You just learned a new catchphrase? Now you both have a new catchphrase. Even when you're not around, he still uses those stolen words every chance he gets.
"Okie dokie," you said on your first date. Since then, he hasn't stopped saying "okie dokie" after briefing Nadeem on cases, earning the same weird look from the fellow agent every single time.
You're annoyed at first. "Dude. Why do you keep repeating everything I say?"
Dex doesn't answer, but a week later, you catch him calling another agent "dude" over the phone after they screw something up.
And just like that. Your words? Being stolen again.
After a while, the annoyance turns into fondness, and you start teaching him what to say and when to say it.
Honestly, it's kinda cute.
Dex has social media, but he hasn't been keeping up with trends. He's there only because you're there. So when he comes home one day and casually drops a slang you've never taught him, it makes you pause.
"Where did you learn that?"
"What?"
"What you just said. Who taught you that?"
You swear his head grows bigger when he straightens up next to you on the couch. "I can be hip, you know."
You burst out laughing, head falling back against the couch, hair brushing his arm. Dex narrows his eyes at you, heat creeping up his neck, but he doesn't move away. He likes being in your space. "What's so funny?"
"Hip," you wheeze, wiping tears from your eyes. "Nobody says that anymore."
Turns out he's been secretly looking up "Slang terms and how to use them like a pro" because he thought you'd like it. You always say things he's never heard before.
The tips of his ears turn pink, and it only makes you laugh harder. You grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer. He automatically shifts so you can sit in his lap, your hands looped behind his neck.
"Hip," you repeat and peck a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth, where a smile is threatening to appear despite his fluster. "You're hip. The hippest person in the world."
A crooked smile finally tugs at his mouth as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck to avoid your gaze. The embarrassment lingers, but your laugh and sweet kiss quickly melt it away.
"No," he murmurs, his voice muffled by your skin. "You're the hippest person in the world."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
“Who was that?” Dex closes the bedroom door behind him with a click. The sound cuts through the silence of your shared apartment, except for your frantic breathing and the shuffling sound in the closet.
“No one.” You say quickly, pressing your back against the closet doors, handles biting into your skin through the thin fabric, but it feels like nothing compared to the pounding heart beneath your ribs.
You didn’t expect Dex to come home this early. He said he had to run an errand two towns over. And by “running errands,” it could vary from raiding an AVTF base to whatever the hell Mr. Charles assigned him to. You never know. The moment you heard the lock turn, you practically shoved the mysterious someone inside that cramped space.
Straightening up, you push off from the wood to block his view. The familiar scent of soap and rain clinging to his suit envelops you. “You’re home early. How’s-”
“Baby. Who was that?” Dex cuts you off mid-sentence, his voice low, bordering on threatening instead of affectionate. His gaze stays fixed on the creaking doors, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Did you invite someone over?”
“No,” you snort, though it sounds like you’re bluffing. “Don’t be silly, sweetie. C’mere. Let me help you get out of these.”
Your hands reach for his gear straps, but he pulls back. His head cocks to the side, eyes piercing into yours.
“Don’t change the subject.” His voice leaves no room for argument. “Tell me, who are you hiding?”
The rustling sound doesn’t stop, which only complicates the situation. Before another excuse leaves your lips, Dex sidesteps around you and heads straight for the doors. His fingers brush the knife strapped across his chest as his eyes sweep the room for anything else he can use.
Then again, anything can become a weapon between those calloused fingers.
“Ooof!”
Time seems to freeze after he yanks the door open, realization slowly dawning over him.
The puppy swings his tail from left to right, tongue hanging out, floppy ears jiggling with the movements. He looks up at Dex with wide, bright eyes, like the man hung the moon.
You huff a small, awkward laugh. “Surprise!” The fluff ball chimes in with another joyful bark.
“This is who- what you’re hiding? Jesus- I thought-”
“Sorry, baby. I didn’t know how to tell you,” you explain, kneeling on the floor when the fluffy little thing waddles towards you, mud dragging along his path. “I found him on the street. It was raining hard, and there was no one around. He looked so sad, Dex. I couldn’t leave him there.”
As you scratch underneath his floppy ear, your voice shoots up three octaves. Baby talk activated. “Yeah, you like that, don’t cha? You like that, huh? Who’s my good boy? Yeah, you are. You’re my good boy.”
The sight of you beaming and the little dirt ball nuzzling into your hand drains all the fight out of Dex. He stares at the messy trail like a stubborn stain that refuses to fade after the third wash on his favorite shirt, the corner of his mouth twitches.
Then the whelp yaps again, pulling Dex back into reality. “No.”
“What do you mean no?” You scoop the cotton ball into your arms, muddy paws and all.
“It can’t stay.”
“Why not?”
“It was living on the street. You don’t know where it’s been.”
“Okay. Not anymore.” The little guy licks your cheek, agreeing with you. “Aww. Look at him, Dex.”
“I am looking at it.”
“And?”
“It appears to be a dog.” You blink at him. “And?”
“Dogs are loud, sweetheart. They shed. They smell weird.”
You gasp softly, offended on the pup’s behalf, then tilt your head to whisper in his ear. “He didn’t mean it like that, cutie pie. Don’t listen to him. Dex’s just being silly. He’s so silly, don’t he?”
Oblivious to the insults, the fuzzy ball gives another yip and licks your cheek again.
Dex can only sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose, contemplating how this ten-pound bundle of wet fur and oversized paws is somehow gonna fit into his your squeaky-clean apartment without him going insane.
And that’s how you end up in the bathroom at 11 pm, scrubbing brown smudges out of the sheets because someone let a stray baby roll around on the bed before Dex got home. According to your man, “that's your accomplice.”
Oh, and the muddy potato? He’s staying, obviously.
Dex keeps his routine strict. He works out daily, carefully watches his diet, does the laundry every other night, and changes his sheets every weekend. He's fully convinced that an ordinary virus can't possibly get to him.
So when the day finally comes, you'll definitely find him embarrassed, curled up in bed, coughing his lungs out, shivering under three layers of blankets, and stubbornly claiming he's totally fine.
The thing is, what he says rarely matches what he means. He's so used to proving his place in your life by being useful that being cared for is still a foreign concept to him.
He won't pull back when you rub the vapour balm on his back, or dab the cool cloth against his heated skin, or gently massage his pounding head.
What he will do is try to do push-ups to prove that he's "not sick," which never ends well. More often than not, you'll have to help him back to bed or maybe just to the couch because he's too heavy when he goes limp from exhaustion.
"I'm not a baby. I don't need you to feed me." He'll turn his head away like a pouting puppy as you bring the spoonful of hot soup to his mouth.
When you ignore the attitude and keep the spoon steady, he'll reluctantly take a bite, though not before sniffing and judging the color of the broth as if his nose isn't completely blocked and his eyes aren't glassy with fever.
He'll grumble through the first few bites. But once the soup starts working its magic, the complaints usually stop, and he'll just open his mouth for the next bite without being asked.
So much for not being a baby.
After he's finished, he'll stubbornly tug you down under the sheets with him. He'll lock his arms and legs around you like an octopus and bury his face deep into your chest.
"Thank you." He'll exhale slowly as you scratch his scalp, his breath hot against your skin. It's a quiet tell of the lingering fever, but he already feels so much better now that you're here.
And he won't even argue when you tease him about being needy. He'll nuzzle closer to you to hide the small smile on his face before he closes his eyes and drifts back to sleep.
"…Dex? How much pepper is too much pepper?" you call from the kitchen after accidentally dumping half the pepper shaker into your eggs. Already regretting buying it, especially since Dex had repeatedly tried to talk you out of it.
But it's engraved with your initials. Yours and his. It's meant to be.
"How much pepper…" Dex repeats, processing the words and the hint of awkwardness in your voice. He steps up behind you, peering over your shoulder to look at the blanket of spice draped over the eggs. The cap sits on top of it like a cherry on a cake.
You expect an "I told you so," or a sigh. Something to tell you that it's too early for him to deal with your clumsiness.
Instead, he gently grabs your waist and moves you out of the way. "I'll handle it. Why don't you go get the coffee, hm?" He murmurs, already reaching for the spatula to scoop the ruined eggs into the trash.
"Wait!" your hand shoots out to grab his bicep. The cotton of his sleeve is soft beneath your fingers. Dex looks over at you, confused. "It's still edible. We just need to uh… separate the pepper from the eggs."
That makes Dex arch his brow. He looks at you, then at the pan in his hand, then back at you again.
"You serious?"
"As a heart attack."
Then, with the resignation of a man accepting his fate, he puts the pan back on the stove and reluctantly attempts the egg-pepper surgery.
Logic has never stopped him from fulfilling your requests. And it's safe to say it'll stay that way for a long time.
Fast forward to that evening. You step into your shared apartment after a long day at work. Exhausted, all you want to do is shut out the world and cuddle with your man. The breakfast incident had already left your mind hours ago.
Dex is hunching over the stove, cooking. He'd already changed his crisp suit into a t-shirt and sweatpants. You pad into the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his middle. "Smells good, baby."
Then, the shaker catches your attention.
There's a strip of clear plastic wrapped around the container, just above your initials, securing the cap.
You chuckle, tilting your head to catch his side profile over his shoulder. "Did you do that?"
Dex doesn't look up from the chopping board, his rhythm perfectly steady. "Unless some helpful mice crawled out of the walls and took care of it while you were at work… then yeah, it was me."
Sarcasm. Damn, you taught him good.
Your smile deepens, and you tighten your embrace. "You didn't have to."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The first time you met Dean Winchester, you were head over heels.
Literally.
Your cat nearly gave you a panic attack by climbing up the big oak across the street. Thanks to her, you were hanging from a tree branch with one leg stuck and your head pointing straight toward the ground while she sat safely on the porch, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
Yellow figures arrived just minutes after your neighbor called.
“You’re gonna be fine, sweetheart. I’mma get you down, alright?” Dean’s muscles flexed as he climbed to your side. His green eyes were enough to pull you out of your panic. “That’s right. Eyes on me. Atta girl.”
Safe to say, your eyes never really left the friendly neighborhood firefighter after that humiliating ritual.
You’re making dinner when Dean comes home. The TV is still on, and so is the smoke alarm.
“Son of a– Move!” His eyes widen at the sight of you fanning the fire on the counter. He quickly steps behind you and steers you aside with his hands on your waist. With practiced ease, he snuffs out the fire, though smoke still lingers in the air.
You don’t even know how it happened. One minute, you’re flipping through your magazine, waiting for the pasta to cook. And the next, you find your fluffball dragging the burning dishcloth across the countertop, a trail of fire following her like she was straight out of hell.
Dean already told you not to leave your magazines near the stove to avoid a fire hazard. But what are you supposed to do while waiting for the food besides reading? Your phone is too distracting. You’d forget about whatever you’re making the moment you start scrolling.
Welp. You should’ve just listened to the expert. Lesson learned.
Dean turns off the alarm and dumps all of the newest issues, or what’s left of them, into the trash, then turns to you.
“Damn it, sweetheart. How many times do I have to tell you to put these away? It’s dangerous. What if–” He tilts his head, and his voice softens instantly when he notices your tremble. His hands find your shoulders. “You okay? I’m sorry, baby. C’mere.”
He tucks you into his chest, arms around your smaller frame. You can hear the frantic heartbeat through his uniform shirt, which tells you the fireman is more concerned than angry.
“I’m okay.” You murmur, though your hands are shaking. “Sorry, baby. I didn’t think it would be that bad.”
“‘Course you didn’t.” His arms tighten around you for a second too long, like he needs to feel you, all warm and breathing, before he can relax.
“One of these days, I’m gonna come home and find you roastin’ marshmallows while my clothes are burning,” he laughs. “Don’t get me wrong, sweetheart. I like surprises, but I prefer having a roof over my head.”
You huff a small laugh. “Hey!”
“What? Like you didn’t set our kitchen on fire ten seconds ‘fore I even stepped through the door.”
“It was the cat.” You mumble, and a playful scoff escapes Dean.
“Riiiight,” he drawls, his voice vibrating pleasantly in your ears. “And you were aidin’ it.”
“Did not!”
“Then how are you gonna explain that?” He jerks his chin to the trash, and your lips pull into a small pout as you wriggle in his arms. “It was herrrr!”
Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head at your stubbornness. “Alright then, maybe we should do somethin’ ‘bout it. Teach the little felon a lesson. Maybe no treats tonight?”
Your cat chooses this moment to strut into the kitchen and mewl in protest like she’s been eavesdropping all along.
“You got a problem with that?” Dean turns his head to talk to her.
She answers with another meow. Then she rolls onto her back, wriggling on the kitchen island like someone else just did. Dean bites back another laugh, his eyes crinkling as he looks down at you.
“You realize your cat just committed at least three felonies, right?” he says. “I swear, baby, she’d had it out for me since the day she got me called out to rescue your ass.”
“Pffft. Now you’re being dramatic.”
“Attempted murder, destruction of property, conspiracy–”
“That’s it.” You rise onto your toes and press a kiss to his lips. A small triumphant grin spreads across your face. You wanted to shut him up, and you did.
But the victory lasts about two seconds.
Before you can pull away, Dean’s hand is already in your hair, soft lips brushing against yours. “Not so fast,” he murmurs, settling his other hand at the small of your back to draw you closer.
He kisses you slowly this time, and you melt right into him. A soft hum escapes you when his thumb slips under the hem of your shirt and strokes your skin. Your fingers curl into the back of his uniform, holding on a little tighter.
The fuzzball purrs once but quickly pads out of the kitchen after realizing she’s no longer the center of attention. Probably off plotting her next crime.
Eventually, you come up for air because breathing is still a thing around here. Dean brushes his nose against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Cheating.”
You let out a small, breathless laugh and return the nose kiss. “I’m sorry. You must have been fighting tooth and nail against it. Poor you.”
Dean snorts, thumb rubbing gently behind your ear. “Now, don’t get smart on me, trouble. You’re the one harborin’ a fugitive.”
“Really, Dean? We’re still on that?”
Another laugh rumbles in his chest as he hooks an arm around your waist and turns you back toward the stove.
“Alright, alright. No jail time tonight.” he squeezes your waist once. “Let’s see what you were makin’ ‘fore Salem tried to burn down the whole house.”
Dex's been following you for weeks now and knows everything about you.
He knows how you take your coffee. Which brand of bread is your favorite. What you usually do on Thursday evenings when the week feels too long but still isn't over. Yeah? He knows everything. Right?
Or so he thought.
Then comes Friday. He's watching you walk into your favorite restaurant, the one you only go to when you're feeling fancy or meeting up with someone important. Like your boss or a business associate. But it's kinda late for a business meeting anyway.
He's suspicious.
So there he is, narrowing his eyes, looking through a pair of binoculars from his black SUV parked across the street. Not too far, but not too close either. He's good at keeping his distance. He's trained to do that.
Then he just freezes in his driver's seat.
His gaze darts between you and… you. What?
He lowers the binoculars and rubs his eyes in absolute disbelief before looking again.
“C’mon. Worms live in the dirt, you know? You’d be wigglin’ around like… ughh. I got chills just thinkin’ about it.” He makes a face. “I’d probably step on you by accident and-”
And a pillow lands square in his face with a thud.
