“You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.” — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
[[MORE]]NSFW Rex Splode x Fem!Reader 𑣲 Thanksgiving Special 𑣲 WC: 4,629
A/N: This bad boy was too long and I don’t feel like editing it right now. Maybe I’ll come back to it in the future, but if you see any grammar or spelling mistakes: Nuh uh.
Thanksgiving at Guardians HQ felt like someone had forced the fragile, warm holiday onto a battlefield. Cecil insisted it would ‘boost morale’, but the room still smelled faintly of dried blood and sweat underneath the scent of roast turkey. Someone had tried to cover the stench, Eve probably, with pungent cinnamon candles.
Kate worked at carving the turkey, attempting to make something domestic out of a team who hadn’t been built for peace. Samson was already two bites in, eating rapidly like it would cause the meal to end earlier. Robot sat like an iceberg at the far end, observing, unmoving. You nearly laugh at the purely symbolic fork in his hand. Monster girl stabbed at her mashed potatoes like they were a training dummy, already dissociating.
Then, unfortunately, there was Rex: Stretched back in his chair, boots up, grinning with his showy kind of confidence that always felt one spark away from burning everything down. His hands were laced behind his head like he was posing for a camera that didn’t exist, like the team was lucky to have him seated at the table. You sit directly across from him. Not that you had a choice. Rex was the last to join for dinner, and it was the only available seat.
Dinner started peacefully enough, the way all storms usually do. There was small talk. Eve tried asking everyone about their week, like this was some sort of normal work dinner and not a collection of superpowered disasters pretending to be average humans.
“How about we say what we’re thankful for?” Samson speaks, tired of the tension. “Make it festive.” You wished you had telepathy in this moment, so you could scream directly into his mind: No.
Everyone took turns like they were reading from cue cards: Gratitude for teamwork, for survival, for another rotation around the sun. Robot offers some statistics about the cultural value of ritual gratitude. Monster Girl shrugs and says she’s grateful for the pie she hasn’t even tasted yet. Then, finally, Eve gave an encouraging nod to you.
“…I’m thankful…” You say slowly, and calmly, catching Rex’s eyes watching you, like a thumb pressed into a bruise. “For people who know how to get to dinner on time.” There’s a beat of silence, then Eve groans, knowing what’s coming.
“My turn.” Rex leans forward. “I’m thankful for capable teammates who contribute more than they complain.” Kate puts her face in her hands.
“Here we go.” Samson mutters.
“I’m thankful,” You begin, setting your fork down gently on the table. “That low standards exist. It must make dating so much easier for some people.”
“Oh please.” Rex barks out a laugh: One sharp exhale filled with disbelief. It was almost as if he lived for this: The conflict, the spark, the chance to get under your skin. “Standards? Sweetheart, people line up for a guy like me.”
“Not anyone with functioning vision, I guess.”
“Well, you seem to stare at me plenty.”
“Of course. It’s like I’m watching a car wreck. Just can’t pull my eyes away from the absolute disaster you are.”
“Says you, Princess. When was the last time you got laid? Is that why you’re always acting like you’ve got a stick up your ass?”
“Oh, of course you’re thinking about my sex life, you man whore.”
“What sex life is there to think about? I’m sure nobody wants to sleep with such a bitch.”
There was something so naturally infuriating about him. Screw his stupid posture, his stupid smirk, his stupid personality. Maybe it was the candlelight, or the cheap warmth, or the way everyone collectively went silent while bracing for the next collision, but your blood boiled.
“Alright.” Samson speaks up. “You two knock it off, or I’ll send one of you outside.”
“Good.” You mutter, chair scraping back so abruptly that it startled Kate’s third copy. “I’m getting some air.” You don’t wait for anyone to respond. Certainly not for Rex’s voice trailing after you, singsong and far too pleased:
“Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Sweetheart!”
When you bust through the doors and into the hallway, it’s much colder than you’d expected. You walk briskly, like the intense motion will shake the irritation out of you.
You hadn’t meant to seem so dramatic. You only needed distance. Breathing room. Somewhere where the overwhelming perfume of holiday spices didn’t press into you.
You weren’t angry with Rex because he’s obnoxious. You were angry because he was effortlessly obnoxious. He was born with an uncanny talent to pry at you like a puzzle box and chew on your pieces like some babbling toddler.
The worst part of it all? He knew.
He knew exactly how to slip beneath your skin and unfurl there. He knew how to rile you. How to haunt the soft parts of you that you wish didn’t exist. He’s a parasite.
He knows you.
You stayed in the hallway until the frustration wound down from a boil to a light simmer. Long enough for your breath to slow and for you to find peace in the fact that you believed you were finally alone.
Unfortunately, peace is a temporary visitor in this hell hole.
From around the corner, you heard rustling, and the sound of Samson’s muffled voice:
“Be a man for once in your life and apologize.”
Oh, no.
God, no.
“Why me?” You heard Rex snarl. “She’s the one who started it!”
“Rex. Go.”
There was a moment of silence, then a groan, then the sound of heavy, familiar footsteps storming down the hall towards you. Your jaw clenched as the footsteps came closer, and you turned around. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face before you had composed it into something sharper. Something that could pierce his ego.
He stopped a few feet behind you. You didn’t have to turn around to see him roll his eyes. You could hear it. He was so lodged in the depths of your mind, you just knew.
“Hey.” He speaks: One word. It’s flat, uninvested, and completely lacking in remorse. You wonder if he ever considers other people’s feelings while he tramples through the world. His world. “You stormed out.” He adds, as if you weren’t already aware. Still, you say nothing. He lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Dude, Samson is totally on my ass about making holiday shit pleasant and whatever. So here I am. Doing the thing.”
“That was not an apology.” You speak finally.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t do anything wrong.” He huffs. You turn, slowly, and there he was: Standing in the awful hall light with hands shoved in his pockets. He looked annoyed, and that at least brought you some comfort.
“You’re unbelievable.” You hiss.
“Hey,” He lifts his chin, as if his attitude wasn’t already enough to reflect his narcissism. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Against your will, yeah.”
“Cause everyone is making a huge fucking deal out of nothing.” He groans. “What? What did I do? You’re just mad I’m not on my knees for your royal highness-ness. You just want me to feel bad, but I don’t. I’m not sorry for what I said.”
“Yeah? Well, me neither.” You say, but it doesn’t make you feel any better.
“Great!” He throws his hands in the air. “Fantastic! Nobody’s sorry!”
“I walked out for some space, which you are totally not giving me. I didn’t want to cause a scene-”
“Oh, please. Everything with you is a scene. It’s like you’re some sort of attention whore.” He takes a step forward, pointing an accusing finger at you.
You take a deep breath, shutting your eyes for several seconds, because the simple act of looking at him is awful enough. When you reopen your eyes, he’s still there. Still smug. You still hate him.
“I don’t want you here.” You say, simply. “Especially not if you’re just making things worse, as always.”
“Well, I didn’t even want to be here! Newsflash princess, I don’t care about you. Samson forced my ass out here because you can’t handle a simple dinner without getting your panties in a twist.” He pokes his accusing finger at your chest, and you slap it away. Hard.
“Don’t touch me!” You bark, taking a couple steps back to create more distance between you two.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” He takes another step forward, crowding you until your back hits the wall. “Did me being within 5 feet of you ruin your night? You big baby.”
You shove him. It’s instinctual. Natural. It feels too good, and it sends him stumbling back only a step. His eyebrows raise, almost as if he’s delighted.
“Oh? We’re shoving now? Is that where we’re at? You can’t handle your big girl feelings?”
“You deserve worse.”
“You think you could take me?” He shoves you back, much lighter than you had done to him. There’s nowhere for you to go, your back pressed against the wall.
“I think, if you don’t back off, I’ll certainly give it a shot.” You threaten. You’re a superhero, after all.
“What is your problem?” He hisses, taking half a step back, seeing the look in your eyes. Ultimately, he still wouldn’t want to mess around with you and your kickass powers.
“You!” The word rips out of your throat, like it’s been waiting there for years. “You are my fucking problem, Rex!”
“Why?” He taunts. “Why? Cause I don’t kiss your ass like the rest of the team does?”
“You just-” You take a step forward, shoving him again, craving that joy you found when you last shoved him. “You don’t think!” You shove him again. “You don’t respect anyone!” Another shove. “You’re-” But before you can finish, he grabs your wrist. Not painful, but enough to stop the next shove which was already halfway there.
“Stop it.”
“Let go.”
“You stop first.”
“Let go, Rex!”
“Make me.” The words are so childish. So, infuriating. So, him. Too him. You struggle against his grip; his palms are surprisingly warm. “God, you’re so… So-”
“What?” You bite out. “I’m so what? You think you know everything? You always-” But before you can finish, you see something in him snap, and he surges forward.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not sweet.
It’s a collision: Your shoulder hits the wall as his fingers fly to your jaw, mouth crashing into yours with an ugly, hungry, reckless passion which feels entirely out of place.
You gasp out of shock and anger, and he takes that split second to his advantage. It’s a breath, like an invitation. His lips are warm and desperate, like he’s trying to win something: Trying to prove something.
Your hands fist into his shirt, not to pull his closer, not to push him away, but as an anchor through your confusion. Your whole body has betrayed you, leaning into him before your mind could catch up. He kisses like he fights: Messy and unrestrained.
It lasts too long, or maybe not long enough. It shouldn’t have happened to begin with, which makes everything so much worse. Yet, worst of all, you don’t pull away immediately. Rather, your lips move instinctually against his, like it’s the most natural thing you’ve done.
By the time your brain catches up to the situation, his hand is already gripping your hair. You break away first, shoving him back with both hands, chest heaving.
“What… What the fuck Rex?!” You spit, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, but it doesn’t help. You still feel the heat of his lips on yours. “What the hell!? This isn’t some fantasy 'enemies to lovers’ porn scene!”
“Wow.” He blinks at you, the corners of his mouth twitching up into an infuriating smirk. “You kissed me back.” He breathes like there’s a mocking laugh hiding beneath it.
“i… What?!” Your chest heaves, still recovering from the collision of his lips, the press of his dominant body, and the audacity of it all.
“I said, you kissed me back.” He repeats, a look of smug disbelief on his face. “i thought you hated me?”
“Don’t be idiotic. I do hate you. I absolutely did not kiss you back, you creep.” You snap, heat rising to your face.
“No?” He tilts his head, cocky and teasing. “So what would you do if I did it again?” He says, taking a challenging step closer to you.
“Rex, what the actual fuck.” You take a timid step back, holding your hands out like a barrier. “I will kill you. Literally. I would. You take a step closer and I’ll snap your neck.”
“No you won’t.” He calls your bluff, hands coming up to your wrists and pushing them aside as his warm body inches closer and closer. You hate him. You hate his smug attitude. You hate the fact that in this moment, you can’t find the power to shove him away. You can’t use your powers on him. You can’t do anything. You just stand there like a fish out of water. “Tell me no.”
“What?”
“Say no.” He urges. “Say you don’t want me to.” Your pulse quickens, and this feeling of adrenaline almost reminds you of the fight or flight responses you face nearly every day. “Say it.”
You can’t.
Why can’t you? This man infuriates you to your core. There is no other person on God’s green Earth that makes you feel this way. Nobody gets on your nerves the way he does. Nobody can find that one thing that makes you feel small the way he does. Nobody knows you like he does.
Shit.
Nobody knows you like he does, and maybe that’s just it. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s why the words of protest are stuck on your lips. Maybe that’s why you refuse to move.
He watches you. He’s always watching. He knows you. He sees the war waging inside you, like he’s memorizing it. His face lowers until his breath is hot against your cheek. He gives you all the time in the world to pull back, but you don’t.
His mouth finds yours again, softer this time. No rush. No panic. His lips move slow, measured, like he’s relishing in every second until you inevitably say no.
You hate him.
God, you hate him.
But you pull him closer anyway.
He feels your pull, and his restraint snaps, hands sliding into your hair as your back hits the wall again. Your leg bend just enough for his muscular thigh to slot between yours.
His tongue slides along your lower lip, searching for entrance, which you readily provide. His tongue tangles with yours in a messy, hungry dance. You taste the sharp tang of whiskey, which he must’ve swiped from Cecil’s stash.
He tugs your hair, tilting your head back and deepening the kiss like he owns it. Like he owns you. Your fingers grip his shirt, wanting for a sense of control.
One hand slides down to grip the back of your thigh, hiking it up around his hip. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, squeezing, and he jolts forward, arousal pressing against you.
Your arms lock around his shoulders, nails digging into the back of his neck as he clutches the flesh of your thighs. You shouldn’t be enjoying the strength behind his grip so much. You shouldn’t be enjoying him at all.
You didn’t think it possible for the kiss to become filthier, but it has: All wet heat and biting lips as your teeth clash. You manage to find small breaks between kisses to speak:
“You room, Rex.” You command, breathlessly. He gives an enthusiastic groan as his face nuzzles into your neck, pressing light kisses on the sensitive skin just below your ear.
“You’re assuming I can make it that far.” He murmurs against you.
“Your. Room.” You insist, sternly, feeling rather wary of the possibility that you’d be caught in this position. He lets out a sharp, frustrated exhale through his nose.
“Fine.” He growls, reluctantly loosening his grip. His hands slip down to squeeze your ass one more time before your feet meet the ground. He grabs your wrist, practically dragging you down the hall with zero subtlety, his obnoxious boots scuffing against the floor. You stumble after him, trying to keep up with his shamelessly brisk pace.
He yanks open his bedroom door, shoving you inside and slamming the door shut behind him without a second thought. His room is exactly how you’d imagined: Messy with clothes scattered on the ground and posters of half-naked women on the walls. You don’t have much time to see what other obscenities are lurking before his lips are on yours again.
He leads you backwards until you trip onto his bed, back pressed against the sheets as he comes down above you. His hips rest between your thighs, hands pinning your wrists beside your head. His lips move to your neck: Sucking, licking, and biting like he wants to leave marks. The thought is embarrassing, infuriating, and somehow, exciting.
He bites down near your collarbone, and your back arches off the bed. He lets out a pleased growl, releasing one of your wrists, his hand now free to roam your body. It slides down your side, his warm fingertips toying at the hem of your shirt.
Your newly freed hand is impatient, trailing down his chest and straight to the waistband of his pants. Your fingers break the seal, and you tug on the fabric.
He lets out a sharp noise when your fingers brush against the bare skin around his pelvis. His hips jerk forward, like your touch is magnetic. He pulls back to look at you, and you look right back. His pupils are blown wide, those pretty green eyes staring into yours. His hair is already disheveled, and beads of sweat form on his forehead.
“Take it off.” You order, chest still heaving as your lungs cry for air and your head spins.
He grins, hand immediately working the edge of his pants and tugging them down with ease. He doesn’t even bother kicking them all the way off: He does just enough to free himself. He’s already twitching and leaking with arousal.
“Happy?” He taunts as he drags his impressive cock along your thigh through the fabric of your clothes. “Or do you have more to be bossy about?”
You’re at a loss for words. You almost understand, now, why Rex is always such a pervert. If you were such a well-endowed man, you would be too.
“See something you want?” He teases, bringing his hand to himself and rubbing a thumb over the pre-cum oozing at his tip. He brings his thumb up to your lips. “C'mon. Have a taste.” You silently curse your newfound submission as you take his thumb into your mouth, and he watches you such with half lidded eyes. “Good girl.” He murmurs, pulling his thumb out and tracing your jawline.
“Shut up.” You hiss while his thumb strokes your cheek, smearing your own saliva on your face.
“Ooh, can’t handle a little praise?” He mocks, other hand slipping up your shirt to fondle you. “Don’t worry. I like it when you’re all feisty.” You let out an involuntary sound as his fingers pinch your nipple, your legs tightening around his waist without thinking. Somehow, you’re already soaking through your clothes, which only feeds Rex’s ego. “Look at you. Already making a mess, and I’ve barely even touched you.”
“Then touch me.” You challenge.
Immediately, he moves you closer, like you weigh nothing at all. You shiver as greedy fingers dip under your waistband, hooking the fabric and pulling it down. A rough sound emanates from the back of his throat once your clothes are finally out of the way.
“Fuck,” He exhales shakily. “Look at this.” His fingers swipe through your slick heat, pressing against your clit. He relishes in the way you whine for him, shifting between your legs as he lines up with your drenched entrance. He teases for a moment, rubbing the tip against you. “Tell me what you want. Beg for it.”
“W-What? Fuck off, Rex. Just do it.” You stutter out, refusing to be reduced to some sort of pleading mess.
“Not good enough.” He shakes his head with a smug grin. “I’m not doing anything until I hear it.” He leans closer, hot breath against your ear. “I’ll take care of you, princess. I’ll give you exactly what you need. Just ask.”
“Your ego is so annoying, you know that?” You grit. Then, his hips jerk forward abruptly, just enough to tease the head of his cock before he pulls back again. You gasp at the sudden motion, nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders. “Rex!” You hiss.
“Say it,” He growls, hips stuttering forward again, sinking the tip inside you before he stops. “Or I swear to God, I’ll leave you like this.” He threatens, fingers digging harshly into your thigh.
“Shit, Rex-” Your head falls back against the mattress as you groan at the feeling of him idle inside you. You want more. It’s not enough. “Give me more.”
“More, huh?” You feel the way his body trembles as he holds himself back. “You need to say 'please’ when you’re making demands, princess.”
“Fuck, Rex, you’re just such an asshole.” You whine as his he pushes forward an inch, but it’s still not enough. “Please, okay? P-Please. Is that what you want, you arrogant-”
He cuts you off with a ragged groan, slamming the rest of his length into you all at once, a lewd wet sound reaching your ears. His hands fly to your hips, holding you down as he bottoms out. The feeling makes you lightheaded: You’ve never been so full.
“Quit squeezing.” Rex pants, forehead falling against yours. “Shit… It’s always the crazy bitches who are so tight.” He swallows hard, letting out a pained noise.
“Stop talking.” You groan, experimentally rolling your hips. Rex shivers at the motion. “Just move.”
“Bossy girl.” He huffs before pulling almost all the way out, then snapping back in, hard. His rhythm is brutal from the start, as if he’s been waiting for this opportunity.
It’s impossible to keep quiet: Not at that pace he’s set. It’s rapid and animalistic, like a punishment. Lewd sounds erupt from your throat with every rough thrust, knocking the air from your lungs. You press your lips together in a line, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your moans.
“Nuh uh.” He grunts, rubbing circles over your clit. “Don’t you hide those pretty sounds from me. You just don’t want to admit it, do you? That you turn into such a pretty little slut for an asshole like me?”
He shifts your hips upwards; arms wedged under your back as he takes you at a new angle. The pleasure from this new position sends a loud, pornographic moan uncontrollably ripping through your throat.
“Ngh- Yes, that’s it. That’s it, baby.” His mouth latches onto your breast, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. He lets out a strangled sound as you clench around him, rhythm faltering. “Fuck- Fuck- It’s too good.”
You grab his jaw, pulling him back up and crashing your lips against his. He groans into the kiss, licking his way into your mouth. His thrusts turn erratic, losing all pretense of control as the pleasure coils.
“Mm- S-So close-” You mewl. He growls against your throat.
“Yeah? Come on, then.” He rasps, hips slamming into you harder. Faster. “Cum on my cock, pretty girl.” His calloused palm wedges between your bodies, pressing down on your lower stomach. The pressure sends you over the edge.
He lets out a choked sob as you clamp down around him, his hips stuttering wildly before burying himself to the hilt with one final thrust. His release spills into you as his forehead drops against your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin.
Several moments of tattered breathing pass, unmoving as the reality of the situation sinks in to you both. Finally, he lifts his head to look at you: Face all flushed and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. His gaze flicks over the bites along your neck and the crescent shaped marks left by his nails in your skin.
“Y'know what I’m thankful for?” He mutters, drinking up your wrecked appearance with pride. “This pussy.”
“You’re done.” You scoff, shaking your head at the absurdity of his statement. He pulls out before flopping onto the bed beside you and surprisingly pulling you into his chest. “Woah. I didn’t know the great Rex Splode was a cuddler.”
“I’m not a fucking animal.” He scoffs, adjusting you over his arm. “I know what aftercare is. It’s basic human decency.” You stare at him, and he stares back, defensive as ever. “Don’t be weird about it. You can leave if you want.”
After a moment, you push off him, legs unsteady in a way you hope he doesn’t notice. He’s proud enough as it is. Yet, he does notice, and he sits up, watching you swing your legs over the edge of the bed.
You made pitiful attempts at cleaning up your appearance, redressing the bottom half of your body, despite his fluids leaking out of you. He sees you fumble, jaw tight and hands drumming on his knees like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Another gush of warm sensation slides down your thigh, and you curse under your breath.
“Jesus.” Rex mutters. “Okay. Move.” He says, propping out of bed and grabbing a handful of tissues nearby. He steps in front of you like he’s doing something completely normal. “Hold still.”
You’re too surprised at his behavior to argue. His touch is clumsy, but careful. More awkward than anything. He tries his best not to make eye contact. He finishes his clean-up mission quickly, stepping back and tossing the tissues in the waste bin
“I’m not leaving, leaving.” You say finally. “We just… We need to get back to dinner. You know? Can’t hide out in your room for the rest of the night.”
“I mean, we could.” He shrugs. You glare, and he responds my holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”
You straighten up your shirt and glance towards the door. Rex runs a hand through his hair, trying to flatten it. This attempt fails miserably, and he grumbles something under his breath about 'this being so stupid’.
He opens the door a crack, peering out into the empty hallway. He jerks his chin in a silent 'go ahead’ motion. You slip out first, heart hammering against your ribs, and Rex follows a few seconds later.
The door shuts softly behind you, sealing away the evidence of what just transpired inside. Yet, the heat follows you as you trek down the hall like two criminals fleeing the scene.
No matter how far you run from that room, no matter how far you run from him, it follows you: The heat. The understanding. The looming inconvenient truth:
Rex worms his way into you. Pushes your buttons. He wedges himself into the fractures of your soul with the instinct of someone who’s mapped them by heart. He recognizes you with a familiarity too intimate for anyone else to ever achieve.
Rex knows you. For better, or for worse.
Maybe there’s a consequence for letting something go too far. For letting him slip past your defenses and reasoning. He is a curse you’ve now invited in, and you are forever responsible for this brute of a man you slowly, accidentally tame.
