#jensen!girl

[castiels-undercoat]

My favorite destiel trope is when Dean laughs at all of Cas's jokes, and thinks he is SO funny, but literally nobody else even realizes that Cas is telling a joke. It butters my biscuit.

[souporsaladnatural]

The supernatural cast is literally so funny. Like on one hand you have misha and jarpad, who are pretty much the exact opposites of their characters in every way, and then on the other you have jensen ackles, who is at all times experiencing the worst case of character bleed in the entire world. Love that for them

[sensitivehandsomeactionman]

Jensen Ackles & Batman | JIB14

[katherinehoughtoncastle47]

[seenthisepisode]

“jensen wouldn't be able to differentiate between me and cas” misha my dude jensen is not even able to differentiate between dean winchester and himself so

[xpawglifex]

Happy mothers day 💕💕💕

[lovealwayssay]

Jensen’s view of Cas’ confession evolving over the years is LITERALLY just Dean processing the confession. Jensen understands Dean on such a deep personal level so he took the confession the way Dean would have originally: saying its ambiguous and that Cas’ angelic love was beyond human comprehension so may not have been romantic. However, as Jensen processed the feelings, he realized it was romantic. That wasn’t just Jensen processing it, it was Dean. We are literally watching Dean come to terms with the fact that Cas is in love with him in real time. The show may be over, but we are still getting content because Jensen loved and understood Dean so deeply that Dean became a part of him.

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

🏘️girls of paradise AU masterlist🏘️

the girl next door 🏠 steve rogers, silverfox

girls just wanna have fun 🫦 bucky barnes & sam wilson, silverfox

girl on fire ❤️‍🔥 jonathan pine, loki

just a girl 👟 walter marshall, ~andy barber

candy girl 🍭 thor, silverfox

my girl 📖 captain syverson, brother's best friend

girl like you 🔒 lee bodecker, jake jensen

[strawlessandbraless]

Multidimensional wavelength of sexual intent

[annmariethrush]

“Jacting joices” is not a strong enough phrase for whatever the hell is going on during that prayer in the trap. The tears, the stammering. The way he says “of COURSE I forgive you”. And he was ready to say it all again, right there right then, when he found him. Insanity

[justjensenanddean]

Jensen Ackles | Supernatural Behind the Scenes | 8x11 LARP and the Real Girl 

[itsbuckytm]

Sam with a pink Laptop is living in my mind rant free

Tbh it is such a coquette thing and I’m not complaining 🤍💅🏼

[castielssuperhell]

jensen ackles was the og dean girl

[nirvanaissogood]

Fuck I'm in love with this man.

He needs to destroy me .

[katherinehoughtoncastle47]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

girl like you 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as kidnapping, marital discord, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: a fight with your husband leads to an unexpected situation.

Characters: Lee Bodecker, Jake Jensen

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself. <3

"Marge," you struggle to keep the exasperation from your voice, "that's not how it works. It's a civil dispute, not criminal--" 

"They signed a contract," the blonde dictator bites back at you. 

"Right, and we're going through the appropriate channels to have there violations dealt with--" 

"Ugh, whatever," she throws the folder at you, "shoulda know better. I heard you never even passed the bar." 

You catch the file before the papers can flutter out. You scowl at her as she pushes her hands out in frustration and stomps her pink heel. You pinch your cheeks between your teeth. You never got to take the bar, you got married. Like her. Maybe you should ask about the dust on her English degree. 

"And that lipstick is tacky. It looks awful with your skin tone," she snarls as she rams a manicured nail in your direction, huffing and spin, taking off like a tornado towards the rest of the doll-like HOA clones. 

You look down as you shuffle the papers straight and shrug. You've never quite fit in. This place is like high school 2.0. You never have the right clothes or the right makeup, and no matter how much you primp, your hair just won't behave. You don't know why you bother. 

Well, it's something to do. A hobby in your mostly empty life. Brock promised you it wouldn't be like this. To his defence, you're the idiot who believed him. 

Your husband hasn't exactly kept his promises, has he? You leave through the gate, not bothering with the niceties. You're certain your dismissal was thoroughly witnessed. Besides, the meeting is as good as done. 

You wait by the curb, a text sent to Brock. Your feet kill in these slingbacks. You hate those as much as you hate the mascara that makes your lashes stick. 

The black car comes down the street and you open the door, dropping inside with a puff. You rest the folder in your lap and roll your eyes back against a repressed yawn. You shut the door and buckle your belt. 

"Hey, honey," you greet your husband. "How was your day?" 

"Busy," Brock answers curtly. 

"Oh, did you have dinner? I left it in the oven to reheat--" 

"Your my wife, you're the one who warms my dinner," he insists. 

Your nostrils flare and you look away. This is exactly what you dreaded the day you accepted that ring. All those years of schooling and you threw it away for an empty vow. 

"Alright, I'll turn the stove on when I get in--" 

"How was it? You're early. You didn't stay for drinks?" 

"I'm tired." 

"So? Five years and what do you have to show for it? Like I wanna hear about those dumb bitches at the barbecue? No, I wanna hear about my wife. About everything she's doing for the neighbourhood." 

"Don't talk like that," your murmur. If he thinks they're dumb, what does he think of you? 

"Don't tell me what to do," he snorts, "you know, you might be a little happier if you put in a little effort. Not like I don't bust my ass so you can buy nice dresses and yet you're still wearing this." 

He reaches over and tugs your skirt. It's one of your favourite dresses. You don't see an issue with it, other than it might be a bit past its prime. Besides, he does make a lot of money but you're the one who counts it and makes sure the bills get paid. There isn't room for you to buy Chanel. 

"Sorry," you mutter towards the window. 

"Don't be sorry, do better," he rolls the steering wheel as he rolls around the cul de sac. 

Your chest sinks and your lip twitches. Do better. You're tired of hearing that. You're tired of trying. You're just tired. 

"Stop the car," you demand as you sit up. 

"What?" He scoffs.  

"Stop the car and let me out--" 

"We're almost home." 

"I said let me out of the car," you snarl, "now!" 

He slams on the breaks so hard, you nearly smack into the dashboard. You hit the button on the seat belt and let it rebel. You grab the folder and throw it on the dash so the pages scatter. 

"You can turn a fucking dial," you snip and push the door open. 

He catches your arm, his grip tight and unbending, "where are you going?" 

"I don't know. Anywhere but here." 

"Don't be fucking stupid, get back in the car," he commands. 

"Let go!" 

"You're being stupid--" 

"Like always, right?" You spit at him and wriggle free, his nails scratching you hotly. "I'm done. I can't make you happy and I'm tired of trying." 

You get out and swing the door shut. You grip the strap of your purse, still hooked over your shoulder, and turn on your heel. You click down the sidewalk as he revs and jolts forward, following you. 

"Babe, get back in the car," he calls through the window. 

You ignore him and stomp on, nearly bending your ankle as you do. 

"Stop PMSing and get in the damn car!" He speeds up, almost driving past you, "don't make me tell you again." 

You keep quiet and march on. His brakes scrape to a halt and the car door opens and closes. You hear him behind you. You speed up to evade him. 

"You always gotta make everything a fucking task--" 

He grabs onto your purse and yanks you back, nearly knocking you on your ass. You cry out and face him, tugging on the bag as you play tug-of-war on the sidewalk. The sudden woop startles both of you and the purse drops to the ground.  

You look over as the cruiser pulls up. You know the car number and the face above the wheel. The same on that patrols the suburb. The HOA buys Sheriff Bodecker a special Christmas turkey every year and several other throughout to mark even the most redundant holidays. He's firmly in the pocket of the Stepford robots. 

"Everything okay over here?" Bodecker drawls as he rolls down his window.  

"Yes," Brock answers in tandem with your "no." 

Your husband sighs, "just a marital spat, sir, you know how it is." 

You grimace and shake your head. You pick up the purse as Brock looms close, "nothing to worry about Sheriff," you stand and swoop the bag over your elbow. "Thanks." 

"Babe," Brock says, "let's go home." 

"No," you retort and turn around, continuing on your way. 

You hear a footstep and another wail of the cruiser's siren, "sir, I'm gonna have to ask you not to follow the lady. She said no. She probably just needs to cool off." 

You shake your head and continue on. Brock's voice croaks but he can't summon words. He growls and backs off. 

As you continue down the block, tires slowly turn on the tarmac and you glance over at the sheriff keeps a light foot on the gas, "ma'am, you wanna get in? I'll take ya to the station to settle your mind." 

"It's fine, sheriff," you say, "thank you." 

"Now, miss, I don't mean to frighten you but I gotta," he insists, "I can't just drive off in case your husband decides to follow. I only wanna get you outta the way do he don't do anything dumb." 

"Sheriff, I--" you stop and your soles aches from the high arches of your shoes, "he wouldn't..." 

"Y'all were pretty heated back there," he says, "I'm not saying what would happen, but I'd feel better knowin' you're not wandering the streets alone." 

You chew your tongue and look back and forth. Brock watches from down the street, leaning on his car. You know he's just waiting for Bodecker to take off so he can do exactly what the policeman suggests. 

"Thank you, sir," you step towards the curb, "I appreciate that." 

"Anything for a good lady like yerself," he nods, "'fraid you're gonna have to ride piggy back though." 

He shifts into park and gets out. He opens the back door and you teeter at the edge of the pavement. You never pictured yourself in the back of a police car but it's preferable to the alternative.