#rex splode reader

"'S from my dad," Mark replies lazily, then looks at his band mate with utmost pity. "And, we have Dex on bass, you idiot."

"Not anymore," Rex rasps, putting the blunt out in the ashtray, leaving the rest of it for later. "He got arrested."

"What?!" Mark turns with eyes wide open, halfway fixing his piercing. "When?"

Rex shrugs, putting both of his arms under his head, bloodshot eyes glued to the ceiling. "Like, a week ago."

"And you're telling me now?"

"You were busy with whatever the shit you do with your dad. When exactly was I supposed to tell you?"

Mark groans and hides his face in his palms, shaking his head slowly with disbelief. "What'd he do this time?"

"They caught him dealing on the college campus."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Mark gets up, raising his arms and dropping them with pure disbelief. "We have a gig, in like… two weeks!"

"Don't sweat your balls off. I already got it figured."

"You?" Mark laughs cruelly, pointing at the redhead. "Figured shit out? Then we're doomed."

Rex rolls his eyes and sighs, then props himself up on his elbows, looking at the ink-haired guy with complete nonchalance.

"Listen, asshole," he points a finger back at Mark, squinting his eyes with a lazy smirk, "I posted on Instagram and on some Facebook groups that we're having an audition. Tomorrow."

Mark's shoulders drop even lower, and for a moment, he just stares at his band mate.

"Rex, you—"

"Yeah, I know." Rex grins and flops back on the pillow, "I'm a fucking genius. You can thank me later."

🎸 🎶 🥁 🎤

Mark gets up midway through the riff, raising his hands, signaling the guy to stop playing. The bassist straightens up, like he already knows what is coming his way.

"Alright, thanks a lot. We'll be in touch, yeah?" Mark flashes him a shallow, fake smile.

"Whatever, dude." The bass player shrugs and doesn't even look at them when he leaves.

"Bye?" Rex scoffs when the door closes. "Dickhead."

The room drowns in heavy silence as Mark plops down on the sofa next to Rex who's now busy with scrolling through his phone, seemingly no care in the world.

"This was, what… 7th guy in a row who could barely hit any accords properly?" Mark whines, slowly slouching down the couch. "I'm so tired, and so fucking hungry… How many people we have left?"

"Just one," Rex mumbles, not looking up from the screen. "A chick."

"Great. Just great."

"She's hot, dude."

"She can be Zoë Kravitz for all I care. I need a good fucking bassist."

Just when Rex opens his mouth to respond, a few quick, rhythmic knocks makes the two guys turn their heads to the door. When they don't answer, the knocking becomes persistent, and even more rhythmic.

"Come in!" Rex shouts and the door opens soon after.

When you step in, the sharp smell of weed hits your nose, and then your eyes set on two men sitting and staring at you like you're their last hope.

The redhead, Rex, does a quick once over with a playful glimmer in his dark green eyes. You mirror his action, focusing mostly on all of his piercings—the lip ring, the industrial and the plugs in both ears. On the right side of his neck, peeking from above the hemline of his Melvins t-shirt, you see what must be some sort of a tribal tattoo.

Whereas the guy with the mohawk, Mark, lifts up a corner of his mouth like he knows something you don't. He also has a collection of body mods, starting with the black studs in his eyebrow, one ear pierced top to bottom and you could swear you saw a glimpse of metal in his mouth, most likely a tongue piercing.

"Took you guys long enough," you mutter with a smirk as you close the door with your foot and come up to them to introduce yourself.

Mark and Rex get up with the speed of light, bumping shoulders, both of them extending their hands toward you at the same moment. You glance between their palms and their faces, internally laughing at this instant fight for dominance, and end up criss-crossing your arms to greet them both at the same time.

That earns you a grin from both of them, genuine ones. It's all going as you expected.

"Fancy thing you got there," Mark points to your Gibson struck at your back. You grab the neck and twist it around your torso to the front in one swift motion.

"Yeah, she's my baby. I've been saving for her for years." You mutter, sliding you hand slow along the curve of the guitar's body.

When you look up, he's watching you, somewhat expectantly. You hesitate for a second, but decide to take the strap off and hand the guitar to Mark. Who, to your satisfaction, takes it with the utmost care. He strokes a few chords, at which he whistles low and nods his head in approval.

It shouldn't have, but it does make your belly tie into a knot low, lower than you'd like.

"Okay, you stringers, I kinda feel left out." Rex chimes in, grabbing the guitar harshly from Mark, which makes you internally flinch.

"Not my problem, stick swinger." Mark growls, grabbing the instrument's neck over Rex's hand. This time you actually flinch, barely swallowing down a whimper. These fucking assholes are going to rip your guitar before you even get a chance to play for them.

But they both must have noticed the micro expression on your face, because they hand you the instrument back.

"Show us what you got."

"Then you both better sit down," you grin at them, ignoring the spark that ran from your fingertips to the top of your head when your hand touched theirs briefly.

"Oh, let me guess," Rex scoffs, plopping down on the sofa with a cocky smirk. "Anesthesia by Metallica? The Lemon Song by Led Zeppelin?"

You roll your eyes, scoffing back at him with an equally sharp smile.

"Actually, asshole—"

"I like her already," Mark mock-whispers, nudging Rex with his elbow.

"—assholes," you fake-cough, and Rex stifles a laugh while Mark crosses his arms like an upset child. "I have your song ready. The best one you've got, in my opinion."

The way both of their faces falter, then come back up with an even wider grin, makes you snort quietly, but triumphantly. You have these pricks in the palm of your hand.

"Which one?" They both ask at the same time, and you swallow down a cackle.

"Fecal Baptism, of course."

"Okay, damn." Rex spreads his arms along the line of the sofa's backrest, his voice nothing short of impressed.

"You better not butcher that one, it's my baby." Mark squints his eyes, smile half playful, half terrifying. You nod quickly and tune your strings, your hands suddenly trembling.

The last thing you want is to get on the nerve of this freak, you've seen his reaction at the shows when people booed them for even uttering the title of the track. Whatever happened to punk rock?

"Whenever you're ready, sweetheart." Mark waves a hand at you, almost dismissive and the nerves leave your body in an instant. Instead, it's replaced by the anger and need to deliver. You plug in your bass, take a wider stance, deep breath in and let the music flow through your fingertips.

🎸 🎶 🥁 🎤

"Thank you, you fucking bastards!" Mark rasps into the microphone, his voice tired and low after two hours of singing and yelling in a sweaty, smelly basement bar. "You were bat shit crazy!"

The audience is still chanting and jumping, some people are still in a mosh pit, and as usual, two or three folks are already in a fist fight. You feel drunk and dizzy in the best way possible, adrenaline pumping through your veins—not only have you given a god damn great gig, you've also became a bass player for the fucking Sex Splodes.

Mark beckons for you and Rex to come to the front of the stage, but you're frozen, still in disbelief, mouth hurting from smiling and screaming. Rex circles his drum set and grabs you by the waist, bringing you between him and Mark who also curls his arm around your torso, and all three of you bow, sweat trickling down your foreheads and necks.

🎸 🎶 🥁 🎤

How you ended up in a cheap hotel room a couple of hours later is a blur. Maybe it's the high from the concert, or maybe it's the lines of coke mixed with countless joints washed down with shots of the worst tequila you've ever had. Probably all of the above.

Now, completely zonked out, you lay flat on the king size bed in absolute bliss while Mark and Rex bicker about something, you're not sure what, because you're not really listening. The bedding's a bit scratchy, but you've had worse before. And it's surprisingly roomy—it's the best deal you three could get that would fit you all for the night.

"Hello?" Rex shouts over the music blasting from the speakers, and startles you back to the grimy room, your attention shifting from the broken ceiling fan to the redhead. "Earth to the metronome?"

You giggle, which then turns into a full blown laughing fit. "What did you call me?"

Mark turns the volume down a little, just enough so y'all could hear each other without screaming.

"Well you didn't react to your own name, for like," Rex pauses, mock-pondering, "ten minutes."

"What do you want?" You say weakly, wiping a tear away, still catching your breath.

You hear Rex open his mouth, but Mark cuts in, the slightest tremor in his voice making you quiet down completely. "Dude, forget it. She's so high she doesn't even know she's here."

"What?" Is the only thing you can say, suddenly very much interested in their conversation.

"Exactly my point," Mark replies more so to Rex, than to you.

"Forget what?" You press on, pulling yourself up on your elbows. When you glance at the guys, you notice that now they are shirtless, which you don't blame them—it's so hot and clammy, you also would love to shed any and every layer covering your body.

And it doesn't hurt they look fucking incredible just in their jeans.

"Ah, it's nothing," Rex waves a hand, his shoulder slumping down. Whether you want it or not, you watch the way his back muscles shift deliciously underneath his tan, olive skin.

"It's also fucking stupid," Mark adds, jabbing a finger at Rex.

You sit up properly this time, resting your back on the wall, glancing between your band mates with a knowing smirk. "Well, now I gotta know. What you two morons were talking about this whole time?"

"You really didn't hear?" Rex sighs, somewhat hopeful, but more so disappointed.

It's not like you have zero clue what they were scheming, the last two weeks you've spent with them left little to the imagination. But hearing them actually say it out loud would be priceless.

"Duh? I wouldn't ask otherwise."

"Let me tell you then," Mark wiggles his brows suggestively, "Rex here—"

Rex's hand flies up in the speed of light, clasping against Mark's mouth. "Shut your trap, you dick."

But it doesn't do much.

"Oh no, why would I?" Mark hisses with a sinister grin on his face, "it's your terrible idea, wasn't it?"

Rex narrows his eyes so hard they almost shut, his jaw squaring. One of his hands curl tight into a fist, like he's considering something before he lets it go, and only presses a finger forcefully into Mark's sternum.

"Like you don't fucking like it," the redhead spits, words coming out slowly and carefully, filled with venom and betrayal.

"Of course I fucking do," the man with the mohawk groans, swatting Rex's hand away. "But you remember how it ended last time, when we had a chick in the band. Right?"

"Oh, come on." Rex raises his arms up in disbelief, voice going an octave higher. "That was totally different! Shit hit the fan because her and Dex broke up!"

"Yeah, well." Mark lets out a short exhale through his nose, eyes glued to the floor with a mischievous smirk. Then, in a blink, his brown, warm eyes are up, glimmer of something between victory and twisted satisfaction in them. "He dumped her because you fucked her in the shower while he was sleeping—"

"While he was passed out in his own puke, you mean." Rex cuts in, crossing his arms over his bare chest, muscles popping and sharpening with every micro movement.

"You just couldn't keep your cock in your pants, could you?"

If the whole back and forth didn't get on Rex's nerves, now it does. Rex gets up with the speed of light, furrowed brows over angry eyes.

"Oh, here comes mister purity himself." The tan drummer shouts, and you can't decide whether it's funny or scary. Maybe a little bit of both. "At least I'm not fucking teenage girls by the dumpster after a gig."

Now Mark is up on his legs too, immediately after Rex's words left his mouth.

"She lied to me!" Mark raises his voice, face inches away from his band mate. "She said she was 21!"

"Dude, she barely looked 16, at best." Rex scoffs, a triumphant smirk on his handsome, asshole face.

The tension in the room is close to a snap, electricity buzzing from both men in a completely different manner than it did just a few minutes ago. You glance between their faces, foreheads almost touching, and despite yourself, your traitorous mind shows you an image of both of their lips crashing.

"Rex, I swear to fucking God—"

"Oh my God. Get over yourselves, you two." You whine with a heart in your throat, and the two man snap their heads toward you. There are much better ways to rid of these big feelings than fighting it out.

Though it would have been quite a show.

"You're complete assholes with a negative moral spine, and giant walking red flags at that. Tell me something new."

Rex open his mouth, then closes it, then does it again. Mark only blinks at you a couple of times. You wait, stretching the silence until it becomes unbearable and you're sure you have their undivided attention. They're completely still, eyes set on you, like they're awaiting a judge's verdict. That's when you know you've got them by the balls.

"Now spill, fuckers." Your smile is so sharp it could cut glass. A few beats pass in complete silence, and you can see the gears in their heads working overtime.

So to speed up the process a little, you spread your legs wider, your tiny, loosely fitting shorts revealing no panties underneath.

Rex breaks first.

"You can't just do this and then act all innocent!"

"And why's that?" You ask, while your hand plays with the hem of your tight crop top. The way their gaze is burning through each layer of your clothing, makes your nipples perk up.

Mark's lips curl up in a smile so wicked it's almost addictive. He drags his eyes slowly, very slowly, over the curves and lines of your body it leaves you tingling.

He definitely is coming with a scenario in his mind, and you want to play it out raw, no rehearsal.

Now, the shape of your buds is clearly visible through the thin material.

That's when it clicks for Rex, too.

What comes next, happens so fast you could miss it if you blinked.

Instantly, you're on your feet. Two strong, calloused, hands wrap tight around your waist, crushing your chest against both men.

You're not sure who you're actually kissing. What you do know, is how Mark's and Rex's lips feel against yours. Rough, claiming, impatient.

"You fucking tease," Rex groans, the sound vibrating over your pulse, his lip ring cold against your hot skin.

Mark is quiet, if not for the hums and pants coming from him, as he busies himself with leaving a wet trail down your chest, pierced tongue warm over your top. He finds your bud with ease, and bites it down through the material.

You want to say something, anything, but the only thing that leaves your mouth is a broken, whiny sound. And you swear you feel both of these idiots grinning.

Before you know it, Rex drops down to his knees, his lips never leaving your skin. His open mouth kisses start a heated path that goes straight between your legs.

Your pussy throbs once when the drummer's hand lands on your inner thigh, so close, yet so fucking far from where you ache the most.

The view below takes your breath away, and if the two men weren't holding you down like they're not going to ever let go, you'd fall.

Mark notices the effect Rex has on you and his competitive side kicks in. He slides his hand underneath your top and starts rolling your other bud between his fingers, not neglecting the one beneath his tongue.

The combination of Mark's piercing over your nipple, as well as Rex grabbing your shorts' waist between his teeth, leaves you whimpering. The sounds coming from your mouth are nothing short of obscene.

But then—they both stop.

Mark moves away from you and Rex slowly gets up from his knees. Both musicians are panting, their chests and necks flushed, thin gleam of sweat on their faces.

"You guys," you laugh weakly, suddenly feeling shy. Your breath is shallow, body trembling under their stares. "Why'd you stop?"

"You said it yourself," Mark replies immediately, so full of himself he looks even hotter than before, if that was even possible. "We're nothing but a bunch of red flag assholes."

"Now you know how we've been feeling these last two weeks," Rex adds, equally satisfied with their plan.

"So that's what you two were talking about?" You ask, your pride hurt and telling you to leave immediately. But the heavy, thick air of arousal keeps you glued to the floor, unable to move a muscle.

"Maybe," Rex grins, then nudges Mark with his elbow. "Is my idea still terrible and stupid?"

"Nah," Mark shifts his weight, and your gaze drops down to his jeans, his cock straining against the thick fabric. "For once, I gotta give it to you."

"Told ya," Rex snorts, then immediately fidgets, visibly uncomfortable with the pressing matter down his crotch.

"OK, so… What now?" You cross your arms over your chest, still torn between fury and the passion coursing through your veins.

"Now," Mark mirrors your pose, "you give us a show."

Your smirk sharpens. He probably thought you'd be shocked, or outraged. But it's the sort of answer you were hoping for, anyway.

"But I get something in return."

"And what would that be?" Rex brings his brow up, lazily, like he's got all the time in the world.

You could tell them to do absolutely anything, and you're certain they would do whatever you demand. Even if they're putting up a front of blazed, unbothered douches, their tented jeans say otherwise.

"I want a show, too."

The way their faces drop a smidgen, how their postures become a bit more rigid, makes you giggle internally. You snap a mental photo of them and tuck it away for later.

"So what, do we have a deal?"

The room falls quiet again, charged to the absolute max, tension so taut it might snap any second now. You shift your weight, waiting for these morons to grow a pair (or two, hopefully) and give you the green light.

"Uhm—" Mark stutters after a long while, and it's the first time you're seeing him like this. Hopefully, it's not the last.

"Yes, fuck. Yes, whatever you say." Rex cuts in, breathless. For once, being a hothead has finally paid off for him.

Your lip corner curl up, and you uncross your arms slowly, resting your palms on the swell of your hips. The change in your demeanor is almost palpable, judging by their alert eyes, and their jaws going slack.

"Sit. Both of you." You command, and they listen like the obedient dogs they are.

Taking your sweet time, your hands glide upwards on both sides of your waist, stopping shy away from your breasts. You take one, two steps in their direction, enough to show intent, but still leaving them craving more.

Your breasts feel full and heavy in your hands, your nimble fingers massaging over your alert buds in slow, circular motion. One of them gasps, you don't know which one, because your eyes are already closed, head lulled back, exposing your warm neck to your audience.

You move up, sliding off one strap of your top over your shoulder. Your fingers trace the line of your collarbone to the other strap, which falls on your arm, too. The shirt is now barely holding on your frame, only your breasts stopping it from falling down to the floor.

Without thinking about it, your hips start swaying in the rhythm of the music. Some sultry, low-bass track is playing in the background, leaving you feeling like the main character in their stories.

Taking the hem of your crop top between your fingers, you begin to lift it, inch by inch. While doing so, you lift your heavy eyelids, just a little, enough to peek at your band mates. As you expected, both Mark and Rex are wound tight, both clutching their boners through their jeans, but not moving.

Not yet, at least.

Their free hands are curled tight into fists, wrinkling the duvet cover, holding on for their dear lives.

Just when your breasts almost spill out from underneath your top, you cover them in a swift move. The redhead exhales hard through his nose, while Mark whines, but doesn't dare to say a word of discontent, scared to break the moment.

Despite yourself, you smile. A small, genuine upturn of your lips. You'd be lying if you said you didn't think about this exact moment from the day you joined the band.

All the rehearsals, heavy drinking nights, conversations flowing easily until the early morning hours led you right here, to this cheap hotel. In which the staff had no issue with three horny people sleeping together in a room with one bed.

The song has changed to something jumpier now, and you take that as a hint to move on. You twist on your heel, right on the beat, and your hands land on your butt cheeks with a smack. Mark, or Rex, sucks in a breath through his teeth.

You can't help but tease them a little more. You hook your thumbs behind your waistband and begin to pull it down, revealing the roundness of your ass.

"No touching," you mutter, looking at them over your shoulder, your shorts halfway down.

Rex, quite literally caught red handed, hides his arm behind his back and gulps down. Mark is still holding on to the edge of the bed, seconds away from combusting.

You don't know the track coming from the speakers, but you do know music theory. Your shorts hit the floor exactly when the accent drops in the song.

"Holy shit," Rex curses, voice low and strained.

Still turned with your back to the two men, you pull your shirt over your head on point with the end of the song. Then, just as if you queued it, one of your favorite hits start spilling from the speaker. You intended on ending the striptease already, but you just can't resist the rhythm flowing through your veins. Your hips sway with the bass line, your hands playing with the fat of your ass.

At the best part of the track, you drop to the floor, sitting on your heels. You trace your legs upward, starting from your ankle, through your calves, knees, up to your thighs. The gentle brush of your fingertips leave your skin prickling in its wake. When the song ends, you turn your head one last time, checking on the sorry state of your boys.

Mark is clenching his jaw so hard he might grind his teeth down, whereas Rex is biting down on his fist. You have them exactly where you want them.

"Did you like the show?" You ask, voice low and sultry, enunciating each word carefully.

Both of the musicians groan and nod furiously, and it's only now that you notice the flies of the jeans are open, hands past the waistbands.

"I'll take that as a yes," you giggle and turn, careful not to show your frontal nudity just yet, laying down on the carpet. The fabrics scratches your breasts and tummy, and you rest your chin on your hands. "Your turn."

Mark and Rex look at you, then at each other, then back at you. Mark finally speaks up, first time since telling you to strip for them.

"What do we do?" He rasps out, slowly, reluctantly taking his hand out of his boxers. Rex doesn't budge, still pumping himself slowly up and down, awaiting your requirements.

"Touch each other," you state simply, as if you were asking them to pass you the headphones.

"What?!" Rex jumps away from Mark who is staring at the swell of your ass splayed right in front of him.

"I held my end of the deal," you add, bit more stern now, but still playful.

The redhead hides his face in his hands and just sighs, loud and long. Mark still hasn't moved, clearly weighing down his options. You wait, patiently, because you know they'll cave, eventually.

"Rex, we're both bi." Mark chuckles, turning to Rex, but not reaching out to him just yet. There's a faint smirk on his face. "Or was it a lie to lure chicks in?"

"No, it wasn't." Rex mumbles from behind his palms, voice muffled. "I like dudes as much as you do."

"Am I that repulsive to you then?" Mark gasps in mock offense, and you let out a quick, quiet giggle.

"No, man." Rex risks a peep from between his fingers at his friend. "It's not that either."

"What is it then?" You press on, watching as the drummer unfolds right in front of you, ignoring the growing pressure in your lower regions.

"Do I really gotta spell it out for y'all?" The redhead groans, then shifts to face Mark, coming a little bit closer to him.

You hum in response, your eyes set on Mark's hand coming closer to Rex's thigh with every passing second.

"Spit it out," Mark tilts his head, his grin utterly venomous. "Unless you're a coward."

Rex rolls his eyes, then drops them down, suddenly finding the carpet absolutely fascinating.

"You're low-key really fucking hot. And it freaks the hell out of me."

The air in the room shifts. You can feel it getting heavier, and so does Mark. He looks at you, then at his band mate with genuine surprise on his face. But there's no disgust there, no. Only curiosity.

"Well, I was not expecting that." Mark states after a few beats, visibly flushed. The black haired man moves even closer now, his palm landing confidently over his friend's thigh. "But 'm glad. 'Cause I think you're pretty damn good-looking yourself, too."

"Yeah?" Rex glances at the point of contact, at Mark's large hand traveling up, stopping dangerously close to the strained fabric. When the redhead looks up, the singer is much closer than before. For a split second, their eyes meet, exchanging a charged, warm look.

"Yeah," Mark says, softer now, almost tender.

Your walls flutter involuntarily as they close their eyes, resting their foreheads against each other.

Then finally the drummer gains some confidence and touches Mark's abs, hesitantly at first. The moment Mark lays his hand on Rex's chest, the latter moves forward and closes the distance.

The man with the mohawk gasps at first, but then gives in immediately, threading his fingers through Rex's coppery strands, undoing whatever was left of his bun.

"Damn," you mutter, voice barely above whisper, and shift to sit up. You pull your legs closer to your body, not caring about covering yourself anymore. It's not like they are going to look at you now, anyway.

Then, the redhead grabs Mark's face with both hands, deepening the kiss, and then one of them moans.

You gasp at that, your hand playing with the curve of your breast, bravely ignoring the throbbing, aching spot between your legs. You gotta focus real hard to record this moment to keep forever in the vault of your mind.

When the black-haired man trails his hand lower, past the waistband of his friend's boxers, your resolution snaps and your fingers fly right to your clit, massaging it in tight, but languid circles.

Rex lets out a strangled noise and doesn't wait for an invitation, shoving his hand down Mark's pants not long after. They pump each other's lengths with visible restraint, both knowing it's not the time to bust just yet.

The two of them slowly get up, and just as if they communicating telepathically, they both start undressing each other, their jeans and boxers being shoved down in one go.

Now, Mark and Rex are standing butt naked in front of you, almost eating one another alive, as if to make up for the lost time. Their chests are flush, cocks rubbing against one another as both of them rock their hips, chasing that high.

"You guys," you laugh breathlessly, "I'm still here."

At the sound of your voice, both their heads snap in your direction, a string of spit connecting their mouths.

The view of them utterly undone, flushed, with chests heaving, lungs craving air after their make-out session, sends a shock wave right to your core.

"Or should I leave?" You tease, now that you have their attention back, their eyes dropping to your middle and ring fingers going in a controlled motion over your clit.

"No—fuck. Sorry, we—I mean—"

"Get the fuck up," Mark cuts in between Rex's rambles, making a beckoning motion toward you, "and c'mere."

You don't need to be told twice.

The moment their arms curl around you, inviting you to their caresses, you get dizzy.

Maybe you got up too damn fast. Or maybe it's the drugs and liquor. Or it's Rex's calloused hand on your ass and Mark's hot mouth on your jawline. Probably all three.

One of them—you don't know which, you already got lost where their bodies start and end—throws you on the bed. You land on your back with a yelp, but happy to be finally manhandled the way you craved.

Rex crawls on the bed, like a predator coming up to his prey, heavy eyelids drooped over the lustful, green eyes. He takes your foot into his hands, and starts kissing it, slowly making his way up.

The drummer isn't breaking the eye contact, and the sheer intensity of his gaze leaves you out of breath. In your peripheral vision, you notice Mark's stroking himself lazily with a slack jaw, his other hand cupping his balls.

When Rex reaches the upper part of your inner thighs, you feel the mattress dip at your feet. The mohawked man is on his knees on the bed behind his friend, smoothing his hands down Rex's back.

"Can I…?" Mark trails off, his fingers gently spreading Rex's ass.

"Go for it," Rex rumbles between leaving pecks on your skin, just where your hip and thigh meet.

It's already all too much.

You can't choose who to look at, eyes rapidly jumping from the redhead between your legs to the black-haired man behind him. When Rex teases your lips once again, promising the sweet relief of his tongue, you snap.

"God damn it, can you please—"

"Already begging?" Rex chuckles, his warm breath ghosting over your slick folds. "Mama, you're not gonna survive this."

"Ravish that pussy, unless you need a few tips." Mark adds from behind, busy nipping at Rex's thighs.

"Fuck off and get to work," Rex quips, eyes with pupils blown wide still glued to yours.

Before you could say anything yourself, the redhead finally dives in. He flattens his tongue, gliding it up from your entrance to your clit. His mouth curls over your bud, and when he starts sucking, he groans into you from his own pleasure.

With a quick glance, you notice Mark started going down on Rex, and whatever he's doing there, makes the drummer hum and whine in agreement. Despite that, he never loses the rhythm, changing between his tongue and puckered lips on your clit.

Only a few minutes in, you can already feel the climax building, faster than you ever experienced before. The mixture of Rex's nimble tongue and Mark's groans make the heat pool down in your tummy, scaring to boil over any moment now.

The moans and whimpers coming from your mouth are shameless, so loud you probably are keeping the whole hotel wing awake, but you don't care. Instead, you thread your fingers through the red strands, and curl them into a tight fist, bringing the man as close to you as humanely possible.

When you're seconds away from your orgasm, Mark is suddenly lying down next to you. He takes your chin between his fingers and nips at your lower lip, then your jawline, neck, down to your breast.

Just a couple of swipes of his pierced tongue over your nipple send you over the edge. Your voice comes out high, broken, powerful.

"Yes, good girl. Let it all out," Mark murmurs, his voice vibrating against your ribs.

You're screaming, repeating your band mates names like a prayer, completely lost in the pleasure washing over you in forceful waves as Rex laps down on you like a man parched, coaxing pleas and whimpers from you.

Your knees are pulling to a close—or rather, trying to—but Rex is holding on them strong, forcing them to stay open. The once blinding pleasure is quickly turning into something bordering pain. The good kind of pain.

And then it stops, suddenly, leaving your folds cold with the lack of Rex's mouth. When you open your eyes, you see his chin and lips glistening with your slick and his spit, all wrapping up that cocky smirk of his.

"Rex, I—"

"Never had better head? Yeah, I know," the man between your legs grins, then kisses the inside of your thigh. Mark is still beside you, tracing mindless shapes with his rough pad along your ribs.

"We're not done with you yet," the inky haired man adds, stopping his hand just under your breast. Before you get a chance to say anything, Rex grabs your waist and flips you over to your tummy, raising your hips up.

Mark settles with both of his legs around you, his painfully hard erection right on front of your face. He swipes his thumb along your lips and you part them, sucking on the finger with low pressure.

Behind you, Rex is nudging at your entrance with his cock, waiting for you to give him your consent. You want to turn your head to him, but Mark holds you down, shaking his head.

"Tsk, tsk. Let him wait. My turn now."

"Dude, seriously?" Rex whines from behind you, but doesn't go any further than gliding the tip along your oversensitive folds. Something between a chuckle and a gasp gets past your lips.

Mark tilts his head, raising his pierced eyebrow with a deadly grin. "No one was taking care of me while I was eating your ass, lover boy."

The redhead mumbles something under his nose, but you can't make it out. He waits, surprisingly obediently, with his length only moving slowly up and down your folds.

And with that, Mark takes his thumb out your mouth, and then replaces it with something much, much larger.

You eagerly take him in, circling your tongue around his shaft, head bobbing up and down. It doesn't take long for you to gag, especially with his size. Your band mate gathers your hair into one hand, guiding your movements just the way he likes it.

"Rex, get inside me," you command quickly when you gasp for air, spit trickling down your chin. "Now."

"Yes ma'am," Rex beams and slides into you in one fluid motion, burying himself up to the hilt.

He starts rolling his hips slow at first, and you match the rhythm of your head to his cock moving inside your walls. Mark only lets out a strained sound and pulls you down harder, his tip hitting the back of your throat with every movement of your head.

It doesn't take long for Rex to pick up pace, slamming his thighs on yours with brute force and speed. You moan right on Mark's cock when Rex hits that perfect spot inside you, again and again. You're dangerously close to another orgasm.

The redhead must feel it with the way you're clenching around him, and to your disliking, he slows down. You'd have groaned if you didn't have your mouth full.

The smell of sex, sweat and liquor fills the room, along with the lewd sounds of skip slapping against skin and your gags. When you gasp for air, Rex slows down to a full stop. Mark looks up from your eyes to his friend, and they share a knowing look.

You've seen this look already, not only today. These two can talk without words like no other people you have ever met.

Without a warning, Rex pulls out and you want to whine, but Mark puts a finger on your lips, shushing you.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. We're just gonna switch. That alright?"

His pupils are blown wide, and gone are the beautiful brown irises of his. The way his gaze is devouring you alive, it leaves you speechless for once in your life. You only nod, and the two men change places, and before you know it, Mark's giant cock is trying to get inside you.

"Now you can repay the favor," Rex smirks and gathers your hair with one hand, and tapping his dick on your lips with the other.

"God damn, so tight, s' fuckin' tight." Mark mutters as he unhurriedly slides in, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to him. When he's fully buried in your walls, he stills.

It's your cue to take Rex between your lips. You take the hilt of his length into your hand and flatten out your tongue, sliding it up from balls to the tip. You spit on it and smear the lubricant up and down before wrapping your pretty lips around him.

The second your head starts moving up and down Rex's length, Mark starts pumping into you, skipping the adjustment part altogether. You have never felt so fucking full in you life, front and back holes filled with cocks.

Mark hips are snapping against yours, adding a smack here and there on your ass. The sting is deliciously painful, and you moan on Rex's length, the vibrations making him growl. His jaw is shut tight, brows furrowed over the heavy lidded eyes.

"I'm getting close," Rex admits with a strained voice, barely holding composure.

"Me too," Mark echoes, slowing his tempo a little, but still delivering forceful thrusts.

You take Rex's cock out your mouth with a plop and start stroking him, just enough to keep him on the edge, but not letting him fall over it.

"I got an idea." You speak up, mischievous smirk painting your features.

"I like the sound of that," Rex chuckles, swiping his thumb over your cheekbone.

You sign to Mark to move away, then swiftly jump off the bed, padding hurriedly towards your bag. As you search for the one item that will help with the perfect culmination of this insane night, the boys get busy on the bed taking care of each other.

"Where the fuck is it," you mutter, emptying the contents of your travel bag. You're almost ready to give up when your hand finds the velvet pouch.

Bingo.

When you turn with the rabbit wand in hand, Mark and Rex are lying on their sides, kissing with passion that you wouldn't expect from any of them, stroking each other languidly. You let yourself mentally videotape the scene for a lonely moment in your tiny bedroom.

"Got it," you chirp, coming up to the foot of the bed. "Now move, you two."

Reluctantly, they separate, and you lay down in the space between them. You hold up the sex toy triumphantly in the air, glancing between Rex and Mark, curious for their reactions.

"What's your plan?" Mark asks, his hands immediately on you. Rex follows suit, warm, rough fingertips rolling your nipple.

"Get in front of me and jack off while I experience the best orgasm in my life."

"I am offended," Rex mock gasps, but follows the order anyway.

Soon after, Mark is on his side, both of the men on their knees, pumping their lengths as you glide the toy inside your pussy and turn it on to the highest setting immediately. The toy starts moving, hitting your G-point every single time without a miss.

"I'm not gonna last long," you whimper when the vibrating part touches your clit.

With your other hand free, you start playing with your breasts. Both Rex and Mark are focused now, chasing their own pleasure. The heat of their gazes only adds to your arousal, and you're mere seconds away from falling over the edge.

You take your hand away from your nipple and curl your fingers around your throat, blocking your own airways, intensifying the growing pressure ready to snap.

"Come on, ma. You're doing s'fucking good," Rex rasps, his eyes jumping between yours and your glistening, throbbing pussy greedily swallowing the wand.

"Be a sweet girl and cum for us," Mark adds, voice similarly strained.

And you do.

You muster up all your willpower no to close your eyes when your second orgasm crashes like a freight train. You let go of the rabbit wand and your pussy pushes it out, revealing a projectile squirt landing on both Mark's and Rex's thighs.

"God damn, girl, you—" Rex groans and then he's spilling his hot cum all over your tummy.

"Fuck, fuckfuckfuck, I'm—Oh, God—" Mark follows suit, thick, white ropes painting your tits.

You're still riding out your high, putting the rabbit wand inside you for a few seconds, letting the pressure rebuild, only to take it out, squirting more on your band mates.

When it's more than you could take, you turn off the toy and flop your head down heavily, chest heaving. Rex and Mark fall down on both of your sides, their breath equally uneven, stupid, easy grins on their faces. You look between the two in silence, before all three of you break down in a full blown laughter, arms shaking, bellies aching.

"God, that was—" You start, but you're at a loss for words.

"Fuck yeah, it was," Rex heaves, throwing his arm heavily behind his head.

"Look at us, we're such a fucking mess," Mark groans happily, sliding hands down his face.

And then it's quiet again, if not for the forgotten music coming from the dying speaker.

"You assholes better do aftercare," you sigh, covering your eyes with the soft inside of your elbow.

Rex props himself up on one arm, resting his cheek in his hand, the other hand tracing your waist. Mark sits up and puts his large hand on your thigh, reassuring but also claiming.

"We can bathe you, if you want." Rex proposes, and when you peek at him from above your arm, you swear he's blushing like a virgin.

"But only if you tell which was a better fuck." Mark squeezes your thigh once, not daring to smooth his hand down.

"I'm never fucking telling you that," you snort.

"So there is a clear winner!" Rex gasps, but he doesn't stop drawing shapes on your side, almost tickling you with that.

You uncover your eyes, and take a really good look at your friends—lovers, actually. Mark's mohawk is completely disheveled, his piercings crooked, shades of red and pink painted over his handsome face and broad chest. Rex looks like he was blessed by the archangel itself, his features at ease, freckles standing out more with the sheen of sweat all over his toned, olive-skinned body.

"I think I need a larger sample to pass such dividing judgment," you quip, tracing your finger on the outline of Rex's tribal tattoo.

The boys groan, but they don't say anything. They are more than happy to give you more examples to conduct your very important research thoroughly. But not tonight.

Tonight, you teach these morons what it truly means to care for a woman.

main masterlist | rex masterlist | mark masterlist

📬 click here to join my taglist!

🔥 rex taglist: @cheeyan @queen-of-gotham @brokenbillionaires-club @enchantedstarfish @spaghetti6622 @poetryearns @x-intothevoid-x @woahhajimes @lumineya @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @colonelfish @halloween666lover @fanneartist @nishiology @madebyesquishy @stringucheezu @elainewonderswriting @slut4hotppl @thelostsea @cassiecasluciluce

You blink slowly, realizing the effect it had on him. “Angel.”

“Didn’t you mean ‘devil’?” A nervous smile stretches across his face, trying to seem unbothered.

“You’re definitely gonna be one if you don’t bring me my Dark Knight.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, his features softening back into that smug confidence. “That’s emotional manipulation.”

“Didn’t think you knew such sophisticated terms.”

Rex leans on the bed, inches away from your face, staring you deeply in the eyes with a mischievous smirk. “Do you want your Batman or not?”

You plant a hasty kiss on his forehead and grin. “Love you too.”

—

Later that night, your comic book read from front to back once again, you’re lying in the dark with your head resting on his chest. His heartbeat is a steady anchor to reality, beating rhythmically under his ribs.

“Earlier tonight,” Rex starts, voice low, barely above whisper, “when you called me an angel.”

“Yeah?”

“That was new.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“No, I did. It’s just—It did something to me.”

The confession immediately makes you rise up, supporting yourself on your forearm. 

“Like what?”

“I dunno, made me… feel things. Shit like that.”

You try see his face in the dark, but he’s avoiding your gaze.

“Rex, look at me.” Your fingers graze on his neck, up to his jaw. You can sense gentle goosebumps on his skin.

Begrudgingly, and painfully slowly, he finally sets his green eyes on you. They’re glassier than usual, and it makes your throat thick instantly. But you can’t start crying before he does, so you take a deep breath and swallow down, hoping to delay the flood.

“You said it so… casual. Natural. Like it actually suits me.”

You take his hand and kiss each knuckle one by one, the touch of your lips like a petal on his real hand.

“Because it does.”

For a moment, long and heavy, he sits quietly. The only thing audible in the dark bedroom is the gentle hum of the AC.

“See, I want to believe you,” he manages to say after a while.

“But?”

“But I’m no angel. And you know it. I’ve been a dick to people—to Eve, to Mark… to you.” He almost breaks down from admitting what’s been sitting heavy on his heart, a few tears spilling down his cheeks. “And none of you deserved it.”

You take his chin between your fingers and turn his head towards you. “Just the fact you’re aware of it now, makes the world of a difference.”

Rex wipes the wetness away with the heel of his palm and looks at you with those big, emerald eyes. They’re full of hope, longing for forgiveness and something profound, but hard to name.

He smiles weakly. “Really?” 

You grin back at him, your tears thankfully bravely held back. “Really really.”

He snorts and gently, playfully shoves you with what’s supposed to be a scary face. “Don’t you start quoting Shrek on me right now.”

“Or what?” You raise a brow, not in the slightest bit frightened.

Rex pounces on you, his fingers finding your ribs with practised ease. “You’re gonna regret calling me an angel.”

divider by @cursed-carmine

But what you're worrying about the most, is Rex. He's still out there, still fighting whatever tragedy stroke across the country, all while being soaked to the core with the biggest downpour you've seen in your life.

So when the apartment door opens, you're on your feet in a blink of an eye, relief washing over you, that previous fear dissolving completely. With a gentle smile and arms spread wide, you strut towards the entrance, ready to fall into the arms of your most beloved, cherished person.

And then you stop mid-step, arms falling down to your sides. With one glance you decipher everything he hasn't said yet, written all over his face for you to read, like you've learned over the years. You take a step back, giving him space. But it's already too late.

Rex closes the door with his elbow, a loud bang echoing through your apartment. "Don't just fucking stand there and stare." He's already at a shouting register, a dangerous edge to his voice that makes you flinch. "Get me some towels and a change of clothes, for fuck's sake. I'm dripping like a leaky faucet all over the god damn floor—"

"Stop, Rex. Don't take it out on me—"

He groans, tearing off his soaking wet cowl and dropping it to the floor. "With the day I had, the last thing I need is you scolding me like a little child—"

"Then fucking behave like an adult?" This time you raise your voice as well, raising your arms in disbelief. "I just wanted to greet you after a long day, is that so weird?"

"Just—ah, forget it," he waves his hand at you dismissively. "I'll get it myself."

Just as he toes off his boots and proceeds to walk past you, you step in his way, stern look on your face, staring deep into his tired, green eyes. And despite being fully drenched, there's also a fire behind his pupils, the kind that should make you back away—but you don't. Not when he started this whole thing.

"You don't get to talk to me like this, Rex." Your voice is low and steady despite another storm starting inside you, putting the outside one to shame.

His chest rises up and down in a slow rhythm as he takes deep inhales through his flared nostrils, eyes narrowed, jaw squared and shut tight. And then all hell breaks loose.

"I get to do whatever the fuck I want!" Rex yells straight into your face, but you stand your ground. He inches closer, his forehead almost touching yours, and you notice the heat radiating of his body regardless of his cold suit.

A massive lighting strikes, illuminating your living room like it's noon. "We've been fighting these fucking monsters for hours in the rain, barely winning in the end! So maybe just use your brain—when I get back, you should take care of me!"

"I was going to!" You yell back as the thunder cracks outside, loud enough to startle. The fabric of his suit squelches when you push a finger into his chest. "But you immediately started with screaming and cursing me off like some fucking trash."

"Because I'm fucking tired, woman!" Rex's fingers curl around both of your arms, squeezing you tighter than necessary. "Don't I get to be fucking annoyed, or do I have to be all lovey-dovey whenever I get back?!"

"That's not the point, Rex! And let go of me—"

He does, pushing you away at the same time and brushing past you towards the bedroom, leaving wet imprints on the floor, his hair and suit dripping along the way. Only then, you choke on a sob and turn on your heel, heading to the kitchen.

The tap hums when you pour yourself a glass of water, then down it in one go. Behind the walls, you hear the shower's on. For this much fuss about being wet, it's ridiculous he'd take a bath right now.

Biting down on your bottom lip, you replay the whole fight in your head again and again as Rex washes the day off himself. Maybe you could've acted differently—but then again, he was an asshole from the first second he stepped inside, acting like an abusive piece of shit. It was so unlike him. Of course, he snaps here and there, like anyone, but this was something else. This crossed a line.

Nonetheless, you make two teas with lemon, ginger and honey and take them to the bedroom. Rex acted unacceptably, but he still deserves not to get sick. On the bed you see his pajamas laid out. Maybe when he's clean, warmed up and in a cozy outfit he'll come to his senses and explain himself, beg for your forgiveness.

Otherwise you'll be gone tomorrow.

Another thunder rolls, and you almost drop your cup because of it. You notice steam coming from the bathroom, door opened, light seeping into the hall. If not for the downpour behind your window, the apartment was quiet, shower stream cut off.

When you look up from your tea, Rex is standing in the doorway, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed on his chest. There's a towel around his hips, his auburn hair partially dried, sticking out in different directions, making him look too domestic for what have just happened.

"I've made tea," you offer, pointing with your chin at his bedside table. Rex looks around the space, avoiding you, and doesn't answer, only smooths down his hair back, a telltale he's nervous. Not like you needed one, he made it very clear form the moment the apartment door opened. The silence between you is loaded, heavy with regret and disappointment.

"Thanks," he replies after a while, too long for your liking. But you swallow it down, and look out the window, thankful you're inside and not out there.

And then it hits you.

Rex was there, for hours on end. Not just walking or standing—fighting for the people's safety, including yours. Saving the planet despite the conditions or the weather, something you rarely stop to appreciate.

Still, how he reacted, what he had said… It's no excuse.

Yes, he might be on edge. But you've been through this before and he improved so much since you started dating. So he better gets down to his knees right now, or else—

"I fucked up," Rex mutters, taking you out of your head. Your head snaps to the side. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, towel still wrapped around his mid-section, warming his bruised hands with the teacup. After what feels like eternity, he continues, looking up to gaze into your eyes. "I shouldn't have. I know it's a lame excuse, but today was… fucking awful."

You glance at the window as another lightning cuts through the dark sky, then at him. Words are stuck in your throat, and only now you feel it got thicker, your chest heavier as the adrenaline goes down.

The mattress shifts underneath him as he puts the cup away and reaches with his hand toward you, stopping inches from your leg, unsure whether he's even allowed to be this close to you now.

"I'm sorry. I acted like a complete dick," Rex sighs and moves his hand away. And you wish he didn't. "You absolutely didn't deserve it."

"Yeah," is all you manage, otherwise there would be another downpour, only here in your room, streaming down your cheeks. Your eyes are still on his hand, his knuckles torn and red, in dire need of patching up.

"Can we… " he pauses and clears his throat, "Is it okay if we talk about it tomorrow? I'm totally wiped out."

"Sure," you swallow thick, then take a deep breath in, fighting the tears forming up in the corners of your eyes. "We're both on the edge tonight."

Rex snorts quietly and gives you a small, yet genuine smile, not his usual smirk or fake grin. "I'm far over it, to be honest."

You put away your teacup gently on the bedside table and reach slowly towards Rex, your hand smoothing down the duvet in his direction. He notices and mirrors your movement until your fingers interlace.

"Let's go to sleep, we both need it," you suggest, letting go of his hand and covering yourself with the duvet.

Rex changes into his pajamas in silence, sipping on the cooled down tea. Not long after, he slides under the cover, close enough to show he craves connection, but far enough to honor your space.

Surprisingly, you want closeness too, as much as him, if not more. But you're too stubborn to give in, so you finish your tea and turn off the lamp, laying your head down on the cold pillow.

For a while, rain thrumming against your windows and an occasional thunder is the only thing audible between you. It would be soothing, if not for the sheer strength and fierceness of the weather outside.

"Hey," Rex whispers into the dark. "I know we're still not good, but… could we cuddle?"

There it is.

A smile tugs at your lips at his question; you've won. It's a stupid, silent contest, but you're proud of yourself nevertheless.

"Okay," he adds, voice small and hurt, even. "It's alright if not. I get it, I'm a piece of shit—"

"C'mere, you hotshot," you mumble, reaching behind you to grab him. "Hug me like you mean it."

Before you can even finish your sentence, with a speed of lightning Rex's chest presses on your back; his body solid, warm and steady against yours. His toned, hardened arms wrap around your waist, careful, like you're fragile and he's not worthy of your skin. And maybe tonight he isn't, but you shove that thought away, focusing on the rhythmic beat of his heart.

"I'm really sorry. I love you, sweet bun," Rex mumbles, nudging your ear with the ridge of his nose.

You squeeze his hand three times in return, before whispering, "Love you too, pumpkin."

a/n: did i do two requests about rex coming back home, taking a shower and then cuddling after a hard day? yes. yes, i did. fight me

main masterlist || rex splode masterlist

📬 click here to join my taglist!

🔥 taglist: @cheeyan @queen-of-gotham @arrivedercis @brokenbillionaires-club @n0isypeech @enchantedstarfish @spaghetti6622 @poetryearns @x-intothevoid-x @woahhajimes @lumineya @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @colonelfish @halloween666lover @fanneartist @nishiology @madebyesquishy @stringucheezu @elainewonderswriting @slut4hotppl

title taken from Etta James' song Stormy Weather

After an hour or so you're in the kitchen, your damp hair wetting your t-shirt, the sound of the mixer filling the space. Banana, protein powder, some oat-milk, and whatever else seems appropriate for a smoothie. Eating is low on your priorities list, but you know better than to skip breakfast.

You tense, hearing someone come in. When you share a place with other people, you learn the sound of their feet tapping the floor, so you don't need to turn to know who it is.

"And here I was thinking you'd quit the gig."

"Get lost, you cheap Invincible knock-off."

Zandale scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "While you were—"

With a swift move of your hand, you turn the volume of his voice down to zero and leave the kitchen, your smoothie and some painkillers in hand. Brushing past him gesturing widely, you can't help the slightest upturn of your lip corners. But the joy is short lived—he grabs your arm, way harder than necessary and pulls you back in, pointing at his mouth.

"Will you leave me alone if I unmute you?"

The only answer he gives is a glare which almost makes you laugh, but that would be scary otherwise.

"Fine," you sigh and spin your wrist, his voice coming back gradually, turning up like a dial.

"Don't you ever do it again, or—"

"Or what, huh? Want me to shut you up again, for good this time?"

Not waiting for his snarky reply, you turn on your heel and pad in the direction of your new room.

It feels invasive, being in his space. But at the same time, you know he wouldn't mind. Despite everything, Rex is an open book. You wonder where he'd draw the line, and if he actually would. Especially with you.

So you try to ignore the gnawing voice at the back of your head, telling you to leave at once, to stop snooping around his room for… clues, like you're in a god damn Scooby-Doo episode.

Another thing is, you had the opportunity to get to know him better. To ask him about things you're now looking for through his drawers, on your knees in his worn-out, holey t-shirt with your favorite band heavy on your shoulders; like a witness to your crimes.

But you just can't help it. In a very twisted way, you think it's something you should do. Gather as much trivia about this… man, to later surprise him with. To give him the clues. Because maybe you're not over it. Over him.

You open his wardrobe and expect to see clothes, but instead it's—of course—a big stash of magazines, some of which seem brand new, and some have seen better days. But it's not what actually catches your interest. On the shelf above the home decor magazines is quite an impressive collection of CDs. Given you two love the same band, you expect nothing less than absolute bangers.

An unwrapped CD packaging with a long, dark-haired, naked woman holding gently a… boar? a pig? lies on the top. You turn it to the back, trying to find the band's name or the album's title. Your brows knit together when you finally see it.

"Mannequin Pussy…?"

With a quick glance you locate a CD player and walk towards it, your socks rustling gently against the floor. "Hope you won't kill me for this," you mumble, tearing off the plastic foil and dropping it to the ground.

Heavy guitar riff starts almost immediately after a sweet-voiced, intelligible babbling intro. And then the drums hit hard, along with a woman scream-singing.

Your jaw goes slack, mouth gaping, your eyes darting between the album art and the CD player. You shouldn't be surprised, Rex always listened to darker, gloomier music when he was burying himself down in his room.

But this?

This was something else.

With your new angsty soundtrack, you start going through his stuff once again, shoving the guilt eating away at the back of your conscience, making up lame excuses in your head that he'd do the same if you switched places. And that yeah, maybe you'd have been livid, but also, deep down, you know would like that very much. So that's what you like to think of him in this scenario, as well.

More brand-new band tees than you ever saw him wear are pushed deep into his drawers, folded somewhat neatly, maybe even by him. Or maybe not. Who cares, really. What's more intriguing, is why he doesn't wear these around the base at all, only those worn out, holey shirts and workout gear?

There are few notebooks on the bottom shelf of his wardrobe, most of them empty if not for the first pages with some notes scribbled down or crossed out, and some very juvenile, but so very Rex dick drawings. You shake your head, snorting quietly and put the notebook away, when an envelope falls to the floor.

It's not sealed, and there's nothing written on it, no address or anything. You gulp down, your fingers hovering over it. For all the privacy violations you did today, this seems to be the line you're not willing to cross. So you hide it again, hoping that one day he'd show you what's inside.

Just when you want to move on to his desk and the drawers you haven't checked, you flinch as the alarm blares off. You groan out of habit, but immediately start stripping, jumping on one leg in search of your hero suit. Running and shouting can be heard in the hallway, and you hear Immortal's bass mixing with Rudy's prepubescent high-pitch.

It'd be a lie to think you're dreading some action; it's why you agreed to come back in the first place. You need something to take your mind off things, someone to beat up, something to smash, destroy, obliterate.

The floor creaks under your weight when you jump off the ledge of the jet, tired yet unsatisfied. Yeah, there was some action. But not as much as you'd like.

The mission was chaotic and dragged on, the team visibly understaffed with three of their best assets gone. Some freaks from The Order, or whoever the fuck, sent in a group of young thugs to terrorize a charity gala, hoping to score some diamonds off of rich-necks.

You blasted a few of them easily away, but Bulletproof got on his high horse and decided he had to teach everyone a lesson, including the wealthy donors. And that's when the all hell broke loose.

As the smug yellow-suited asshole lectured everyone on the inequalities of social justice, few of the masked robbers sneaked away. You wanted to catch them quietly, but Monster Girl had to throw a tantrum and started screaming at the fleeing villains, chasing them like cat a mouse.

All the while Rudy–Robot–whatever; started debating Zandale about the importance of class consciousness, you almost lost it. You were seconds away from obliterating everyone with your echo pulse, but instead, you focused, took a deep breath and aimed your spells at the villains, and they all dropped to the ground like rag-dolls.

Along with most of the attendees.

"Are you even listening to what I'm saying?!" Immortal's shout takes you out of your thoughts.

"No," you reply without a blink and move past him, dreaming of a shower, your body sticky with sweat and blood and expensive perfume. "I'm not really a good listener."

Getting back in the game meant you had no time for yourself, again.

Intrusive, obsessive, uncomfortable thoughts couldn't surface while you were blasting alien creatures into space.

Which was a good thing.

But you also couldn't see Rex and Rae as much as you'd like, your visits getting less frequent over time. Whenever you could, you begged Rudy to fly you to DC, or asked Cecil to teleport you to the hospital, ignoring his comments about taxpayers money. Like he actually cared.

Rex has commented once recently you didn't look good even if you assured him otherwise. It wasn't mean and you knew he was right. So when tonight seemed to be a possibility of a peaceful couple of hours, you took it.

Toiletries bag in hand, you head to the common bathroom for a self-care night in. You hum a song from one of Rex's albums you've been listening, stepping into the shower cubicle. Tonight it's about you, and your comfort, so you give yourself permission for water that' just right—not scorching hot or ice cold. Your sore muscles loosen under the comfortable weight of the spray, soothing your racing mind filled with unwanted worries.

You try to focus on good memories, but there's so little to choose from, your mind reverts back to its old ways.

Rex is going to make it, you know it. His recovery is shocking to all the staff, even when you take into consideration his healing abilities were enhanced when they grafted molecule chargers into his nerve endings. So it's not him, for once, who occupies your mind rent free.

It's Rae.

She's still unconscious, her body slowly knitting itself back, nerve by nerve, tendon by tendon, bone by bone.

No one is supposed to make out of something like this alive. And yet, she did.

And so did Rex.

But he only did it because he's a stubborn asshole.

And Rae… Rae was lucky. Or unlucky, depending on the angle.

Or both.

The base is still too quiet without her laugh, without Rex watching some obnoxious fail compilations. From time to time, you can hear Rudy and Amanda talking, giggling, the feeling between them blooming slowly.

Immortal doesn't leave his chambers if not for the trainings and missions. As much as you want to loathe him, he's still grieving. And for that he has your sympathy.

With the team spending more time on their own, not so much in the common spaces anymore, you now tend to wander around the HQ, enjoying peace and quiet whenever you can with a good book or some not-so-good doom-scrolling.

But you avoid Rae's room like a plague.

You open your eyes with a gasp—you're still in the same place, now lukewarm water flowing down your back.

"Fuck," you whisper, leaning on the shower wall. The cold seeps from the tiles to your skin, the contrasting sensation bringing you back to your body, to the cold and empty bathroom.

You can't put it off any longer, even though you've been dreading it for days now. Quickly finishing your wash, you decide it's time. Rip the band-aid off and be done with it.

The fabric of your pajama shirt (actually a Rex's band tee) clings wet to your back, your hair still damp from the shower. You're standing frozen in front of a closed door, the one that leads to her room.

Rae's room.

"Now or never," you mutter to yourself and turn the knob, but don't step in immediately, only peep inside. It looks like she just went out to grab some snacks and will be back any moment now. Her place is still alive, vibrant, and so her.

Your throat gets thick, but you swallow it down and get inside.

It feels wrong, being here—but only because you've been putting it off for far too long.

Her bed is still unmade, piles of clean laundry toppling over its weight on the mattress and the floor. So you take deep breath in and get to work.

You start with separating casual wear, gym gear, and her suits. The regular clothing is the easiest, and you take your time folding every t-shirt, pair of underwear, sweatpants. With the amount of time you've spent here, you know where Rae keeps her stuff. You put everything away with the utmost care, as if you're handling a newborn child.

The stash grows smaller and smaller until you're left only with her combat gear.

Some seem to be brand new, others barely used and only a little mended, a stitch here or a patch there. You hang each costume in her wardrobe, just like she prefers. She always said it was the easiest way to grab it when the time came.

So when you're left with the last one, you sit down with the suit in your lap, the fabric stretching thin between your fingers, with holes beyond repairing and stubborn stains that wouldn't come off no matter how harsh chemicals would have been used.

The fabric darkens with the first tear that rolls down your chin, then another, until it's a downpour. Your shoulders shake as you hide your face into the suit, completely void of her comforting smell, replaced by acid and soap.

The base is quiet, if not for your broken sobs cutting through the stale air.

You've made yourself at home in Rex's room, only stopping by at yours to collect whatever you needed, staying there as little as possible. But you haven't come to Rae's room again, you couldn't.

It's been weeks since you've been there.

Same with the hospital—the world still needs saving, and it doesn't care if you're going through a mental health crisis, almost losing both of your closest people in one go.

Your phone buzzes from time to time, number of unread messages from Rex and Eve growing steadily. Guilt is eating away at you, yet you can't make yourself reply. What would you even say? That you're too tired? Busy with being a hero while they—

The alarm blares through the walls, and you move on autopilot. Maybe today you'll get what you crave—to purge.

Your ears are ringing, chest heaving as you kneel on the ground, some fuckass asshole between your legs, already unconscious.

But you don't stop—you can't.

His jaw crunches when your fist meets his face with more force than you ever thought you possessed. You hear screaming, wild and broken, and it takes you a while to register it's actually you.

With your fingers interlaced into a fist, you raise your arms above your head, ready to pass the final blow, but a steady, strong hand stops you. You slowly gaze to the side, eyes widened with animalist rage, blood trickling down your nose and chin, and see Immortal with nothing but a concerned look on his face, blocking the sun.

"Enough," he commands.

Your eyes dart around the battle scene—rubble on the ground, civilians dead or badly injured, groaning and whining, the rest of the villains tucked away, barely conscious, waiting for appropriate authorities to throw them to prison. And when you glance down at your victim, your head starts spinning and your stomach tightens—

You jerk to the side, retching, your undigested breakfast landing on the sidewalk.

The man beneath you has almost no face left, bones and muscles sticking out in unnatural directions, eyes gone under the black, puffed up skin. You collapse forward, then barely roll to the side, vomiting some more. Your whole body is trembling, arms shaking like leaves on the wind as you try to prop yourself up, but it proves fruitless.

The sun warms your skin, drying down the blood from your busted lip; distant echoes of sirens mix in with birds chirping and jets propellers spinning above you. Your eyelids grow heavy, and you fight to keep them up, but the void sucks you in, and you pass out.

A sharp, cutting pain through your ribcage takes you out of sleep, and you're immediately blinded by harsh, fluorescent lights.

You're back at the hospital.

On your left is Annabelle, checking your IV drip; the try by her hip covered in bloodied gauze and bandages. Slowly, very slowly, you look to your left, and see a knee nervously jumping up at down, the person sitting on a wheelchair. It takes too much effort to look up, but you're glad you do when you see Rex's face.

"Heard you went ballistic," he quips, but his tone is flat, there's no humor in it.

"I—I guess, yeah. Don't remember much, though." You try to sit up, but Annabelle's gentle hand lands on your shoulder, delicately pushing you back down to lay on the mattress.

"Try not to move too much, alright?" She tilts her head, her warm eyes darkened with a shade of worry. "You've fractured your ribs."

Shit.

That would explain painful breathing, then.

"Am I in trouble?" You ask Rex with a broken, raspy voice. He doesn't respond for a second, only slurps on his juice box, his gaze undecipherable.

"Ask him," he moves his head towards the door and you instantly recognize Donald's sad frown.

Fuck.

"Rex," Donald starts, his voice soft and quiet, taking measured steps toward you. "Would you be so kind to—"

"No," you cut him off with a whimper. "He can stay."

Rex sighs, his lips turning into thin line as he glances at your wounds, his eyes following the path of pain, destruction, and brutality.

"Go on, Donald," you wave at him, shutting your eyes close when a dull pain strikes you like a lightning. "But be straight about it."

"We would like you to attend counseling," he states simply, his palms folded together over his chest.

"Of course," you laugh, the sound bitter and rough. "Because I beat up a guy?"

"Because you lost control," Rex chimes in, surprising both you and Donald.

"You're the one to speak," you mutter.

"Yeah. I'm exactly the one, Ban." Rex puts the juice box to the nightstand and reaches over to you, his hand warm against your arm. "I've been there. I've done it. I know what it's like."

Silence that follows sits heavier on your shoulders than your icepack on your chest, the air getting heavier with every second that passes.

"We've been also told there are some…" Donald pauses, gesturing slowly with his hands, "tensions within the team."

"Well, no fucking wonder," you scoff, cruel smile painting your features. "Kate's dead, Rae's unconscious and Rex…" You look at the once-redhead, at the metal brace around his head, his bloodied eye and healing cuts scattered across his face. "Rex is still here."

"And now so are you." He squeezes your arm lightly, trying to muster up a smile, but it's bleak, void of his usual cheer he has around you. You avoid his eyes, terrified he might see in yours what drove you over the edge, what you've been doing at the base, in his room.

"How long do I have to stay here?" Your question hangs in the air, none of the man present actually equipped to answer it.

"Maybe two or three days," Donald informs. "Your rib fracture is very shallow and should heal quickly on its own."

You nod, grateful for the first time since…

"Can I go back to the base tomorrow?"

"If you insist," he replies after a beat, visibly disappointed.

"I do," you stare at the man in the suit, looking at your bloodied, swollen face in the reflection of his glasses. "I can't be here anymore, Donald. I hate this place and you know it better than anyone else."

"I don't like being here either," Rex adds, voice so small it makes your heart skip a beat.

"But I'll be visiting you again, yeah?" You finally look into Rex's eyes; they're hollow, tired, and sunken. Just as yours. "Especially now that I have to see a shrink."

"Yeah, sure." Rex smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Your insides twist with something else than pain of fractured bones and sore muscles.

"I'll have someone send over the schedule for your counseling appointments later in the day," Donald says as he turns to the door. "So please, consider it. But if you'd like to talk to someone… else—just remember I'm here."

With that, he gives you a nod and leaves, just as quietly as he appeared.

You run a hand down your face, wincing at the few sore points along. Glancing at Rex between your fingers, a weak frown forms on your face.

"Don't look at me like that," you mumble, barely audible.

"You better tell me what the fuck happened."

"I don't know, man." You blow a raspberry, at a loss for words. "It just… fucking happened. I blacked out with rage."

"Tell me about it," he leans back on the wheelchair, head falling heavily back.

None of you say anything for a while, the quiet hum of the AC a constant soundtrack, a light bulb flickering above you a shy reminder that everything in life passes; that everything has its expiration date. The thought fills you with both dread and relief.

But when you peek at him, the comfort of the realization wins over fear.

"Well," Rex straightens, clapping a hand on his thigh, and that stupid, adorable grin is back on his face. "At least now we're even."

"Yeah," you snort. "I guess we are."

"You really gonna come here regularly now? For therapy?" He asks, sheepish, and you know he means something else by that. He wants you to get better, sure. But he also want you to visit him, too. And you should; if anyone knows how excruciatingly lonely this place can get, it's you.

"Maybe," you omit and look away, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling you always get when you lie.

"Already leaving?" Eve's voice comes from behind you, and you turn your head to the door, caught mid-packing. She's leaning on the door, warm smile on her radiant face. Quitting the hero business suits her well.

"I've been here long enough," you sigh, closing off your bag full of meds and gausses. "Aaand… They want me to start therapy."

She chuckles, rolling her eyes. "So that's why you're running."

"I'm not—" you let out an exasperated sigh and plop down on the bed. "Whatever. I'll try to attend counseling, if my busy life lets me. Which—I doubt that."

"Fair," she nods and sits next to you. "But you can talk to me."

"Or Rex," she adds after a moment, placing her palm on top of your hand. Her skin is soft to the touch, as if unscathed by any amount of pain, fighting and hardship. "He doesn't have much going on right now and I'm sure he wouldn't mind some company."

Your stomach tightens, threatening to eject whatever's in it once again. Rex must have told Eve you stopped visiting, and its not like you were avoiding him. Life has just been hectic, and of you keep telling yourself that, maybe you'll actually start to believe it.

"Look, I'm sorry I've been MIA, it's just—" you gesture vaguely, trying to find right words, but for once, they don't come. "Fuck, Eve. It's a lot. It's too much."

She curls her other arm around your back, pulling you closer until your head rests on her shoulder.

"I know."

It's been so long, too long, since someone offered you comfort. Or rather, since you've accepted it.

"I'm not sure you do," you mumble, playing with the hem of her shorts.

"Try me then."

"I haven't been here in years," you start, slowly. "And now, over the last few weeks I've spent more time in this hospital than I do in my own room." Technically, it's not a lie—you don't spend time in your room at all. "So it's just adding more trauma to an already cursed place."

"But that's not all, is it?"

You sigh, buying yourself more time. There's literally no point in hiding and deflecting anymore. Whatever veil of mystery you were trying to wear, it's been blown off by the wind of life.

"It's not." Your mouth goes instantly dry, throat thick and heavy. "It's about Rae. And Rex, too. And the team, or whatever's left—damn, Eve." You wipe the tear that threatens to fall from your eye. "You sneaky little thing. You sure do know how to make someone spill their guts."

She exhales air through her nose, something reminiscing a snort.

"I'm not playing you, just… I know this life all to well."

"But," she leans away so she could look into your eyes, hers bright green and warm, with softness unbecoming of one of the most powerful superheroes to date. "You don't owe me every single detail. Just remember—you don't have to carry your burdens alone."

Her words sink in deep, deeper than you've let anything settle down in your bones for a while. You look at her, studying her kind face, taking in every little line and curve of her round features. How could Rex ever fuck up so badly with a woman like her? She's a literal angel, an embodiment of perfection.

Or maybe a better question is, how could a catch like Eve ever fall for a mess like Rex?

Well, you're the one to speak.

"Why are you so nice to me?" You ask after the silence feels stretches for too long.

"Why not?" She replies simply.

It's just that for her; why would she do anything else? It's not like you've hurt her or anything, but you haven't done anything for her, either. Then again, it was the same with Rae. She gave you kindness and comfort not asking for anything in return.

"I just hope it's not because of…" you pause, swiping your tongue over your lower teeth, " because of Rex."

"What?" Eve brings her brows together, scoffing. "Pfft, no. I like you."

The confession stings, but it's a nice feeling, leaving you all warm and fuzzy inside.

"That's it?"

"Of course," she smiles reassuringly, rubbing up and down your arm. "You're badass, strong and so well-rounded."

You scoff.

"I mean it," Eve squeezes your arm and looks at you again, with more seriousness than before. "You're valuable because of who you are, not through a connection to a boy who only knows how to explode stuff."

That earns her a smile from you, a small one, but real nonetheless.

"He knows a thing or two more than that, though." You mutter, resting your head again on her shoulder.

"Yeah," Eve sighs and lays her head on top of yours, "a thing or two." The way she says it makes you think of their history, shared traumas, how strong of a bond they had—and still kinda have, despite everything that happened. She keeps visiting him, bringing him magazines and sneaking in snacks so the nurses can't see. Or even just creates them herself, out of thin air. Which reminds you—

"Can you make me a hot chocolate with marshmallows?"

Dirt flies up in the air when the jet gets into air, your hair getting in your face, leaving you alone in the landing hangar of the Guardian's HQ. You watch the machine fly away, getting smaller and smaller until it disappears behind the horizon.

The sun is setting slowly behind the cold, quiet mountains. The view brings a chill to your body; it's both breathtakingly beautiful and absolutely terrifying. Its duality is eerily similar to the hero life—amazing when you get to save lives, when you see the hope and relief in people eyes when they know Guardians will protect them; but also horrible when you stop to think what atrocities you must commit in order to keep the planet safe.

The countless lives you've taken, some of them innocent, just to save a few. You never stop to think whether you made more people expire than kept them alive, because the statistics would not be to your liking. You sigh, letting your shoulders drop, their constant tension reminding you that you are very far from okay.

On the way your new room, the sirens blast, announcing yet another tragedy striking through Earth. Even though you were told to sit your ass down for at least two days after fracturing your ribs, you get into your suit in the hallway and run towards the exit point.

Yet another world crisis is much better than another lonely night.

Though this one was an overkill, you think, as you slump towards the showers, covered in dirt and blood, almost 24 hours after you left the base. You wince as you look back at the trail of grime you've left behind, your boots and suit torn and shred up to oblivion.

In the common bathroom you carefully dispose of whatever's left of your costume, trying not to cause more damage to your already broken ribs, and throw the suit into the incinerator. You could put it in the basket for repairs, but it serves no point. Art can make a buck with churning out a new set of suits for you and other heroes. A glimpse of a smile paints your face when you think of the man.

"Hey there, kiddo," the tall, gray-haired man squinted his eyes at you, his face warm and welcoming, something in it telling you he was trustworthy. He stepped closer, reaching with an open palm. "I'm Art Rosenbaum, super-suit tailor by night."

"And by day?" you asked, hesitant to take his hand.

"A regular one," Art winked, still with his hand stretched towards you. "If you're ever in need of a dress, or your pants are just too long, I have a good discount for my regular customers."

You let out a small laugh and finally slid your palm into his, telling him your full name.

"So, what can you do? I assume you have some impressive powers given I had a call about you from the man, Cecil Stedman, himself."

"I can manipulate sound," you replied simply, not wanting to get into the nitty-gritty of your abilities. It always confused people when you tried to give them details of what exactly you could do.

"That's a starter," he hummed and walked over to a floor to ceiling tall wardrobe. "Any preference as for the color?"

You bit the inside of your cheek, pondering. It would be your signature color for the rest of your hero career, so it was better to choose wisely.

"Just tell me your favorite one," Art said after a minute or two, when he noticed you were unsure. So you did just that.

"Have you decided on a name?" He asked, laying out different shades of the chosen color on the working bench for you to choose.

That one was easy. You'd had one since the moment you started your new life in the GDA, dreaming of becoming a full-fledged superhero like the Guardians of the Globe.

"I have," you nodded, proud smile on your face. "It's Banter."

"Clever," he chuckled and started taking your measurements.

The door to Rex's room closes quietly behind you, your feet leaving wet imprints on the wooden floor as you near the bed. You didn't bother drying up completely and just slid on one of his t-shirts. Minus your suit, you've been living almost entirely in his clothes, something you try not to think about too much, letting yourself have at least that comfort.

He'd probably love the view of you being swallowed by his hoodies and shirts, and would also almost certainly roast you about it until your last day on Earth.

Which might come any time. Sooner than later, at that.

You shake your head, as if to physically throw away the anxiety that's been a constant recently. Maybe tonight it will be different, maybe you won't end up curled on the mattress, bloodshot eyes from little sleep and definitely too much crying, playing tragic scenarios in your head.

So you try anything that might help, trying to keep somewhat of a routine to soothe your restless mind. Calming music, some self-care, journaling in one of Rex's many notebooks. And it seems to do the work, not every time, but it's still better than none.

But tonight, it doesn't do the trick, as you lay on the bed in the dark, whole body moisturized and a night face mask on, gentle music playing quietly from a speaker set on the bedside table. The images of Rex's open skull and missing arm along with Rae's swollen face and fractured body are burned into your brain forever. It could have been you, too. But it wasn't.

And you don't know which is worse—the fact you narrowly escaped sharing their fate, or that you feel you should have gone through the same as they did, if not worse; ending up like Kate, gone from the face of Earth despite being able to literally multiply herself.

Your phone vibrates with a notification, but you don't bother checking it. It's probably Rex, or some spam text. You hope it's the latter, even though it's highly unlikely. He's been texting you a lot recently, and for whatever reason it's hard for you to text back. Days between your replies stretch to the point you feel terrible about it, knowing how much you scolded him for terrible communication on his part.

You groan and squint when the screen lights up, almost blinding you in the complete dark of the room. It's an email from an online store you bought something once and forgot to unsubscribe from their newsletter. Your heart sinks a little lower with disappointment.

Maybe you could text him—or no, not now, it's like 3 am. Rex would be on your ass for not sleeping while you can, given the life you lead.

Tomorrow, then.

Tomorrow comes and brings another fucking crisis, this time somewhere in Europe, some plant-obsessed super-villain making trees grow everywhere. On the surface level, it doesn't seem that bad, but the moment you saw roads broken with trunks, entrances to the metro and buildings closed off by vines, cars toppled over by massive shrubs, you know it's going to be another hard day.

And so is the next day, and the next one. Criminals, villains and some monstrous aliens pop out of thin air everywhere, terrorizing people, threatening governments and straight up murdering world leaders. When you defeat one, three more appear, like a hydra. Again, and again. It never stops, no matter how hard you try.

It's a lost fight, and it always has been.

After a couple of weeks of non-stop missions, your muscles are constantly sore, bones aching, your breathing more shallow and painful with your ribs still not fully healed, you realize you haven't visited the hospital even once.

It gnaws on you so much so that you just hid your phone in a drawer, unable to look at unread texts from Rex piling up, missed calls from Donald and the hospital, your therapy sessions schedule pending your confirmation.

Running away from your problems is not something you'd have ever thought you'd do, most of your life you faced them right away, wanting to get them over with. But the last few weeks, it's been different. Like something in your core had fundamentally changed, yet you can't put a finger on when and what exactly.

But you barely recognize yourself anymore, and you don't like what, and who, you've become. A shell of your former self, someone you'd pity. And you hate it.

"The hell's wrong with me?" You mutter under your breath, curling your fingers into fists in your hair, pulling on them hard enough to ground you. Pain is a helpful tool, keeping you in the present instead of letting your mind roam free into dark corners of your psyche.

You sit up on the bed and turn the bed lamp on with resolve. You're not a coward, or at least you like to think you're not one. Powerful criminals and crazy monsters don't scare you, then why you're shaking at the thought of visiting Rex? Or even just texting him? It's stupid.

"So fucking stupid," you laugh dryly at yourself and take your phone out of the drawer. It's dead.

While you wait for it to charge, you're picking on the skin around your nails until you draw blood. Your knuckles are bruised and skin scraped from all the fighting you've been recently doing. When the smartphone finally turns on, you take a deep breath and start with the easy part—reading missed texts from Eve.

She's not pushy in them, only gently reminding you that she's here if you need her. Before the Lizard League attack you barely knew her, only saw her a handful of times. Despite that, you've grown fond of her, and she seems to really like you too.

While going through your inbox, you notice texts from Amanda and even Rudy, too. They're both worried, each in their own way. It should make you feel good, grateful to have so many people around being nothing but kind. And in this business, there are many other people and problems to focus on, yet they choose you.

But it doesn't make you happy, not even close. You're not sure you actually deserve it, given how you haven't offered anything in return, only worry. And you hate to be that person; to be the reason for their concern.

To be the reason Rex is upset.

He's got enough on his plate right now, so you feel like shit adding more weight on his bruised shoulders. With a sigh, you scroll to his contact name, and when you see it, your head lulls down with disbelief.

explosions guy 19 unread messages

If the roles were reversed, you'd have been furious. And he's clearly not, or at least you hope so. Still, you don't bother actually reading the texts, not ready for your stomach to drop with guilt, and just start typing. You let your thoughts flow through your fingers, writing like a maniac with a speed that would put a professional typist to shame. When you're done, you don't proofread it, only hit send and slam the phone face down on the bed.

This night, for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep peacefully.

a/n: here's the song, I Got Heaven, that Banter was listening to while going through Rex's stuff. thank you @cheeyan for recommending me the band, it's amazing!!!

also, sorry that it took me this long to update, i in fact, have not written a word on the plane lol. but the new season drop helped me push through finishing the chapter!

Track 27

⬅️ main masterlist

⬅️ Rex Splode masterlist

if you enjoyed reading, click here to sign up for my taglist so you'll never miss an upload ❤︎

🔥 taglist: @cheeyan @queen-of-gotham @arrivedercis @brokenbillionaires-club @n0isypeech @enchantedstarfish @spaghetti6622 @not-a-robot1 @poetryearns @halloween666lover @x-intothevoid-x @woahhajimes @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @colonelfish @fanneartist @nishiology @madebyesquishy @stringucheezu @elainewonderswriting

"Oh, shit!" You yelp, scrambling to unlock your phone but it declines to recognize your face.

Yesterday before falling asleep—or was it already today, doesn't really matter now—you've texted him. But you don't remember a word of it, and that's what terrifies you. You were so out of it you might have given him the nuke codes. After a few attempts you finally unlock the damn phone and go straight to your message thread with Rex.

explosions guy 3 new messages

Cold sweat runs down your spine. There is no way to take whatever you've written back now anymore, and to make matters worse, he's responded almost immediately. You gulp down, wondering if you should read it now, or maybe after coffee and a hearty breakfast.

Then you break out in laughter. What difference does it make? You're feeling nauseous anyway, and whatever his reply is, your heart is beating so fast how it does after three energy drinks.

"Fuck it" you sigh and open the chat.

You scan your messages first, an uncomfortable reminder of your sorry state, cringing at your own words. You might have slipped a little too much honesty in there.

Compared to your wall of text, his messages are short and straight to the point.

Rex misses you and wants you to come over.

A hollow thud follows after you fall out of the bed right on your ass. But there's no time to waste and sulk over your clumsiness. You start going through the piles of clothes on the floor, searching for something that doesn't stink and is somewhat presentable.

Living in the redhead's room proves to be a terrible idea when it comes to wardrobe options. In a hurry, you put in the earpiece out of habit, throw Rex's zip up hoodie over your pajamas and head to your own room. Thank god it's literally next door.

When you run out to the hallway, you yelp when you hear the familiar voice in your ear.

"No, fuck, no." You catch your head, your fingers digging into your skull. "I don't have time for your lectures now, I have to—"

"In fifteen minutes I'm teleporting you to the Pentagon," Cecil cuts in. His tone is clipped, but not cruel.

Oh.

"You're not going to chastise me for my latest antics? Or missing therapy?"

"I have more pressing matters. Now, get ready. In fifteen minutes sharp I want to see you in the control room ready for the jump."

Even if you wanted to bark something back to the boss, you hear a slight crackle that tells you he turned off the channel.

Now you have even less time than you anticipated. At least it's the same direction you were headed to, so you won't have to spend hours on the jet flying to D.C. Still, you're not thrilled with whatever Cecil is going to throw your way. Hopefully, it will be a quick, solo thing.

Exactly twelve minutes later you're chewing hurriedly on a rice waffle while on your way to the control room. Somehow, you managed to have the fastest shower in your life, chosen the world's most okayest outfit and told Rudy you're having a meeting with Cecil.

With a little less than two minutes to spare, you start typing a response to Rex, but decide against it, deleting every word. Who knows how long the briefing will take. And Rex is the type of guy who loves surprises, so it'll be even better.

It hits your nose first, the sharp smell of electricity, followed by a blue crackle, and there he is. Judging from his face, brows furrowed over the icy cold blue eyes, it's not going to be a quick thing. It never is, with him and his undercover missions.

You groan and walk up to the man, he grabs your arm without a word, and then both of you are gone, leaving behind yourselves only a charge rippling through the air.

You will never get used to being teleported.

It fucks up with your head, your stomach and your whole sense of self. A large, white door to the conference room materialize first in your eyes. Only after a few seconds do you actually feel the cold, smooth floor underneath your feet. You look down, confused.

Shit.

You forgot to put on proper shoes.

So here you are, about to meet with one of the most important people in the country, possibly to discuss a major threat; in fluffy, cow-shaped slippers.

Great.

"Coffee?" Donald greets you with a full cup ready in his hand. You smile and nod, thankful. Maybe it has the taste of old battery acid, but at least it's hot.

When you walk in, you recognize almost everyone. And just as you expected, everyone is wearing suits, meanwhile you're in an oversized hoodie and lounge clothes.

But there's one face you're seeing for the first time, and a handsome one at that. As you pass him, he smiles at you with his big, brown eyes and you mirror the expression instantly.

"Alright everyone, we have one hell of a situation," Cecil starts when everyone is seated and the lights are dimmed. The projector shows a map of Texas and New Mexico with too many pin points on them to your liking.

"Our intel tells us there's an organized crime group that seems to be specializing in kidnapping refugees coming to our country through the south border. They're—"

"Seriously?" You whine, slumping down in the uncomfortable chair. "That's why you dragged me here at 7 in the morning?"

"Are immigrants not important enough to you?" Cecil asks with a sly smile, one you know all too well.

"It's not that and you know it. It just doesn't seem relevant to, you know, the Global Defense Agency?"

"And if I tell you we believe they're kidnapping people and performing barbaric experiments on them in order to create super-abled killing machines ready to wreak havoc all over the world?"

A few chuckles can be heard coming from around the table.

"Go on," you mumble from behind your cup.

As Cecil continues, explaining the ins and outs of the whole gang profile, from the corner of your eye, you notice the new guy glaring at you. Every time your eyes meet, he doesn't look away, only nods at you. Until one time he winks at you, which, to your disliking, makes your cheeks go hot.

"Sir, if I may. I'd like to sum up what we know so far." The man gets up when the lights are turned on and you wince at the sudden brightness. Cecil gives him a sign to continue.

"You believe this group may have access to some internal GDA files on artificial recreation of superpowers, mainly the durability serums and grafting possibilities." He has a surprisingly noticeable southern drawl, thick and sweet like honey.

"Correct, Agent Blackwood."

"Why then instead of surrounding and capturing them, you want us just to do recon?"

"Hear, hear," you tap the table top a couple of times.

Someone has finally told Cecil what they think straight to his face. It's nothing short of impressive, and when the man sits down, he smooths down his tie and turn to you to mouth 'thank you'. This time, it's you who wink. He snorts quietly and then turns to Cecil who was watching you two have a silent exchange.

"I know you're rushing to see your boyfriend, Agent," Cecil shifts his stand to face you, narrowing his ever tired eyes, "but I believe we still owe you all a thorough explanation of the plan."

Again, the room fills with quiet cackles, and you furrow your brows and cross your arms like an upset kid.

"He's not my boyfriend," you mumble, trying to ignore the blood rushing to your face.

"Donald, would you take over?"

"Certainly." Donald gets the light and loads the next slide while Cecil quietly leaves.

"Agent Blackwood made a very good observation. We have enough suspicion to hold and question the group members. The thing is, we still haven't zeroed in on who exactly is in charge of such a wide-spanned group."

"So you don't even have main suspects?" You ask, voice laced with disbelief.

What the hell happened with this organization since you've joined the Guardians full time?

"That we do, but there's too many of them." Donald smiles weakly and goes to the next slide, revealing pictures of six men and two women. "And that's where you and Agent Blackwood come in. You will be traveling to the locations shown earlier, the hot-spots of kidnappings."

Donald jumps to the next slide with aliases for both of you. You don't bother reading through it, you know you'll receive printed out version anyway.

"There, firstly you'll be gathering data from the locals. After you find sufficient data, you'll be blending in their crowd as possible clients of theirs, willing to pay for their services or their… erm, soldiers," Donald makes an air quote at the description, "for lack of a better word."

"Got it." You straighten up, putting your coffee mug a bit too hard on the table, almost spilling the liquid gold. "Are you sending me to Texas or New Mexico then? And when?"

"I believe you misunderstood Mr. Ferguson, Agent…?" Blackwood trails off, and you realize you haven't even been properly introduced. You ponder for a few moments how much to reveal, but you decide on your real last name in the end.

"Pleasure," Blackwood replies with a stretched out hand. "Haven't heard of you before."

"I've been assigned to the field for a while now," you say and take his palm into yours. It's large, strong and rough. His handshake is firm but polite, and it's been a while since a man wasn't trying to assert dominance right upon the first touch. "What did you mean by misunderstanding?"

"Oh, just that we are assigned to the Texas locations together. Haven't you been told?"

You choke on your coffee, barely managing to swallow it. Of course you haven't been told, because you'd have made a scene. You have always done undercover ops on your own. With your abilities you don't need a second agent with you; you can easily blend in and spy without spoiling the mission.

"No, I think Mr. Stedman omitted that detail." You respond, voice dry and rid of any humor that seems to hold onto the agent.

"Don't hold that against him," Blackwood smiles, his eyes dragging up and down your body, "he's a busy man."

"No, of course." You wave a hand, trying to keep your voice flat and devoid of any emotion. "I get that."

"When are we leaving?" You turn to Donald now, trying to get all of the info before you erupt with anger.

"In a month, give or take." He slides two identical folders your way, the one with your name being a little thicker. "You two have to go over some additional training together. And for you alone, we have assigned a dialect coach here onsite."

"Thank you, Donald. Is there anything else?"

"Same as always—do not engage unless strictly necessary. We cannot risk you revealing your identities."

When the briefing's finally over after a few long hours, you exchange the minimum amount of pleasantries and barge into Cecil's office without knocking.

The Director is sitting with his legs up on his desk, nursing a drink in his hand. He looks like he was expecting you, hence something to take the edge off.

"I gather you've been told already." He doesn't grace you with even one look of his empty, blue eyes.

"Why?" You ask simply, tone cold and measured.

The glass clinks gently against the ebony desk as he puts it away, his legs following suit and landing on the floor with a quiet thud. He sits up, straightens his back and brings both of his hands in front of his half-scarred face. You know the pose all too well, he always does it when he wants you to know it's final.

"Because you're a liability."

You gasp, raising your arms up. But no words come from you, and your arms flail down. Because as much as you'd like to prove him wrong, you know deep down in your gut that he's right.

"So why send me at all? Am I not needed in the Guardians?"

There's a long, heavy pause, filled with all of the unsaid grudges.

"The team is afraid of you." Cecil says, and you swear you hear a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Your hands start trembling and you curl them into fists to hide the tremor. "Did Zandale come and whine about me to you?"

"I'm not going to name anyone. There are protocols."

"You and your fucking protocols," you scoff, planting both of your hands on the wooden desk. The furniture piece starts slightly rocking under your fingertips, your powers quietly humming in your veins. "You only use them when they fit you."

The Director sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, seemingly unbothered by your scare tactics.

"Is that all, Agent?"

"For now," you say through clenched teeth and turn on you heel. But before you reach the door, you hear Cecil get up from the desk.

"I don't I think I have to tell you it's a classified operation."

You don't look back when you slam the door with all your might.

The moment you're out, you're met with a wall of muscle right in front of your face.

It's Blackwood.

"We'll be seeing each other more often now," he smirks, gazing at you with a bit less professionalism he's shown in the conference room. You take a good look at him as well.

The suit he's wearing seems expensive—the fabric not too shiny, but not to dull, either. It hugs his large frame in all the right places, and you hate that you notice it. His square face is framed by locks of blond, wavy hair. There's also a faint scar going over both of his lips. Must be a great conversation piece.

"I guess so," you sigh, and it comes out meaner than you expected. It's not the poor guy's fault you've been tricked.

"I promise I won't waste your time," he holds out both of his hands in front of him, flashing you a toothy grin.

"Sorry, it's just… I usually go undercover alone. I'm not used it, is all."

"We should stay in touch." He hands you a slick black card. It says only 'Thomas Blackwood' and below the name is a phone number.

"That a private or a work card?"

"Whatever you'd like it to be," he winks at you again.

Maybe you'll get along just fine then.

"Oh, look who we have here!" Eveline grins from ear to ear when she sees you walking out from the elevator. "Levi, Annabelle, come here!"

"Hi y'all, it's so good to see you too," you wave to the nurses as they gather around the reception desk. "I finally had the time to come and visit Rex."

The man and two women exchange knowing looks.

"And Rae, of course. Her too." You add quickly, chuckling nervously. Who are you trying to fool, them or yourself? "How is she?"

"Rae's still in a coma, darling." Levi leans in closer with an apologetic smile, resting his forearms on the counter. "But the doctors said they might be waking her in a few weeks. She's been healing pretty well."

"Thanks Levi." You reach out and squeeze his arm once, genuinely thankful. "Can I come over to Rex now?"

"Oh sure, honey. But we moved him now to a regular unit, room 17. Do you want me to take you there?" Annabelle offers, already halfway up from her chair.

"No need. I know my way around here," you gesture with your hand she doesn't need to get up, "but thank you."

"He's still in R&D now, but he should be coming back any minute now." Levi adds, glancing at the clock behind his back.

"I'll wait in his room then." You pat the counter and head towards the staircase. Using an elevator for one floor seems pointless.

As you climb up the stairs, the folder feels heavy in your hand, heavier than a dozen of pages should be. You clutch it close to your chest as you pad towards the new room, counting the doors down until you reach number 17.

One month.

And then you're off for God knows how long.

This type of recon can stretch for weeks, if not months. It doesn't help that you'll be spending this time with a man who seems way too happy that you're his designated partner. It also doesn't help you're kind of excited about it as well.

If the nursing staff wasn't there to tell you Rex was moved, you'd have found his room anyway. The smell of sleek paper from dozens of magazines scattered across the room is unmistakable, and would have lead you to him anytime.

When you walk inside, you notice a sofa instead of that plastic chair from hell. Your lip corners curl up; it must have been Rex's request. You flop down heavily, throwing the folder on the cushion next to you, and you wait.

Seconds stretch into minutes, and you're already fidgeting with the zipper. If you're this restless after less than ten minutes, you can't even begin to imagine how Rex must have felt for all these weeks.

And soon, he'll have to go through that again. But maybe he'll be out by then. Busy with hero life, flashing his crooked smile towards fans cameras, pranking Rudy to all his heart desires. The vision makes you snort; a miniature clone of Rex being goofed on by big, OG Rex.

You hear it first, the sound of a wheelchair against the linoleum flooring two floors down. The rhythmical footsteps of a nurse, the way he nips at the armrest's leather, bored out of his mind. You wonder if they have already told him you're waiting for him, or if you get to surprise him after all. Judging by how talkative the staff is here, there's a big chance they have already spoiled it.

"Ban!" Rex almost jumps out of the wheelchair when he notices you laying on the sofa.

Surprise saved.

You're up momentarily, grinning back at him. Then he's standing in a blink too and tumbles onto you, catching you in a tight hug which knocks all air out of your lungs. It takes you a second to hug him back, curling your arms around his neck in a warm embrace.

"You're walking," you notice, your voice muffled, your mouth in the crook of his neck.

"And you're here," he quips, his lips brushing your hair with every word.

Neither of you are planning on letting go anytime soon. Your eyes flutter close, and you let out a sigh of relief, feeling all of the tension of these last few weeks melt away from your body. When your body starts going limp against his, he winces.

"Oh God, I'm sorry—" you jump off like you've touched fire, but then come up close again, scared he might fall.

"I'm not that weak anymore, y'know?" Rex says, but doesn't oppose more when you put his arm around your shoulders and help him walk to bed.

"Just let me do something nice for once."

"For once," he echoes, stifling a laugh.

"I see they can't help you with the asshole problem," you quip when he nestles against a giant pillow.

Normally, he'd bark back something equally petty and stupid, but it doesn't. Instead, he's just looking at you with soft features, eyes glimmering with more life and hope you've seen in a long while.

That's when you notice the change in his appearance.

His right eye is almost back to normal, only a couple of blood specks left. The fresh scars on his face are still shiny, will all the stitches removed. Gone is the metal brace around his head, revealing more hair growth than you've expected after only a few weeks. They are bit of an awkward length, but with that speed he'll be back with a man bun in a month or two.

Your smile falters.

You're probably going to be thousands of miles away when he's discharged. You're most likely to be gone when Rae is woken from her induced coma as well.

"Hey," Rex's voice comes soft around the edges, careful, like he knows what you're thinking. "You alright?"

"Hm? Yeah, no." You force a smile on your face and you pray he doesn't see right through you. "Just—had an early morning."

Whether he sensed you're lying or not, he's not pushing, just gazing upon you with those big, evergreen eyes.

"Me too," the redhead sighs, sinking deeper into the pillow. "They had me at 6 in the fucking morning in R&D."

"Why were you there anyway?"

"Okay, hold your panties," he grins, the upturn of his lips all cocky and smug. It would be a lie to say you didn't miss that view. "You're not going to believe this shit."

"Good that I'm not wearing any then," you say with an exaggerated wiggle of your brows.

A deep red creeps up his neck as Rex clears his throat, fidgeting with the duvet cover thrown hastily over his legs.

"You can't just say shit like that," he huffs, raking a hand through his unruly, spiky hair.

The giggle that comes out your mouth is nothing short of juvenile.

"Are you going to tell me or what?"

Rex looks around the room, like he's gauging the level of suspense from an imaginary audience. You wait, patiently, letting him have this moment of fun. You owe him that much.

"I'm getting a new hand!" The tanned hero announces triumphantly, raising his arms up in a 'ta-dah!' gesture.

You blink once at him, then cock your head to the side, knitting your brows together.

"Huh?"

"I've just been fitted, at the R&D." Rex stumbles over his words, practically vibrating with excitement. "Turns out, GDA can do fucking anything."

"Rex, that's…" You trail off, failing to find good words. It shouldn't have such a conflicting effect on you, yet it does. "How do you feel about it?"

The redhead opens his mouth, then closes it, looking at you a tad disappointed, shocked, even. It's not the reaction he was expecting.

"I'm fucking stoked," his voice goes up higher, bewildered to even be asked such a question. "It really fucking sucks not having your dominant hand, you know? Even picking your nose is no fun anymore."

"Eww," you drawl, swatting him on the leg.

"Oh, stop it." He catches you by the wrist, leaning in closer with a mischievous grin. He's so close you can count his freckles, make out every single scar, new and old. "Everyone picks their noses and you won't make me change my mind."

You snort, shaking your head with warm laughter bubbling up in your throat. "That's not a hill I'm planning to die on."

His skin is warm against yours, his fingers still curled around your wrist. Your eyes meet and for a second you forget how to breathe. It's been a while since you could lose yourself in his emerald irises. With the broken blood vessels healed, the sheer beauty of his eyes pops up again.

The thick atmosphere breaks when your phone slips out of your pocket, hitting the floor with a worrying sound. You clear your throat and the redhead lets go so you can reach your rude device.

"Are you not happy for me?" Rex shifts, rubbing the back of his neck when you look up from the floor.

"Of course I am, Rex. It's not that."

"Then what is it?" He asks quieter now. Your throat starts to get thick at the change in his tone.

"I just…" You look down at your hands in your lap, clutching your phone. Taking a deep breath in, you search for the right words. Only when you find them, your eyes drag upwards to his face, the sad story of his life written down in scars and bruises. "Do you ever think about our ties with the GDA?"

The question hangs heavy in the air, the silence loaded as he mulls over all the possible answers.

"What do you mean?" He finally says, deciding on a safer choice of a follow up.

"Well, whatever happens to us—they can put us back together. Again. And again. Until there's nothing of us left. And even then, we will still be working for them."

His thick brows knit together over his pretty eyes, now tainted with a drop of sadness. And it pains you to know you're the reason of anything else other than joy, especially in his current state. The redhead opens his mouth, but only a choked splutter comes out of it.

"What else would we do?"

You have to look away or else the lump in your throat will turn into a sob.

"There's more to life than being a hero, Rex." You say, voice small and broken.

"Maybe for you."

You don't need to see him to know how he's feeling now. You reach for his hand, but decide against it and instead hide it in your pocket.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Then why did you say that?" Rex raises his voice a little, not cruel or angry, just hurt.

Mustering up some courage, you look him in the eyes again, fighting the tremble in your chin. This time you take his palm into both of your hands. "You deserve more. We deserve more. More than just giving our blood, youth and health for a lost cause."

Rex lets out a long exhale through his nose, resting his head on the soft pillow with closed eyes. When he opens them, he's looking at the ceiling with a weak smile, not the usual one that matches him like a damn glove.

"That must have been a really fucking early morning for you."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sour your mood."

"Don't sweat it," he turns his head toward you, face more relaxed now. "I kinda missed your doomer vibes."

"And I missed you, Rex."

"I can tell," the redhead smirks and catches the fabric of his hoodie between his fingers.

"It's just cozy—none of my sweatshirts fit me the same way."

"Whatever makes you sleep at night." He quips and pinches your cheek.

It's easier this way, when you fall into your usual back and forth with him. If nothing else, you've missed that the most.

"Since I'm already here, how about you show me your latest hits and misses from your beloved magazines?"

"I thought you'd never ask," he squeals like a child and grabs a copy from the bedside table, moving on the bed to give you space to hop in.

You think about it for exactly two seconds, then you're toeing your slippers off, fitting against Rex's arm like a puzzle piece. His eyes follow to the floor, one brow cocked up.

"Weren't you cold on the jet in these?"

"Oh, no. Cecil teleported me to the GDA."

"How kind of him," Rex mumbles under his breath. Then, more serious, "What did he want?"

"Well…" You trail off, playing with the hoodie string, the metal part cold in your hands.

"I guess it's connected to that folder on the sofa?"

Shit.

"Yeah, it is." There's no point in lying now. Not that there ever was.

"And I assume you can't tell."

You hum, nodding your head solemnly.

"Even if I ask real pretty?" Rex tries again, absolutely butchering his attempt at puppy eyes.

"Cecil's orders," you bring your hands up in surrender.

The redhead makes a sound reminiscing a cackle, then opens the magazine on his lap.

"I'll get this out of you one way or another," he mutters under his breath, loud enough for you to hear

"You can try. Now, let's see the 10 Fails in DIY Home Renovations. I can hear it calling my name."

You don't know how much the time has passed. You've been making fun of the spreads and questionable decor choices for hours on end, as well as filling him on the hero life gossip. In return, Rex has been telling you all about his last weeks in the hospital wing. He's the only person you know who can make such a non-story interesting.

The most peaceful hours you've had in a long while.

"What you said about the GDA before…" Rex trails off when you finish going through a fourth magazine.

"Yeah?" You gaze upward from a bathroom spread and find him with a stern look on his face.

"I've been thinking about it." His tone is colder now, and he's staring down at his stump.

"And?" You nudge him gently on the arm when he doesn't continue for a while.

"Before Cecil told me about the prosthetic…" When he looks up to the ceiling, you notice his eyes are glassy now. "I was scared shitless."

You close the magazine and put it away before shifting on the bed, turning your whole body towards him.

"Why?"

"'Cause without my hand I'd be useless for the rest of my life."

Blood almost fills your mouth with how hard you bite down on your lips.

"Rex…"

A cross look flashes his face, "Don't 'Rex' me, it's true. I have no other skills."

He closes his eyes shut tight, an exasperated sound coming deep from his chest.

"What would I even do?" He almost shouts, all vexed and heated.

"You could do literally anything you'd like. Besides, you wouldn't be alone in this. I'd help you. Eve, too. Hell, maybe even Mark. I know you two have beef, but he's a good guy."

"Oh, right." Rex chuckles nervously, most of his frustration fading away as he rubs the back of his neck. "I forgot to mention. Me and Mark are besties now."

Your brows shoot up almost to your hairline, and you blink once, twice, sitting up straighter.

"Yeah, I know. Took me by surprise too."

"I did not expect that on my bingo card," you admit, poorly hiding your growing grin. Then, you change position, resting your head on the giant pillow next to Rex's head. It's so soft and cozy, reminding you of neglecting your sore muscles and healing ribs.

"He visited me a few weeks ago." The hero notices you're much closer than just a few seconds before and shifts, lying on his side. He's so close his warm breath tickles your nose.

"That's it?" You press on with a smirk.

Rex rolls his eyes and sighs, "Aaand he brought me snacks."

This time you break and barely stifle a laugh. "You're impossibly easy to win over for someone this stubborn."

"Do you know how tragically boring the food is here?" He whines in an overtly dramatic tone.

"You mean healthy?"

"Potato, potato." A lazy smirk flashes across his features.

Silence that follows is easy, light and familiar. You let this last for a while, trying to get as much of it as possible before you're shipped to your very dangerous mission. And the suspects are not the worst threat in it.

When the weight of his gaze starts becoming uncomfortable, you break the silence.

"Rex?"

"Hm?"

"How do you feel now? Knowing you'll get a prosthetic, and all."

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he starts playing with the loose threads on the cuff of his hoodie surrounding your arm.

"Terrified."

That's a level of vulnerability you did not see coming.

"Why?"

"I almost died fighting the lamest criminals on Earth, Ban. If I wasn't good at my job then, what's the new hand going to change?"

Instead of showering him with solutions or empty promises, you let him marinate over his thoughts in the safe haven of shared silence. It seems to be just the thing he need, as he doesn't say anything for a while, just stares blankly at the bed sheet where his right hand is just a hair away from yours. Your eyes are fixed there too, but you don't dare move.

"Stay the night?"

You glance at the clock over the door, and you curse under your nose when you see how late it is. Blowing a raspberry, you lift yourself up on your elbow with intent to get up, but he stops you, pulling you back down.

"You know I can't." Even if you want to sound frustrated, the smile stretching across your face betrays you.

"I'm pretty sure they have backups of our suits here. Plus, I don't think Cecil will teleport you back, and before Rudy or whoever gets here to—"

"Okay, fine." You cut his ramblings short, putting a hand over his mouth. "But I'm taking the sofa."

"We haven't even fought about the dirty dishes yet and you're already sending yourself to the naughty bed?" He cackles, taking your hand away, but keeping it close to his chest. You flatten your palm against it, feeling the steady beat of his heart turn into something faster, wilder.

"Rex, you sleep like a starfish." You deadpan, not even a little angry he managed to make you stay. "The only naughty bed is the one with you in it."

"You know I'd love to deliver on that end, but I still need a couple more weeks before I can deliver."

"Oh God," you groan, but there's no irritation in it, "do you ever think about literally anything else?"

Rex looks up at you from below his long, auburn lashes with a devilish smirk.

"Rarely."

The private bathroom door unlocks with a rough click and you step out in your pajamas, which is just Rex's tee and boxers. Asking him for something to sleep in brought back bittersweet memories of the one, sweet night you've shared. It hasn't even been that long, yet it feels like a lifetime ago.

Still, it's better than a walk of shame to the nurses and begging for the GDA thin, scratchy sweats.

"You're staring," you mutter with a smirk, folding your clothes and putting them into a neat pile on the dresser.

"I'm admiring," Rex corrects you, not taking his eyes off of you. "And I still think you're doing your back a major disservice sleeping on that thing."

"Yeah, well." The makeshift bedding proves useful when you hide half your warming up face beneath it. "We don't want to be the hot gossip in the hospital wing, do we?"

"We already are."

There it is again.

The long gaze, one that tells you there's more he'd like to say but hasn't found the right words for it just yet. The one that makes you wonder what actually goes on inside his head. The one that makes you realize, there's so much more to him, and you don't even know the half of it.

You take one last, deep look into the vastness of his emerald eyes before getting the light.

"Goodnight, Rex."

"Night," he yawns, mumbling your name.

It's the scream that wakes you.

"No, stop—leave her alone—" Rex mumbles through sleep, completely delirious, tossing all over the squeaky bed.

"Rex?" You sit up and immediately scan the room for threats, but there aren't any.

Before you have the time to think about, you're already climbing into his bed, resting your hand on his forehead. Initially, he tenses at your touch, but it doesn't take long until he starts to relax. You brush your fingers through his spiky, red hair, soothing whatever nightmare he's having.

It seems to do the trick—his ramblings come more sporadically, body softening against yours, his legs and arms at ease at last.

"Mm, Ban?" He reaches out, feeling your body, as if to make sure you're really here.

"Shh, it's okay. You had a nightmare," you whisper, not stopping the caresses, letting him curl his arm around your waist. Only this once, you can't just leave him now all alone—it would be cruel.

Rex nuzzles into you, his head resting heavily on your chest.

"Stay. Please."

Just this once.

maddie's scribbles: please lmk your thoughts in the comments. specifically, the new character/plot twist of sorts. it means a lot to see your engagement and read your feedback! 🥹

Track 29

⬅️ Rex Splode masterlist

⬅️ main masterlist

if you enjoyed reading, click here to sign up for my taglist so you'll never miss an upload ❤︎

🔥 taglist: @cheeyan @queen-of-gotham @brokenbillionaires-club @enchantedstarfish @spaghetti6622 @not-a-robot1 @poetryearns @halloween666lover @x-intothevoid-x @woahhajimes @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @colonelfish @fanneartist @nishiology @madebyesquishy @stringucheezu @elainewonderswriting @slut4hotppl @huffman24 @libbi5001 @alaniuser @a-memey-pile-of-trash @firebug404 @thelostsea @cassiecasluciluce

For some reason, that day, Agatha was pulling harder than usual, choosing new ways to get to your apartment. And you let her, more than happy to bathe in the golden rays just a little bit longer. Little did you know, you would be thanking her for the rest of your life she chose to take a left instead of a right just before your block.

You heard it first, the iconic bassline of Every Breath You Take by The Police. Your head snapped up at the familiar sound, and that's when you saw him. And you stopped in your tracks, the view nothing short of angelic.

He was sitting on the window sill of his ground floor apartment with windows open wide, music spilling from his room to the otherwise empty sidewalk, cigarette between his fingers. His long, auburn hair were resting on his shoulders, shimmering in the afternoon light, almost like catching fire. His face was made up of sharp lines and edges, with his sharp, hooked nose tying everything into a breathtaking, cohesive image.

The man was already facing you, his round, green like forest trees eyes set on you, glancing at your dog every other second. For a while, none of you speak, taking in the view, both of you glad that every decision you've ever made led you right to this moment.

"They say dogs look alike their owners." His voice was low and warm, his mouth sharpening with a smirk that made your knees buckle. Agatha sat at your feet, panting, her nose pointing at the man like he's a treasure she found just for you. "Or the other way round," he added, taking one last drag of his cigarette before putting it down in the ashtray.

"Haven't seen you before," was all you managed to utter, failing to calm your heart pumping wildly against your ribs.

"I just moved here a week ago," The redhead tilted his head, eyelids drooping heavily over his glimmering, emerald eyes. "You live around?"

"Yeah, just two blocks away."

His eyes dragged slowly from the tip of your head, down to your toes, stopping at your loyal companion who was now laying on the pavement, patiently waiting for either one of you to make the first move.

"Wanna listen to some music?" The man broke the silence first, shifting on the window sill, pointing with his head to the inside of his place.

"Do you have Madonna by any chance?" You replied quickly but confidently, getting back your footing now that the beautiful man has invited you in.

"The whole album and two singles." He sounded nothing short of proud. Whether of you or himself, you wouldn't know. Not like it mattered at the time.

Without a word, you reached down and grab Agatha by the bum and below her front paws, before handing her to the redhead. He quickly jumped off the window sill, taking your poodle from you, your fingers brushing. The first contact with his rough skin has sent a lightning down your veins, right to your heart.

Then, he reached his hand out to you, and you grabbed his palm into yours, clasping it hard before climbing to his place through the window. When you hopped over the ledge, you lost your balance, but the man caught you in his arms, pulling you close to himself.

And in that moment you both just stood there, eyes glimmering with excitement and hope, chests flush together. It was like the time has slowed down, your skin tingling, head getting dizzy.

"What's your name?" You said weakly, barely hiding the tremble in your voice.

"I'm Rex," he replied smoothly, still not letting you go. "You?"

A smile crept up your face as you gave him your name. Rex repeated it carefully, as if trying how it rolls of his tongue, his face showing he liked the way it tasted in his mouth.

That afternoon, you, Rex and Agatha stayed in, going through his impressive vinyls collection, music cutting through the thick clouds of cigarette smoke.

That afternoon quickly turned into the night, and then another.

It wasn't until two days later you finally got back home, completely ignoring your mother's screams and chastises, focused on the warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest.

It was then, that your life has truly started.

maddie's scribbles: is the title sappy? maybe. but! it's based on a true story—this is how my parents met!

rex masterlist | main masterlist | taglist

🔥 taglist: @cheeyan @queen-of-gotham @brokenbillionaires-club @enchantedstarfish @spaghetti6622 @poetryearns @x-intothevoid-x @woahhajimes @lumineya @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @colonelfish @halloween666lover @fanneartist @nishiology @madebyesquishy @stringucheezu @elainewonderswriting @slut4hotppl @thelostsea @cassiecasluciluce @beezblogg

“Oh yeah, that’s me." He leans in closer to your face and squeezes your hand, hard. It sends a tingling sensation throughout your body. You keep your cool, but the reaction is not lost on him.

“Heard so much shit about you," you sneer, tilting your head. Your eyes are locked on his, waiting for his reaction. And he doesn't disappoint when you see a hopeful glimmer in them.

“And?" Rex takes his time to response, eyes flicking along your face, still holding your hand in his.

"They didn’t do you justice," you smirk and move away, as you can feel this conversation is taking longer than you wanted, leaving Rex behind. He leans on the wall, arms crossed on his chest, following you with his eyes.

"Thanks, hotshot," he says under his breath as you walk past him to meet the rest of the team.

The rest of the greetings go as you expected—Rae compliments your costume, Kate sends you a cold look, and Rudy starts asking you a lot of questions.

"Could you elaborate on your abilities? I’m interested in understanding the new team dynamics better." His green eyes are piercing you. Why is he a kid?

"Of course." You knew this was coming. Still, you sigh, and square your shoulders, taking a confident stance, hoping you'd be able to satisfy his curiosity. "As you already know, my abilities revolve around sound. I can control sound waves, which means I can use them as a fighting force, letting me stay back in the battlefield."

"Would you be able to fight hidden, away from the enemy then?"

"Correct," you nod and continue, "I’m also able to manipulate the volume of the surroundings. There’s also something that I like to call spells, which is when I speak in a rapid, unintelligible way. This can disrupt anyone’s brain waves, leaving my opponent very confused or even short-circuited." You smile politely, trying not to stare too much.

He looks weirdly familiar.

“I see. And which of the two costs you more energy?"

“It’s not so energy draining, but I need to focus much more when trying to control sound waves. If I have to hold it for long, and additionally do something else, it can be tiring. Great tool for spying though." You wink at him deliberately, at which Rudy blushes but goes on with his interrogation.

“What about the possible loss of hearing that Cecil mentioned?"

“Oh, that?" You waive a hand, trying to seem casual. "Well, I try to use it sparingly. I call it echo pulse. I use my voice to create a forceful sound wave which is tuned to neural frequencies and could end in permanent hearing loss or even get someone killed."

You can feel others staring at you. from confusion, or fear—or even both. But it's nothing that hasn't happened before. You turn slightly and look towards the rest of the team, hurrying to explain so they can actually understand. If you're to work with these people, they better have a good grasp of your powers.

“In simpler terms, I can fry people’s brains. With sound. But I’d have to be royally pissed to do that. Hopefully I won’t have to use it much—it’s difficult to control and could affect bystanders."

Rudy blinks at you as he is creating a mental list of your abilities, nodding, filing his thoughts away.

“Thank you. That’s enough for now. If you don’t mind, I’d like to meet with you in the following days to discuss it in more detail." You nod politely, but dread the future conversation. You haven’t felt like a study object since you were a kid.

You didn’t realize that you have lowered yourself to be on the same eye-level as Rudy. When you stand up, somewhat embarrassed, you catch Rex looking at you. Or rather, staring.

Then something clicks in your head.

“Are you two," you point at Rudy and at the explosions guy “like, related? Brothers, perhaps?"

“We’re identical twins, actually. He’s just underdeveloped," Rex sends a murderous gaze towards Rudy. You knit your brows together, unamused, but also intrigued.

“Just kidding! This motherfucker here stole my DNA without my permission to fu—"

“Rex, please." Rudy holds his hands out to quiet the guy, who's already next to you, fuming like. furnace. "Forgive me for interrupting, but we went over this already. I apologized and you said you wouldn’t hold it against me."

“That’s enough you two," Cecil steps between them, but he looks at Rex specifically. “Deal with it in private, there’s no need for a show."

“All of you, you can split now. Take some time for yourself while you can." And with that, Cecil's gone, leaving a buzzing, blue ripple in the air where he just stood.

Rudy takes a step in front of the group holding his hand behind his back.

“Uhm, before everyone goes…" he says quietly, his face reddening. “Could we… could we take a group photo?"

The first few weeks go by quickly. You become very friendly with Rae, try to talk to Kate as little as possible and debate for hours with Rudy on a variety of moral issues. You were uncertain of him at first, especially with the whole stealing-someone’s-DNA ordeal, but he grew on you, eventually.

As to Rex, well. Rex flirts with you non stop, or rather, he’s trying to. He showers you with dumb pick-up lines and cheap compliments. You usually shrug him off and tell him to shove it, though deep down you find it endearing that he hasn’t given up yet. But it doesn’t matter, as he is an asshole moron. Very attractive, good-looking moron.

One Monday morning you eat breakfast on your own, some well deserved peace and quiet. Someone walks into the kitchen and you roll your eyes. You don’t need to turn back to see who it is. You can recognize the steps by the sound.

“Hey beautiful, guess what?" Rex stands over you with a piece of paper grinning like an idiot he is.

“Someone offered you a free lobotomy so you’d shut the fuck up?" You don’t look up, answering with your mouth half-full.

“Even better." He slams the training schedule for the week next to your bowl, making it jump and spill some milk. "We have our first training together tonight."

“Then I will need a lobotomy." You groan, grabbing your breakfast and place it in the sink. Without giving him another glance, you leave. Rex stays in the kitchen, scrunching his nose.

“What the fuck is a lobotony?" He mutters, scratching his head.

When the time comes, you put on your suit and head towards the training arena. Rex is already there, along with Black Samson.

“Today we will do half and half training. First 30 minutes as usual, and the next half an hour, an honest fight. Pure muscle, no powers or explosives. Any questions?"

“No sir. Let’s start this already," you say impatiently as you take your position.

“Why do you hate me so much, Banter?" Rex asks, standing across from you, frowning his face in a childish manner.

“You wouldn't get it." you scoff.

He smirks and gets into position as well.

“What if I want to?"

“Ok, ready, set… go!" Black Samson shouts and you move first.

You’re definitely gonna win against Rex, are we kidding? Over the past few weeks, you've learned his fighting style and tactics. And the rest of the team, too, of course.

Somehow, you didn’t win. Maybe he hasn’t enough brain activity for your powers to work on him. Still, you’re a sore loser. Immediately after the fight you head to the showers. You scream and slam your fists on the wall while cold water washes over you. How could you lose against this moron?

After washing your shame away, you get to your new room. It's okay—you’ve had better, but the size is good and the bed is comfortable, which right now is the most important thing. The only real downside is that your only neighbor is Rex.

You flop onto your bed, muscles already sore after the training. You barely put your cover on and you’re asleep almost instantaneously.

Stirring in your bed, you hear three swift knocks, followed by another one after a few seconds. The doorknob turns and your door opens just a crack. You see a familiar man walk into your room, quickly closing it behind him with a gentle click. He is at your bedside in three quick steps and climbs onto you, your body between his legs.

The man starts kissing you, lowering his body so your chests are flush. His calloused hands roam your body through your nightgown, making you quiver. You give the caresses back, scratching him all over his back, getting you a groan from him.

You get on your elbows and touch his chest, pushing it away a little, slowing him down.

“I want to sit on you" you say breathlessly. He hums in approval and gets up, holding your waist and helping you onto him. Now with him between your thighs, you wrap your arms and legs around him. You start kissing him again, harder this time.

The only times he breaks away from you is to give sweet praises, mouthing at your jaw. You feel fireworks going off in your belly, as his right hand travels all over your chest under your nightgown. His other hand is on your cheek, holding you firmly so you can take his kisses, which are getting deeper and hungrier. You notice his fingers touching your left side are delicate, a stark contrast to the grip he has on your jaw.

His fingers trail to your breast, cupping it gently. His hand is very warm, which makes the touch this more soothing. He starts massaging it, kneading it between his deft fingers. You start roaming your hands up and down his torso, finding a lot of scars on his skin. When you scratch, his cock twitches impatiently under your thigh.

You finally break the kiss to get some air in your lungs, using all your muscle strength to do so, as he has you in a steel grip. You are covered in sweat and still not fully awake, feeling lightheaded and almost dizzy.

“I want you inside me," you whisper and he chuckles, but it's not cruel, rather warm and approving.

You open your eyes. The face of the man is still out of focus, barely lit by the moon creeping through your window. You look into his green eyes, and—

“Rex?!"

You wake up with a loud gasp, drenched in sweat, bolting upright to sit on your bed. That did not just happen.

You trail your trembling hand down between your legs, only to find yourself extremely wet. You look down in disbelief—it's a god damn flood. There’s a wet stain on your sheets, a living proof of your fantasy. You often talk in your sleep, so you hope that no one heard anything.

That he didn’t hear anything.

Track 2

🔥 consider joining my taglist so you'll never miss new tracks drop!

“LIAR!” Rex bitchslaps the man, and his head turns so violently to the side, it’s a miracle it doesn’t fall off. “You’re coming with me, you fucking creep.”

“And you’re what, police?”

Rex chuckles, but the sound’s dark and thick like tar. 

“Nah, man. Far worse. But you are gonna rot in prison and regret ever coming to this shithole.”

“I don’t think so,” the guy spits in his face and shoves Rex away. He flees the second he’s free from Rex’s hold, but not for long. 

Rex catches the asshole by his hair and brings him down to the floor with a blunt thud. 

The woman that was talking to the man screams, people jump away like the bar’s on fire. Seconds later, Rex is on his knees, the guy between his legs, groaning from pain.

The dark-skinned hero picks the loser up by the collar of his shirt, bringing him very close to his face.

“Wrong move, motherfucker.”

With a speed of a blink of an eye, Rex stands up, dragging the guy with him and shoving him on the barstool.

He doesn’t waste a moment this time, and his fist crashes with the creep’s jaw with a crunch that definitely sounds like fractured joints. That’d suffice, as the man almost loses consciousness, but still tries to fight back. He manages to land one blow at Rex’s mouth, cutting his lip open. 

He spits out blood, and then turns his head back to the creep, looking him in the eyes with nothing less than animalistic rage. It awakened something wild, primal even in Rex and he knows he simply cannot stop there.

Another hook lands at the loser’s face, and this time his jaw is definitely broken. Then, Rex bends his knee and shoves it in the guy’s sternum, making his breath catch in his throat.

From the crowd, someone calling for security can be heard, but it’s all background noise to Rex, he’s in an anger trance now.

His nostrils are flared, chest moving up and down fast, his heart pumping blood full of adrenaline driving him towards the one and only path he’s ever really known in his life—destruction.

Trying to grasp some air into his lungs proves difficult when Rex grabs the creep’s head and bangs it on the bartop with a bang so forceful, all the glasses jump, with some even falling to the floor and breaking into tiny pieces.

Someone shouts to call an ambulance, someone else says it’s the last time they came to this place.

Rex spots with a corner of his eye some nervous movement from the small crowd surrounding him and the loser. He also notices a metal shaker, and without thinking twice, grabs it and slowly charges it in his hand. A second before it’s too late, he stops himself, throwing the shaker to the floor before it’s actually ready to explode. So he sticks to the tried and tested—his fists.

Rex is almost at his final blow, when he feels a large, strong hand on his shoulder.

“That’s enough,” the large bouncer says, voice so low, it almost reaches the pits of hell. He drags Rex away from the creep who slips down like a puddle to the floor. 

“You’re coming with me.”

“I’m only doing what you—hey!”

The bouncer grabs Rex by both arms, bringing them to his back. But he’s not pulling him in the exit’s direction, no. He’s taking him somewhere else, and Rex very much doesn’t like that.

“Let me go! Do you know who I am?!”

Rex struggles to break free from the grip, but the security guy’s just too strong, too big.

“I don’t care, boy. You can tell that to the police when they come.”

Rex tries kicking him, headbutting, but to no avail. The bouncer keeps him where he wants him.

And so Rex shoots him his worst look. “You’ll fucking regret that!”

“I doubt that.” The bouncer laughs and starts moving towards the front entrance, pushing Rex forward like he weighs nothing. “Now, shut the fuck up and stop writhing. It’s over.”

“No! Not fucking over!” 

Rex finally manages to break free and then, he makes one of the biggest mistakes this evening (minus leaving you alone by the table) — he tries to punch the bouncer.

And that doesn’t end well for him, not one bit.

The bouncer knocks him out clean in one blow, making Rex fall to the floor like a puppet whose strings were cut loose.

—

Faint flickering of the light above brings Rex back to a somewhat conscious state. He’s lying down on the world’s thinnest mattress, extremely smelly at that. Sharp, pulsating pain on the left side of his head makes him groan, the spot raw to the touch. He sits up, and carefully, slowly, opens one eye to inspect where the fuck he’s at.

If not for his strong joints, his jaw would fall down to the ground. 

He’s in a fucking jail.

Behind the bars, on the side of freedom once had, a police officer walks by, his shoes clicking with every step, patrolling the corridor of cells filled with mostly homeless people taken in either by pity or for simply daring to exist.

Rex swings his legs from the bunk bed, only to realize he doesn’t have any shoes on. His socks touch the wet, concrete floor. In a quick few paces, he’s standing at the bars, trying to ignore the seeping cold from underneath.

“Hey,” Rex starts casually, “c’mere.”

The guard doesn’t flinch, doesn’t grace him with even a quick glance.

“Officer,” he tries again, softer this time, “I have a question.”

The policeman stops and sighs deeply, closing his eyes at that. “What.”

“Can I make a call? I gotta get someone to bail me out.”

When no answer comes, Rex pushes even more, squeezing the bars for his dear life.

“I have a right to at least one call,” he states, trying to hide the shakiness in his voice.

The man in the corridor finally turns to him, squinting his eyes. “There’s no need for that.”

The redhead tilts his head, knitting his brows tight, trying very hard to not break down right here and now. “What? Why?”

“We got a call from D.C. and it turns out you got some friends in the higher-ups. You’re gonna be out tomorrow, give or take. ‘Hero’ or not, there’s still paperwork to do.” The guard does air quotations in a very obnoxious manner, setting Rex off.

“That’s too late! I have to leave today—my girlfriend’s in the hospital!”

“And so is the guy you almost killed with your bare hands.”

Rex holds his breath momentarily, stilling himself for the inevitable scolding he senses is coming.

“Man’s in a coma; ten bones broken, face so devastated he’ll probably need a new one, along with a new set of teeth.”

“He shouldn’t have roofied my woman then,” Rex mutters, turning on his heel, shoulders stiff at the memory of you, weak and limp like a ragdoll, slipping through his hands like sand.

“Maybe you should’ve kept her by your side then,” the guard scoffs and resumes his patrol walk, banging on the bars of another inmate’s cell.

“Fuck off.”

Normally, Rex would’ve lashed out more at the guy, but there’s no use. He knows how this works all too well; he has put tens if not hundreds of people behind bars. So he flops down onto the bunk bed, regretting it immediately when his back makes a cracking sound, and not the one that gives you relief.

He drags his hands down his face, cursing himself for ever taking you to that damn club. It’s all his fault, he fucked up, again. But hey, same old, same old. When did he ever not fuck up anything good he had in life?

The big, black clock on the wall above the exit shows a few minutes past 5 in the morning. You must already be in the GDA’s hospital, being taken care of and… all alone. Rex can’t stand the thought of you waking up without him by your side. The confusion that will most likely shake your whole being, followed by anger, disappointment and worst of it—regret.

All his restraint, him being on his best behavior—all for nothing. Completely lost because of some douchebag who chose you as his victim. 

He should’ve found a way to go with you, try flying the damn jet behind you two. Or maybe just sit his ass for once and wait for Mark to get him as well. Or ask to be teleported, somehow. If Cecil could teleport machinery, armies, heroes from different parts of the world, then why…

Oh, shit.

Rex bites on his cheek and turns to the side, curling up like a fetus, hugging his knees tight to his chest.

Cecil probably—no, he absolutely knows already what happened. He also knows that his two best assets snuck out from the base without telling anyone besides Rae, jeopardizing any possible rescue mission that might have happened while you and him were grinding against each other on the dancefloor. 

Great, so not only has he most likely lost his girl, but also his job. The only thing that was a constant among the chaos and madness that was his life. His whole persona, his fucking identity. 

Rex lets his eyelids drop heavily over his tired, bloodshot eyes, hoping to fall asleep fast, and wait out this whole fucking nonsense.

—

“Get up, Sloan. You’re out,” says the guard, his voice barely coming through between loud banging noises. Does every fucking cop has to be so cliche and hit the bars with their bat?

Rex takes his sweet time to walk out of the cell, already completely disheartened. His whole body is stiff, both from sleeping in that rock-hard bunk bed, but also in the expectation of being berated like an unruly kid. He wonders, who did Cecil send this time. Not Rudy, that’s for sure. Though it would be one hell of a view, a kid version of himself bailing him out.

He hopes it’s not one of the so-called dads of the Guardians, Samson or Immortal. Though the latter is actually more of a great-grandfather of the team, and would probably feel too proud to even do such a thing anyway. But if he did, he’d bore Rex to death on the way to the base, his stoic, monotone voice lulling Rex to sleep like the best lullaby.

Maybe it's Donald, he runs errands like that for Cecil. Which would be the better option, as he’s usually rather quiet and has given up on lecturing Rex a long time ago. Donald would just take him to a diner, saying he knows how terribly they must have fed him in the jailhouse.

But the best person to take him from this shithole would be Rae. She’d definitely be pissed, screaming at him over a burger and fries, telling him bullshit threats, like their friendship is over, but eventually forgiving him sooner than later. And she’d definitely know—and tell without being asked—how you are holding up.

If… you’re even holding up at all.

Cold sweats run down his back at the thought; he shakes his head violently, trying to rid himself of the mental image of your unresponsive body. He searches his mind for a more happy, alive, memory of you, but your pale face and empty stare keeps coming back like a boomerang.

The guard gives Rex his belongings back, his shoes along with his phone, which he tries to unlock, but the battery’s dead.

Off to a great start.

The redhead glances around to check who’s his ride back home, but doesn’t see anyone besides the officers giving him disgruntled looks.

“Who’s bailing me out?”

“He’s waiting in front of the station.” The cop doesn’t look up from his phone, legs parked on his desk, swinging his foot impatiently. Rex rolls his eyes and sighs; so it’s not Rae. Chances of a warm meal dropped spectacularly low.

The sun blinds Rex the moment he steps to the sidewalk, and he brings a hand to cast a shadow on his face to be able to spot the familiar face that’s gonna bring him back to his own, comfy bed. The bed that holds a lot of memories, both good and bad, and almost all of them somehow intertwined with you.

He curses himself in his mind; how can he be thinking of his bed, when he should be focusing on the one that has your weakened, abused body.

His eyes finally get used to the bright, noon sunrays, but he still can’t see anyone around the building that actually bailed him out.

“Look up.”

Rex does so and groans, his arms immediately dropping in disbelief when he notices the figure floating a few feet in the air.

“M—Seriosuly? They sent you, the mighty Invincible? Shouldn’t you be, I dunno, saving the world?”

“I asked to come here myself.”

“Oh yeah? And how exactly are you gonna take me to the HQ, huh? I think you forgot a blanket. Unless, it’s only for her—”

“I’m not gonna take you anywhere. You got out of there somehow, you’re gonna get back there the same way.”

“What?! Then why’d you even come all this way?”

Mark flies down but doesn’t set down on the ground, only floats above it, inches from Rex’s face. His jaw is wound tight, teeth gritting like he wants to look scary. But he doesn’t, it’s impossible with such a puppy face, and Rex can’t help but stifle a laugh.

“What’s so funny, Rex?” Mark’s voice drops down an octave, the redhead ceasing to make any sounds at all. But doesn’t stop the hero from intimidating Rex more, no. He moves in closer, making the dark-skinned boy take a step after step back, until his back hits the rough brick wall.

“Why did you have to do this?”

“I—You know why, cut the shit, Mark.”

“Don’t call me that when I’m in the suit.”

Rex scoffs, but Mark leans in even closer and continues, his jaw clenched like a tight knot.

“Do you really have to be told everything, like a child? To wait for my call when she’s safe?”

Rex crosses his arms on his chest, raising a brow, all cocky demeanor, even though Mark’s words cut him deep like daggers. “And you want me to believe you wouldn’t have done the same? If your girlfriend—”

“I wouldn’t have left her alone,” Mark utters, voice low and quiet, this time actually dangerous.

Rex gulps, but doesn’t back down—he cannot at this point.

“She can take care of herself, you know? She’s powerful as fuck.”

Mark chuckles, but it’s dark, unforgiving. “And yet she ended up in a hospital.”

“Fuck off, Invincible.” Rex pushes off the wall, and starts walking slowly in the direction of the building he parked the jet at. “Thanks for nothing, dude.”

“You won’t even ask how’s she doing?” Mark shouts behind him, tone more cruel than ever.

Rex doesn’t turn to the floating hero when he retorts, “I already know she’s fine; you would be singing a different song otherwise.”

Rapid whooshing can be heard, the fallen leaves and dust getting up with Mark’s brisk take off. Rex’s shoulders drop an inch from relief; knowing you’re safe and made it.

And that Mark didn’t beat his ass.

—

People walking past Rex circle him around like he’s got the plague, staring at him, pointing fingers and whispering to each other. Some even gasp and take out their phones to snap a photo of Rex Splode, the Guardian of the Globe, walking around Salt Lake City with a black eye and bloodied knuckles, smelling like old gym shorts and regret.

But Rex doesn’t care, he can’t. He only goes forward, in hopes of walking out this tight ache nestled comfortably in his chest.

He only realizes he’s been wandering for hours when the sun starts to set, and he is nowhere near the designated landing building. He’s been lost in thoughts, replaying the events of the fatal evening. 

How you smiled at him when you took his hand. 

How your eyes flickered when he grazed his fingers along your waist; tingles like energy flowing between your bodies, tangled together on the dancefloor, swaying together in one smooth rhythm.

How everything felt right, like he actually made it; he really got you to trust him that it’s gonna work out. It had to.

But it didn’t.

Rex finally reaches the beat up block of flats that stood out like a sore thumb among other, newer and smaller buildings in the neighbourhood. He stands in front of the entrance, staring at the door, hands curled into fists in his bloodied khakis pockets.

The cool air licks his body, the sound of leafless trees’ branches crackling from the gushes of autumn wind; a certain forecast of a long overdue rain.

Where exactly is he supposed to go now? To the base; to take a shower and eat something, and trying to ignore the unforgiving stares and comments from the team? Or straight to the GDA, which would take hours, to see you, to check on you? If you’re still there at all.

He doesn’t feel like he deserves any of the options, and the urge to find a sketchy strip club or call one of his flings grows stronger with every passing beat. But somehow, he fights through the feelings of not being good enough for this world and finally moves forward, the decision  where to head sitting heavy on his chest, leaving him almost out of breath.

maddie's scribbles: writing physical fights is harder than i expected

Track 21

⬅️ main masterlist

⬅️ Rex Splode masterlist

if you enjoyed reading, click here to sign up for my taglist so you'll never miss an upload ❤︎

🔥 taglist: @cheeyan @queen-of-gotham @arrivedercis @brokenbillionaires-club @n0isypeech @enchantedstarfish @spaghetti6622 @not-a-robot1 @poetryearns @halloween666lover @x-intothevoid-x @woahhajime @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @colonelfish @fanneartist @nishiology