#rex splode request

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

You know she’s not wrong—the majority of the line consists of other extremely skimpily dressed women. The queue even rounds the corner of the building, and you wonder if the people at the end will even get inside. But that’s none of your worry, the most important thing is you get inside and get to dance the night away.

After ten minutes or so, the line finally moves and you start nearing the entrance, slowly but surely. Even before you get inside you can feel your body wanting to groove, the loud music slipping through the tiny cracks in the wall.

Once you’re in, you’re greeted by stuffy air, lively chatter and bass thumping under your feet. The dancefloor is quite full, but not too crowded—just enough space to move and show off a little. You didn’t spend years in dance classes to now just sit your ass at home or dance in your room when no one’s there to bear witness.

Your friend gestures that she’ll get a drink for both of you and you tell her that you’re heading straight to the stage, right under the DJ’s booth where the heat is the highest. Dancing on your own is cool, but what a club’s great for is finding a partner to sway together with.

Surging through the ocean of bodies proves quite easy, you know your way around clubs and what’s the etiquette on the dancefloor. The closer you get to the center of the dancing space, the louder and clearer some cheering shouts become. You’re instantly intrigued and squeeze between people faster, curious who’s stealing your spotlight.

What you see is a stupidly good-looking redhead with a man-bun doing the Coffee Grinder move on the floor, sending lazy but overtly confident looks towards a group of women gaping and giggling. You would join them as you’ve never seen anyone actually do it, let alone this graciously. He then proceeds to spin on his back, doing the windmill, before finishing with a few Kick Outs, to finally jump up to his feet and freeze with his arms spread out. A few people start clapping and he bows, clearly loving the attention.

But you know better than that, so you just roll your eyes and scoff, which to your demise is louder than you wanted and lands exactly on a song fade. Everyone—including the hot, obnoxious dancer—turns their attention to you.

“I bet it’s the only move he knows,” you shrug and turn to leave, but you’re stopped in your tracks when someone’s hand grabs your shoulder. It’s, of course, the tanned b-boyer. You flick your eyes up and down, judging the authenticity of his fit. To your dislike it looks legit, nothing try-hard or fake. Same as his face, the cocky smirk on it seems real, not rehearsed.

“You always insult people at the club?” He tilts his head when you cross your arms over your chest. Somehow, standing his gaze proves difficult.

“Only the ones fishing for applause,” you say casually, though warmth blooms under your cheeks and you thank silently for the dimmed club lights.

“Bet you can’t move like that.” He points a finger gun at you, which under any other circumstances would be lame, but somehow suits him and feels even… weirdly cool. 

“You did not just say that.” Trying to sound offended doesn’t really work when you almost squeal at his words.

“Oh, but I did. What, wanna prove me wrong?”

“With pleasure,” you reply with a grin, shoving him to the side and stepping slowly into the empty space left after his performance. You came here to dance anyway, a little challenge only adding to the thrill of the evening. 

Not taking your eyes off of him, you start with a slow, measured Pretty Wine, rolling your hips deliciously into the rhythm of a Sean Paul duet with Tyla, PUSH 2 START. Not giving him a chance to interrupt, you sway your hips from left to right, accentuating the move by lifting your heels from side to side. Then, immediately, you lift your arms up and start isolating your hips back and forth, almost like you’re twerking. The man is giving a silent nod of approval and comes up to you, clapping slowly with intent.

“How’d you like that?” You ask with a devilish smile.

“More than you know. I’m Rex, by the way.”

You spot your friend with your drinks with the corner of your eye, clearly examining the situation. You quickly wave at her, gesturing that you’ll come over in a moment. 

“And I’m gonna let your little crowd fawn over you and try not to steal your spotlight,” you retort, slowly stepping away and pointing with your head to your roommate.

“Where do you think you’re going? You owe me.” He squints his eyes, mischief glistening behind what seems to be green irises.

“You think I’m gonna spend the night with you just because you liked my moves?”

“Nah. You owe me a dance off.”

Your stomach drops to your ass—you came here to have fun, not dance-fight with an obnoxious dude.

“Unless you’re scared,” he adds. That gets you riled up in an instant.

“If me winning means you get lost, then so be it.”

He doesn’t seem to be any bit offended by your choice of words.

“And if you lose, I get to spend the afternoon with you tomorrow. You in?” Rex stretches his hand towards you and just waits, measuring you calmly with his gaze.

“Sure,” you grab his palm; his skin is very rough and calloused. “It’s good to have dreams.”

You shake hands and someone from the crowd cuts the deal. Another person must have somehow come up to the DJ and let her know what’s going on, because she turns the volume down and grabs the mic to announce the competition you found yourself in. Quickly before the whole ordeal starts, you run up to your friend, grab the drink from her hand and drink half of it in one go.

“I’m sure you’re glad now you waited to get here.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“You’re the best dancer I’ve ever seen, you got this.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t seen him. He’s good.”

The Moves like Jagger by Maroon 5 starts playing and Rex gestures to the empty space with a wink. “Ladies first.”

Before you can realize you’re actually a little stressed, your body takes control and starts moving like it’s second nature. With deliberate steps, you get into the center, surrounded by tipsy, chanting club-goers. Beginning with the Kushie Wine, you get low on your knees and step to the side, then to the front; following with the One Knock move you recently finally mastered. When you’re done, the crowd is cheering loudly, almost shouting over the music. Emboldened by the adrenaline and the applause, you graze your finger along the line of his jaw when you make room for him to show off. 

“Not too bad, beautiful. But watch this.”

He gestures to the people gathered around to step back and you’re already wondering what kind of acrobatics he is going to do.

Well, the man does exactly that—fucking Simone Biles level gymnastics. He drops to the floor and starts airflaring like a spinning top. Then, he proceeds to do a few Backsidekickspins before getting up while jumping over his leg that he’s holding by the heel. He finishes off rather modestly compared to his previous moves, with a simple cross step, moving his hands from his head to the floor. You have to give it to him, he’s extremely fit—he didn’t even break a sweat, unlike you. The people gathered around chant and clap, the sound reverberating in your ribs.

Begrudgingly, you have to join them this time, trying to conceal the fact you’ve been fidgeting with your fingers during his whole routine.

“I bet you want my number already,” he grins, bumping you with his arm on the way from the center.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you lift a brow, hopefully hiding your admiration. “Are you always this lame?”

“I’m gonna be even worse when we go out tomorrow.”

Before you have a chance to retort, the DJ fades down the song and asks the crowd for their vote. It’s only then you’ve realized that there are live feeds of the dancefloor on monitors hanging from the ceiling around the club.

“Will the dancehall queen please step out?”

Suddenly, shyness washes over you, your ears and cheeks warming up despite the AC going.

“And can the b-boy master stand next to his beautiful opponent?”

Rex walks up to you, chest out and all proud, waving like a fucking rockstar to the screaming girls. You can’t help but roll your eyes—there’s a fat chance you’re gonna have to meet with this dork tomorrow, if you’re not dying from a hangover, of course.

“All those in favor of the new lady?”

It feels like almost the whole club screams, with a definite lead of male voices. Of course.

“Now all those in favor of our usual star guest?”

That’s when it hits you—you’re not the first, and definitely not the last dance off this devious, insanely good-looking redhead had in this club.

“Wait a min—” You’re outyelled before you can finish, and this time definitely the whole club is going apeshit, everyone cheering, scanting and jumping like they are rabid.

“Don’t drink too much, sugar—I need you fresh and clean tomorrow at three p.m.” He fishes out something from his pocket and discretely puts it into your hand, closing your fist around what feels like cardboard. Still shocked you don’t check at first what that is, and Rex uses the moment to steal a hasty kiss on your cheek. “I hope you’re an honorable loser,” he mutters into your ear, voice low, vibrating against your skin down to your stomach. And then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd.

Your friend comes over, both of your drinks already empty. “Don’t give me that look, I was stressed as fuck.” She glances at your hand, still holding whatever that ginger asshole gave you. “What is it?”

You uncurl your fist to see… a business card?

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” Your shoulders start to shake as you laugh with disbelief.

The card says:

Rex Splode — Pyrotechnics Connoisseur & Breakdance Virtuoso.

divider by @cursed-carmine