#im angry

so this?

this wasnt queerbait?

ten years of buildup?

ten years of stringing us along,

giving us hints that maybe, just maybe,

we’d finally get something meant for us,

but i guess someone always gets

the short end

of the stick.

he's two apples tall 🍎🍎

As a trans and disabled person. Fuck you.

You do not want this. You do not want to be in pain in every second of your life and if you think you do you've clearly got some problems.

Navigation Actors Masterlist

My Wattpad📖

Buy Me a Coffee!☕

Want to be added to my taglist? Just a few clicks away! -> Taglist Form 

Pairings; Jensen Ackles x wife!reader

Genre/warnings; domestic, angst, dark humor, humor, language, rage, frustration, vent fic, emotional exhaustion, comfort, ranting, mild threats, sarcasm

Summary: After the kind of day that makes saints swear, Y/N comes home furious — and Jensen learns that asking “what’s wrong, baby?” might be his dumbest move all week.

A/N: I've had a DAY. So you're gonna stress with me while I scream into my pillow and cry my eyeballs out.

709 words

The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that only exists after bedtime — when the kids are down, toys are picked up, and peace finally settles over the chaos.

Jensen was halfway through rinsing a glass when the front door slammed. Not closed. slammed.

He froze, hand hovering over the sink. That wasn’t a normal door close. That was the sound of someone holding it together with sheer willpower.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he called cautiously, drying his hands on a towel. “How’d it go at the doctor’s?”

You didn’t answer. Just stood in the entryway, coat half off, eyes sharp enough to cut through the dark.

He smiled softly, trying to play it safe. “You uh… you look—”

“Don’t.”

“Okay. Not saying a thing.”

You set your keys down with precision. Controlled fury. The kind that made Jensen’s brain whisper, run.

But he didn’t. Because he’s Jensen.

“Everything okay?” he asked, voice gentle.

You looked at him like he’d just asked if the sun rises in the west. “Am I okay?” You threw your arms out, pacing the tile. “I’ve been gone all day, Jensen. I made that appointment TWO MONTHS AGO — to get a full allergy panel, because, shocker, I’d like to know what’s trying to kill me! Appointment’s at 1:20. I see the doctor at 2:20. And you know what he tells me?”

Jensen blinked. “...I mean, kinda feeling like I don’t anymore—”

“THEY DIDN’T ORDER THE TEST!”

He straightened, eyes wide. “Wait—what?”

“Didn’t order it. Didn’t even order it. So they send me to the hospital. I spend four hours there, starving, dehydrated, nearly feral, and guess what—THEY can’t order it either!”

“Uh—”

“I’m not done!” You threw your bag on the table with a thud. “Then, Dr. Braincell looks at the scars on my arms after I told him they were from getting sunburnt and goes, and I quote, ‘It’s cancer or you’re allergic to the sun.’ What kind of degree do you need to be that stupid, Jensen? I’m sitting there starving, unmedicated, wondering if I’m dying or turning into a shiny Pokémon!”

He bit his lip, trying not to laugh. “A shiny Pokémon?”

You glared. “Do not laugh at me, Ackles.”

“No, no, I wouldn’t dare,” he said quickly, hands up in surrender, but there was that stupid little smirk threatening to crack through.

“INSANE!” You pointed at him, eyes wild. “I haven’t eaten since eight this morning! I went to CVS after all that, and they didn’t have my meds either because apparently changing it doesn’t actually change it. I had to go there, in person, fix my phone number because for some reason it was linked to my dads phone and they DID have my meds but it told my dad and not me, pay sixteen bucks, get my meds — only to find out they gave me Zyrtec. Ninety. Days. Of. Zyrtec. I don’t need allergy meds; I need a wake-up call!”

Jensen opened his mouth, very carefully. “So… what you’re saying is we’re… canceling the beach trip?”

Your eyes snapped to him.

He immediately realized his mistake. “Kidding! Kidding, baby. I’m kidding. Please don’t—”

“You think this is funny?”

“I think you’re gorgeous when you’re mad?”

“Jensen.”

He put his hands up, backing away an inch. “Okay, okay. Wrong time for charm. Copy that. You want me to call the doctor? I’ll call him. I’ll call his boss. I’ll drive to his office right now and explain basic testing procedures to his face—”

“You won’t even find his office before I find his house,” you grumbled, dropping onto the couch.

He studied you for a moment — the exhaustion in your shoulders, the way your hand rubbed at your temple. “You done, sweetheart?” he asked softly.

You glared. “Does it sound like I’m done?”

He hesitated, thinking, then offered with absolute sincerity, “…You want me to Google if you can be allergic to the sun?”

Your purse flew before your brain even registered it. It hit him square in the face with a whump and the satisfying jingle of keys.

He stumbled back, blinking, towel still in one hand, dignity left somewhere on the floor.

You just stood there, breathing hard, lips pressed together.

Jensen blinked once. Twice. Then quietly muttered,

“...fair.”