fast whips

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lmao so i forgot to mention i got punched this night (don’t freak guys; not in the face, i’m fine, mama can handle herself) and initially i was like “Day in the life of a queer, cool cool what else is new” but now looking back the dude looked was so gone so like lol honestly? with how fast i whipped around the corner in the dark club, looking like 666 the Stripper, fake blood dripping out of my mouth what likely happened was this poor guy was trying to drink libation as the lord hath permitted, saw me, tripped out, the BE GONE SATAN instinct kicked in and i got caught in the middle of “a man looking into the eyes of the devil” and “basic human survival reflex”. Could’ve maybe kept his fists to himself but lol situation is making me laugh too hard to get mad. Jokes aside, being in drag ain’t consent y'all.

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Make You Mine

I’ve kind of had a craving for angry, jealous Dean lately… 

Gator @salvachester - this one’s for you <3

You climb out of the back seat, tugging your skirt down self-consciously. Dean is staring at your legs, his jaw clenched, and even Sam swallows hard, then turns away.

“Does it look that bad?” you ask, worried for a moment that maybe you’re not dressed appropriately to be an FBI agent.

Sam clears his throat, and Dean growls out, “You look fine.”

You straighten your jacket, lift your chin, and get into the head space you need, a little condescending, a little no-nonsense, like you’re used to getting what you ask for. Dean gives you one more glance and, looking like he’d like to eat someone, leads the way into the police station.

You and Sam trail Dean to the front desk, standing a step behind and flashing your badges dutifully when the officer on duty asks if he can help you. “What can we do for the FBI?” he asks, just a touch of snark behind his words, and you can almost feel Dean’s thunderous frown. He’s been on edge for days, and this day seems to be a bad one. His temper has been unpredictable, his level of patience almost zero, and you cringe a little internally at what his reaction might be.

“Is your superior officer around? Maybe the big boys should talk,” he snaps, and the officer behind the desk stands up, all six feet and at least four inches of him, maybe even a little taller than Sam.

“Listen, Agent Hetfield. We don’t take kindly to feds coming in and throwing their weight around. If we can help, fine. But don’t go making demands like we owe you. We work for a living around here, too.”

You can almost feel Dean’s chest swelling, his temper ready to blow, and you step forward, one hand on his arm as you push your way in front of him. “Sorry, Officer – Thomas, is it? Please forgive my partner, this case has him a little wired.” You turn to look up at Dean, your lips tight as you speak to him in a pleasant voice, aware that he will hear the anger beneath. “Agent Hetfield, Agent Hammett, why don’t you go get that coffee we were talking about? I’ll get what we need here and meet you outside.” You narrow your eyes at him, the threat behind them clear.

“Yeah. Why don’t we just do that,” he grinds out, giving a curt nod to the officer and turning on his heel to stalk to the door, flinging it open without a pause. Sam smiles politely, then turns to follow him.

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