cupcake ۶ৎ

The argument had been stupid, something small that snowballed in the car on the way home. You were still fuming in the passenger seat, arms crossed, when he finally sighed and pulled into an empty parking lot behind an abandoned store.

“Baby, I’m sorry,” he said, voice low. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You looked at him for a long second, still irritated, then unbuckled your seatbelt. “Then prove it.”

Before he could respond, you shoved the seat back as far as it would go, hiked your skirt up, and slid your panties down your legs. You grabbed the back of his head and pulled him toward your already wet pussy.

“Eat it,” you ordered, spreading your thighs. “Right here. Make it up to me.”

He didn’t hesitate. He leaned over the console, broad shoulders wedged between your legs, and buried his face in your cunt like a man starved. His tongue dragged hot and heavy through your folds, licking up every drop before latching onto your clit and sucking.

You moaned loudly, fingers tightening in his hair as you rocked against his mouth. “That’s it… Apologize like you mean it.”

He groaned into your pussy, the sound vibrating against your clit as he ate you out messily; tongue fucking into you, lips sucking, nose bumping your clit with every eager movement. The windows started to fog up while he devoured you, completely focused on making you feel good.

You came hard on his tongue, thighs squeezing around his head, moaning his name as pleasure pulled through you. Even after you finished, he kept licking softly, cleaning you up like he was apologizing with every stroke.

When he finally pulled back, lips shiny and breathing hard, he looked up at you with dark, hungry eyes. “Am I forgiven?” he asked, voice rough.

You smirked, still catching your breath.

“Not yet,” you said, pulling him back down. “Keep kissing it better.”

Dex slipped through the door at 3:17 AM, boots quiet on the floor. He barely made it two steps before you were on him. “Where the fuck have you been?” Your voice was sharp, anger flashing in your eyes. “You said you’d be home hours ago, Dex.”

He shrugged, that infuriating little smirk tugging at his lips. “Work ran late.”

The argument exploded fast: your yelling, his cold, defensive replies, the way he kept pushing your buttons like he wanted you to snap. He did. It always ended the same.

Within minutes, he had you on your back, legs wrapped around his waist as he shoved himself deep inside you with one thrust. Rough, angry, and exactly what he craved. “Fuck you,” you hissed, gripping his hair hard while he pounded into you.

Dex groaned, hips snapping forward relentlessly. “Harder,” he breathed, voice low and fucked-out.

You reached up and slapped him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side, and for a split second, his eyes widened in raw, pathetic pleasure. A broken moan tore from his throat as he twitched hard inside you.

“Again,” he gasped, cheeks flushed, looking down at you with desperate, needy eyes. “Please… hit me again.”

You slapped him once more, harder this time, and Dex’s hips stuttered, driving even deeper as he lost himself completely. He secretly loved this- the sting, the anger, the way you punished him. It made him feel wanted. Owned.

Military!Dex who has zero actual social skills in the barracks, but the second anyone asks about home he lights up like a damn Christmas tree. He’s that guy pulling out his wallet to show off picture after picture of you — you smiling at the camera, you in his old hoodie, you kissing his cheek. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” he brags, voice full of rare, genuine pride. The other guys tease him for being whipped, but he doesn’t care. Talking about you is the only time he feels normal.

Military!Dex who will never, ever admit to you that he sometimes hires private eyes to keep tabs while he’s deployed. He tells himself it’s just worry. He’s halfway across the world with a rifle in his hands and nightmares in his head; he just needs to know you’re safe, that you’re waiting for him, that no one’s trying to take you away. Every report that comes back saying you’re okay lets him breathe a little easier.

Military!Dex who used to nervously twirl a challenge coin between his knuckles to keep his hands busy and his mind steady. The day he decided to propose, he replaced that coin with your engagement ring. Now when the anxiety creeps in, he spins the ring on its chain around his neck instead — a constant reminder of you, that you’re his, that he has something worth coming home to.

Military!Dex who writes you letters that are almost painfully honest at 0300 when he can’t sleep. He never sends the ones where he sounds too broken. Instead he sends the ones where he tells you he’s counting down the days, that he’s being careful behind the scope, that he’s trying to be better for you.

Military!Dex who fucks you like crazy the second he’s back on American soil. The insecurity hits hardest after long deployments — he’s convinced you could do better, but the way you look at him and the way you moan his name keeps the darkness quiet.

Military!Dex who keeps a photo of you tucked inside his helmet. During long, silent hours on overwatch, he pulls it out and traces your face with his thumb. You’re the only thing that makes the violent thoughts fade. His reason to keep his aim true and his mind intact.

There was something sweet about sleepy kisses.

Maybe it was because they happened when neither of you were trying. Just two people still caught somewhere between dreams and reality, reaching for each other on instinct alone. He always kissed you differently when he was sleepy. Slower. Softer. Like even half-asleep, his body knew where home was.

Sometimes it happened before sunrise, when the room was still painted blue with early morning light and the world outside hadn’t fully woken up yet. You’d stir beneath the blankets, feeling the warmth of him shift beside you before sleepy hands found your waist beneath one of his old t-shirts. Just to keep you close.

You’d barely have your eyes open when his nose brushed yours, as he pressed a lazy kiss to your mouth. It never lasted long, just a gentle press of lips that felt more like a habit than anything else, like he couldn’t start his day without making sure you were still there. And every single time, you’d smile into it.

Sleepy kisses were honest. No one performs when they’re half asleep. There’s no practiced charm, smooth words, no trying to look pretty or flirting. Just tangled blankets, messy hair, pillow creases pressed into skin, and affection in its simplest form.

Some mornings, he’d kiss the corner of your mouth and immediately fall back asleep. Other times, you’d be the one waking first, unable to resist leaning over to press a tiny kiss against his cheek or forehead. He’d hum quietly every time, eyes still closed, already chasing after you before you could pull away.

Like his body recognized yours before his mind had even caught up. “C’mere,” he’d mumble into the pillow, voice rough with sleep. And you always did.

Because there was something impossibly tender about being loved in those in-between moments. The kind of love that lived in drowsy smiles and warm sheets and kisses given so absentmindedly they had become second nature. The kind that said 'I’d find you even in my sleep.'

Military!dex x reader

‎ꫂ᭪݁ Includes: (800 wc) ..... f!reader, mentions of violent thoughts & ptsd, pwop, p in v, missionary position, creampie, est relationship. takes place when dex was in the army as a sniper.

"Clank. Clank. Clank."

The sharp metallic rhythm of dog tags against the wooden floor pulled you from sleep. Dawn light filtered weakly through the curtains of the small off-base apartment you shared. There he was, on the floor beside the bed in nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants, muscles flexing and glistening with a light sheen of sweat as he powered through perfect push-ups.

Army!dex x reader

‎ꫂ᭪݁ Includes: (800 wc) ..... f!reader, mentions of violent thoughts & ptsd, pwop, p in v, missionary position, creampie, est relationship. takes place when dex was in the army as a sniper.

"Clank. Clank. Clank."

The sharp metallic rhythm of dog tags against the wooden floor pulled you from sleep. Dawn light filtered weakly through the curtains of the small off-base apartment you shared. There he was, on the floor beside the bed in nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants, muscles flexing and glistening with a light sheen of sweat as he powered through perfect push-ups.