efforts to ignore the messy little baby, he couldn't deny that he did have a soft spot for her. He let out a small huff and said, in a gruff tone.

"I suppose I do.." He said, reluctantly admitting that he had grown fond of all his babies, despite how annoying they might be sometimes.

“No matter how gross or annoying they are, remember, they are more you then me.” you smirk.

He can't help but chuckle a bit at your observation. "Yes, they are more me than you. And I suppose that means they're stuck with my annoying and gross habits as well."

“You always were…messy.” you flirt, smirking.

His eyes narrow a bit as he hears you flirt with him. He can feel a slight smirk forming on his face, despite himself

"I am not messy."

“When you eat me ou-”

"Don't. Finish that sentence." He says, his voice taking on a warning tone. He knew where you were going with your sentence, and he couldn't let you finish it in public.

You giggle, “What? We literally have a baby with us, that's like a big banner saying “we fuck!””

He let out a small groan as he heard you say that, knowing it was true.

"Yes. We have a baby. And yes, that does imply certain... activities." He said, his voice growing a little huskier as he looked at you, the reminder of your very passionate physical relationship making him want you even more.

“I can drop her off at my moms…”

“Yes…do that. Check please!”

You two weren't even out of the hallway of your apartment building, lips locked together like horny teens as you both stumbled to the door of your home. his point finger in your pants, rubbing experienced small and tight circles into your clit and he keeps his front to your back.

You moan, fumbling with your keys.

“My life…i will rip the door off its hinges-” “got it!”

You both stumbled in, your back hitting the counter before he picks you up with little effort and places you on it. His hands are under your shirt, palming your breast as you mewl. You were still so sensitive sense the birth of your daughter, so needy for your husband.

“Thragg, get this offensive shit off me!”

“You mean your clothes?-”

“Yes!”

He chuckled, pulling your shirt off, bra, and then your pants. He grinned at you, admiring ever scar, mole, and stretch Mark.

“Do you understand how much you've ruined me?”

You giggle, biting your lip as you watch him strip. He was soooooo delish, so hot and sexy and everyone was always so envious because you bagged this hot ass man. Granted, you hated him at first, but now you don't so who cares? Not you, not when he's stripped down to his boxers and kneeling before you and licking and kissing your thighs…

Yeah, you might love him.

@razoredteeth @thel0v3hashira143 @qxuanii

#invincible #invincible show #invincible x reader #grand regent thragg #invincible thragg #thragg #thragg x reader

261 notes · View notes