rex splode: the playlist
track 20: don’t hold back
summary: Rex lets go of any boundaries holding him back.
rex splode x female reader warnings and tags: mdni, 18+, self-indulgent, canon divergence, kinda slow burn-ish in reverse?, angst, violence, threats, hurt/no comfort, Rex's POV word count: 3084
Track 19
The playlist
“Hey, asshole!”
By some miracle, the creep knows it’s him being called out, and so he turns. He does so slowly, shoulders up to his ears, even with a little shake to his skinny body. Rex is at his side in a few quick paces, curling his fingers in the creep’s drenched polyester shirt.
“What did you do to her?!” The redhead screams, way too loud even for the club’s noises.
“Nothing, man—she must’ve drunk too much—”
“Don’t you fucking lie to me, you piece of shit! You slipped something into her drink!”
“Well, you shouldn’t have left her all alone, I saw her doing multiple shots, one by one—”
“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
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