#tell me lies bree | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daylighted · 9 days ago

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─ FRIEND FROM COLLEGE, dad's best friend ! jackles

your welcome home party from college is joined by none other than the man your father based all of his warnings about boys around: his estranged best friend from college. little did he know that it wasn't the signs you needed to be warned away from, but the man himself.

warnings. ( 18+ ! ) pls for the love of god don't interact with this one if you're a minor. hefty age gap. unprotected p in v. semi - public sex (maybe?). choke kink. daddy kink (lite edition). spit kink? maybe? manhandling. creampie. romanticization of sneaking around. mentions of alc/hol & drinking. word count. 6.7k (SORRY.)

happy birthday to my bree bree, @titsout4jackles <3 thank u for forcing me back into writing smut with this one HAHAH.

OF COURSE YOU'D HEARD ABOUT JENSEN; an infamous character from your dad’s past, a faceless name that frequented in all of the stories that he ended with, don’t try that, or don’t repeat my mistakes. you’d heard infinite stories about your dad’s time in college involving that man, his name spoken around an exasperated sigh, so at adds with the story in mention. your father, wistfully telling you at the dinner table to not do any keg stands while you were away at school, because of the time jensen had done three in one night, somehow, and ended up in the emergency room.

it was just one of those things you accepted about your parents’ lives, before they met and made the family that was you: jensen was either a scapegoat character made up to teach you obscure life lessons, or those three keg stands in one night killed him, considering you'd never met him once in all of your twenty-something years. either way, those stories did have some sort of influence on you, because your years away at college went by without issue, or hospitalization from alcoholism.

you were so happy to be back home. your term was up for the year, landing you back in the summery sunset heat enveloping your parents’ home, coating everything in a thick sheen of inescapable warmth. your mothers rose bushes in the front yard were blooming flowers of beautiful shades of pink and red, loose petals scattered across the bright green of their front lawn, the floral-and-pollen smell a warm greeting as you walked up the front steps.

music drifted outside from the open windows, the navy blue shudders rattling against the creamy white clapboard siding on the house. you could see, just faintly, through the blinding white of the sun’s glare, the outlines of people in the sun-darkened interior.

were you supposed to knock? this was the house you grew up in. your heights over the years were etched into the doorframe of the closed off upstairs staircase, the graphite of the pencil faded with time but the grooves in the wood a permanent staple. the living room’s cream paint job was dulling, too, except for that one spot by the warm brown skirting board, where a littler you had just learned that crayons and markers worked as well on the paint as they did on the papers you colored, and your parents had to cover it up.

were you meant to knock on a door that held so many memories within its grasp? did it suddenly stop becoming your home just because you’d spread your wings and flown south for a little while?

the debate is interrupted when a hush falls over the chatter inside, even the volume of the music dropping to a low murmur. before you can even process that your presence had been noticed by someone, the front door pulls open, putting a final end on the internal debate racking through you and gnawing on the inner workings of your mind.

“honey!” your mom exclaims, her arms tossing around your neck, dragging you in for a tight hug. she smells like the solo cup she has in her hand around you: malibu rum, with a twinge of sweet pineapple juice. when she tugs back away from you, the cup in mention is offered to you. "finish this for me, will you? your father's cutting me off."

your lips tilt up in amusement, taking a little testing sip from it. expectedly, your mother's unmistakable heavy hand is evident in that one sip, the burn of alcohol slipping down your throat with the faintest trace of coconut on your tongue. "i wonder why."

"hey," your mother scolds teasingly, her arms folding across her chest in a way so similarly to how you do, it almost aches, "you can't scold your mother before you give her a proper hug." you remembered a time when you were as tall as her hip, and attached to it too. growing up was as much a blessing as it was a curse, the memories of the simpler days like wounds that didn't ever fully heal. you supposed it was something that got easier to manage when every year circled around again.

you laugh, reaching around her to set the cup down on the entrance table in the living space, right beside the bowl of keys filled halfway, before you properly hugged your mother. you'd known that they were throwing you a welcome home party, but this many people? you can't draw your eyes away from the bowl, trying to pick apart the ones you recognized.

your father's and your mother's, of course; you were pretty sure that was your aunt's, with the frilly pink puff on the key ring, and one of your dad's friends, your honorary uncle tom—

caught up in the impossible task of assigning names and faces to a bowl of keys, you miss your father's booming voice, echoing through the scattering of people in the living room, eyes locked in your direction like they were waiting for their turn to say something to you while you were caught up in the embrace of your mother. "there is my little girl!"

you were hardly little anymore, you were over halfway through your college experience by now, quickly approaching the final year. like you looked at this house and saw all the remnants of your youth, it seemed that your father didn't look at you without seeing the girl you used to be.

your mom releases you, and you wait with bated breath to be crushed into your father's chest— but he's interrupted, and you're stuck holding your breath for no reason, by a voice you don't recognize.

"so this is her?"

he has a beer bottle between big fingers, a smirk poking through the scruff of dark facial hair smattering across his cheeks and jawline, dusting across his upper lip. his eyes are a piercing tea green, framed by dark eyelashes that only prove to emphasize their paleness. his hair is slicked out of his face, a couple of loose straggling strands hung over his eyes.

your mouth runs completely dry. somehow, like a piece fitting into the gap in a puzzle, you know without being told that this is—

"jensen," his free hand shoots out in greeting, and stirring you away from the muddle of your thoughts and out of the silent stupor you'd gotten stuck in, "it's nice to put a face to the name i've been listenin' to this guy rave about for the last few hours."

it wasn't embarrassing, per se, but you found your face warming with it, anyways. had your father shown him the doorframe with your heights etched into it? did he see the baby pictures on the coffee table photo album, and the ridiculous number of times you'd had birthday cake smeared all over your face in it?

you manage to find your voice at the same time as you clasp his hand, but it feels awkward in your mouth, like none of the right words are coming forward to claim the sentence you try to force out. "it's— yes. it's nice to have a face."

his mouth twitches. this was not supposed to happen. jensen ackles was never supposed to be real, or, hell — alive. you'd come to terms with the fact that he was as imaginary as the tooth fairy, a figure for life lessons like smoky the bear or something. he wasn't supposed to be standing in front of you, letting you make a fool of yourself in front of the entirety of your family and friends.

jensen keeps his hand around yours for a few longer seconds, the bigger palm hugging yours sending a rush of chills up your arm. he was so warm. and tall. and real. wasn't that crazy? "yeah, it is nice to have a face, sweetheart." he shoots you a wink that takes a detour from your eyes to your chest, sending your heart racing in a frenzy. "you've got a real pretty one, too."

your dad's lips thin, prying jensen's fingers out of yours. "that's enough of that," he grumbles, stepping in jensen's place in front of you to tug you into his chest. "welcome home, baby."

it's a wonderful distraction from whatever that was, clawing at your ribcage and threatening to steal your stuttering heart along with it. you take a deep breath and sigh, eyes closing. it was nice to be home. "i see you guys started without me."

"your lovely mother got excited," your dad explains, shaking his head as he steps back and releases you, "you know how excited she gets about a party."

hence why she'd disappeared, inevitably looking for the digital camera to document this. this was why the photo album was splayed on the coffee table, and why you had a picture for every birthday, every swipe of frosting smeared around your hands and face. hopefully, there wasn't any cake this time around.

like a warm balm to the racing beat in your chest, you could feel jensen's gaze on you still. you refused to meet it head on, though, knowing innately that the entire world would tilt on its axis and never return to its natural state. like the butterfly effect; something so small was capable of changing the world.

you're saved by your father's hand on your shoulder, guiding you toward the glass screen doors that opened up to a fully decorated back patio. fairy lights strung between the trees and over the navy blue awning, a full fold-out table underneath the awning with a big bowl of icy punch, and a cooler sat next to the table with bottles of beer coated in ice water and sweat.

snacks of all kinds lined the opposite side of the table. bags of chips lined out by flavor, a cooking tray with barbecue and hamburgers laid out on it, condiments on the opposite side. the air smelled like charcoal and food, and beneath it all was an underlying scent of—

"oh no."

your dad laughs brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. "your mom insisted. you know she couldn't have a party without her little girl having a cake."

"is she expecting me to drop headfirst into it again?" you weren't planning on doing that anyways, hadn't since you were too little to know how utensils worked, but with jensen here? you were definitely not doing that in front of him. no way.

he shrugs, slipping around you to steal another bottle from the cooler. "doubtful. she will want a picture of you with it, though." he tips the neck of the bottle toward you in acknowledgement. "mom's got more alcohol inside, if you don't want whatever the hell they tossed in that punch bowl or beer. i'm gonna start bringin' the smores stuff out, if you want to get situated by the fire."

you wave your hand in a polite dismissal, stepping out of the way for your dad to disappear inside again. standing in front of the refreshments table, you bend to grab a beer for yourself, cracking it open as the sweat coated your palm. it was a welcome distraction from the sun blazing one last time before it clocked out and the moon took its place.

you were a few steps away from the bonfire pit in the center of your backyard, the patio chairs entangled in with metal foldouts in a circle around it, when you sensed him behind you. it was impossible to not know it was him; he was the only person here whos eyes you weren't familiar with how it felt to be watched from. across from the patio chair you chose, the grill still smoked with the last of the charcoal cooking away, and in the haze of that smoke, he dipped into focus.

under the golden light of the sunset, he looked even more devastating, somehow. a maroon button-up with the top two buttons undone, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. khaki shorts that hugged his thick thighs, leaving little to the imagination as he closed the final remnants of distance.

"already so quick to run away?"

your back straightens, as if the idea of slouching in front of him was something detrimental. your fingernail swirled patterns in the dripping sweat on the bottle, eyes locked on the motion to avoid looking at him. you still heard it, though, when jensen's weight collapsed into a chair across the fire from you, his legs spread wide as he makes himself comfortable in his own patio chair.

"for your information," you say, your eyes flicking up to meet his finally, and it's just as intense as you remember, "i was not running away. i got told to sit out here."

"okay, princess, stand down." his eyes are sinful, raking up and down the length of your body. he was so shameless about it, like he didn't feel an ounce of guilt at all about the fact that you were his best friend's daughter. sure, he'd never met you before, but didn't that thought enter his head at all? wasn't he clinging to that little reminder like you were?

your eyes dance over to the patio doors, split open and inviting, letting the breeze into the interior of the home, deep blue curtains flapping. it was comforting for you, in a way, just as much as it was suffocating, knowing at any moment, someone else could step outside.

the nylon of the patio chair creaks across from you, and you glance over at jensen again, just to see him shift forward with his elbows on his knees. "what are you so scared of, beautiful?"

you were not scared. where he got that assessment was beyond you, considering you were ramrod straight in your seat, unable to look at him at all, finding every blade of grass in the lawn much more enticing. see? definitely not scared. "maybe," you start, tilting your head to the side in mindless thought, "it's because you're a stranger, following me around."

"do you want to get to know me?" his smirk cuts a dimple into his cheek. he’s captivating, utterly captivating. there was something so enticing about him, about the forbidden nature that came with everything about him.

you arch an eyebrow at him. “what’s to learn?” your finger circles the mouth of your beer before you lift it to your mouth for a quick swig of it. his gaze is locked on the bob of your throat. “dad told me plenty of stories.”

“i thought i was a stranger.”

“i thought you were smoky the bear.”

jensen’s laugh is music, echoing in the growing dark of the night. the golden cast over his face was now a warm orange, casting a darker shadow of the deep dark of his gaze. "smoky the bear?"

"i thought he made you up," you were not biting back a smile. jensen was your dad's former best friend, something potentially had gotten revived, considering he was here. off-limits echoed in your head like a mantra, growing quieter with each passing moment you tried to pretend that he wasn't looking at you like that. "since i never got a face to the name of the guy who supposedly ate a worm for three dollars."

you expect him to deny it. his mouth curves in a crescent, his eyes glimmering in the deep amber light. "three dollars and seventy five cents."

"no."

"bought myself a gumball that day."

your head tips back in a laugh, the harmony of yours atop of his sending a chill up the arch of your spine. you open your mouth to say something, beer bottle tilted in his direction in a half-attempt at a cheers, but voices start to filter outside behind you.

whatever you planned to say is swallowed down, the intoxicating energy of your banter sucked up like a vacuum. your mom hooks a hand on your shoulder, tugging your head toward her to kiss your temple. "i see you've been getting to know jensen," she hums, taking the metal foldout chair next to you. "i hope he's not giving you too much trouble."

you don't look away from him as you shake your head. "nothing i can't handle."

"of course," she agrees, taking up one of the metal prongs and sliding a marshmallow on each of the ends. "you got that from me, you know. your father was unbearable back in the day, to everyone but me."

jensen's chiming in draws your eyes back to him. "it's true. she domesticated him."

you cock an eyebrow at him. "who's domesticating you then?"

his only answer is a wicked grin. your mom, thankfully, says nothing about it, her attention on the marshmallows warming over the lick of the flames, stretching and sticking to the heated prongs.

"m'gonna go get another drink," jensen sighs, palms patting the spread of his thighs as he rises. after a long term of simplicity, no time to even ponder the idea of doing three keg stands, or something disgusting for a couple of bucks, the leash that jensen had around your interest was tight. you couldn't look away as he walked up the wooden steps of your patio, disappearing through the fluttering curtains.

next to you, your mother has captured the marshmallows between two squares of graham crackers, a piece of chocolate melting into the sticky sugar. "want one?" she asks, offering one out to you through the light pinch of her two fingers.

you wave your hand before you can think any of this through. "actually, i'm gonna go run to the bathroom, i think."

"of course," she says with a little smile, and you almost feel bad for denying her, knowing she just wanted to spend time with you on your first night back home. there was plenty of time still in the night, the fire only having just started, and the night having only just now dipped from warm oranges and pinks to deep blue.

the stars winked at you, knowing exactly where you were heading as you stood and started toward the sliding glass doors. they'd keep your secret, whatever that secret turned out to be.

somehow, even after having heard him announce where he was going, you're surprised to see jensen at the mahogany countertop, a crystal tumbler between his fingers that nurses a finger of bourbon. outside, you can hear the cackle of your uncle tom, followed by the hollering laughter of your father. the rest of the guests had settled into the spread of chairs around the firepit.

it was you and jensen in the dim dark of the house, the natural light having disappeared behind the horizon, drenching the both of you in a pale light that danced in the open space between the curtains.

"naughty girl," jensen drawls, his voice low and guttural at the base of his throat. he hasn't turned his attention away from his drink, watching you out of the corner of his eye. "runnin' from the party in her name to hang out with the big, bad wolf."

your heartbeat stutters in place in your chest, but you aren't so easily deterred or riled. your head tilts up in an air of defiance that only makes the wolfish expression on his face widen. the dull point of his canine clamps on his bottom lip. "for your information," you echo from earlier, "i'm going to the bathroom."

"this ain't the bathroom," he muses, nodding back toward the hallway like you were the one who needed directions in your own home. "gone so long you're gettin' lost in your own home?"

"i think you wanted me to come in here with you." you don't know where the words bubble up from, but they're out of your mouth before you can swallow the soap of them back down. "you had beer earlier. you could have gotten another."

jensen laughs, the sound of it pooling like heat in your lower belly. "dictatin' what i drink now? that's bold, naughty girl. we just met."

you stutter on a response. "i'm just saying—"

"maybe i wanted somethin' richer," jensen rasps, turning to face you now, the base of his spine pressed back into the edge of the countertop, "to try n' get another flavor out of my imagination."

every rational thought leaves your head. anything you could have said dissipates into vapor, floating back up toward the sunless sky. the innuendo is clear, written in vibrant shades like words atop a birthday cake — or, for today's sake, a graduation cake.

you're speechless, neither of you breaking the intense eye contact you shared. maybe he was a big bad wolf, what with the way he eyed you, all of you, like he was looking for the treats you'd tucked away underneath your red cloak.

"i'm gonna go to the bathroom now," you manage to breathe out, the crack in the center of your sentence shifting like tectonic plates. the earthquake was bound to hit any moment.

his eyebrows raise in his own amusement. "use mine."

the illusion cracks. the earthquake doesn't yet hit. you're both on one side of the plates, waiting to see who stumbles into the other first. "what?"

"your dad is a helluva host," jensen hums, downing the rest of his bourbon in one fell swoop, "invites me to a party and offers to let me stay a couple of nights too, to catch up."

you still don't say anything, the realization like a knife. you were home for three months; jensen was here for a few days, rekindling an estranged friendship with your father, assumedly going to be over often. your mouth felt like cotton, like you'd swallowed a handful of cinnamon, choking on the dry sweetness.

"do you know what he said?"

the glass clinks on the countertop when jensen sets it down, his footsteps echoing heavily on the linoleum beneath his boots. "he said," he continues without your prompting, close enough that his breath ghosts over the shell of your ear, "he had a pretty daughter he wanted me to meet. thought i'd like her."

your voice is weak when you say, "he didn't say that."

"i took creative liberties."

your mouth opens, closes. nothing eradicates the dryness in your mouth, the plague of it starting to curl down your throat. finally, you manage to choke out in response, "what other creative liberties have you drawn about me?"

jensen smells spicy. cloves and musk and bourbon and cinnamon. you wonder, in a brief, fleeting thought, if he tastes like it, too. "little things," he finally breathes, "wonderin' if that mouth of yours sucks as good as it runs. how those legs would feel wrapped around me when i bury myself so deep in your—"

"there you are, jens," your dad's voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin, his head peeking through the open glass doors of the back entrance, "everything okay?"

jensen settles back on the heels of his shoes as if he wasn't all but tracing the shell of your ear with his tongue. "all good," he agrees, giving your father a smile that gave nothing away of how he'd been talking about burying himself in you. "we were talkin' about school. i held her up on goin' to the bathroom. that's my bad."

he lies so easily that you know it had to be a reason why he and your dad fell out. your dad hated liars, hated secrets. everything happening underneath his nose with this was soon enough going to break his heart when it came to light, but the thrill of that possibility sent electricity jolting down your spine.

"actually, i think i'mma head in for the night," jensen sighs, that smile of his becoming something lazier and more tired than what it'd been moments before. "thanks for invitin' me to stay the weekend again."

weekend. today was thursday. that meant...

you barely manage to move out of the way before jensen brushes past you, his fingertips ghosting along your ribs that were turned away from your father. the invitation was clear when you met his eyes for a final time. go to his bathroom.

"sorry about him," your dad says with a bemused shake of his head, "i've been invitin' him to come around again since we graduated, didn't expect him to actually show up today. hope he's not givin' you too much trouble."

your mother said the same thing. you wondered idly about what sort of trouble they must be referring to, and why it seemed to trail him. "he's fine. i was asking him about which of your stories were true."

he winks at you. "all of 'em."

"well, i learned that," you laugh, ducking your face in a useless attempt to hide the fact that he was more right than he knew. troublemaking womanizer from my time at college that once did three keg stands in one night, who spent his weekend in the hospital. nothing but trouble, doing anything for a dime or a laugh.

you nod behind you to the hallway. "i'll be out in a few, okay? i'm just gonna run to the bathroom and get a little snack first. i haven't eaten all day."

maybe you were doomed to fall out of your close relationship with your father, too, the easy way you lie to him.

he nods, patting the glass doorframe. "okay, sweetheart. mom's makin' enough smores to feed the town, so save some room."

over your shoulder, you smile warmly at your father. "okay, dad."

the house falls silent again. there's nothing but the thudding heartbeat in your chest, punctuating the decision you were dooming yourself to make.

all the bedrooms were upstairs. the guest room and its bathroom and your bedroom were on one side of the hallway, the main bathroom upstairs at the very end, and your parents' and the other guest room were on the other. you bypass your bedroom and hesitate in front of the cracked door of the guest bedroom.

anxiety ripples through you. bad decision, your head says again, one final time, before it vanishes completely, your subconscious giving up on trying to offer you the chance to back out.

you push the bedroom door open, and there was jensen ackles, the maroon button-up discarded, leaving the expanse of his abdomen on display in the reflection of the mirror he stood in front of. your eyes trace sinew and muscle in his back, how his shoulder blades shift beneath his skin as he stands a little straighter at the sight of you.

he doesn't say a word. doesn't move an inch. he can't be as bad as everyone says, you can't help but think, because he's letting you call the shots here. you could stand in this doorway and tell him goodnight, and he'd let you go.

you could do what you already were without realizing: step inside the bedroom and close the door behind you again.

again, he doesn't yet move from where he was, only turning around to fully face you. he was so broad, the muscles indenting his stomach sturdy and solid. he was shameless in how he eyed you up, so you didn't shy away from returning the favor now that you felt safe enough to do so.

there's a heated moment when nothing happens except the air in the room charges. heats and heats until it bursts through the wire coating and catches flame, burning everything in its path.

one moment, he's a couple of feet away, watching you like it was your turn to act on the chessboard. the next, his feet are carrying themselves over to you, his lips crashing against yours like a hurricane.

jensen kisses like he, too, knew that this was doomed. his palms slip under your thighs and hoist you into the air, and you break apart from him in a harsh intake of breath, your hands grasping at his shoulders for stability.

your back collides with a wooden door, and neither of you move for a split second. his tongue laps into your mouth, meeting yours stroke for stroke, his fingers squeezing handfuls of the skin of your thighs between them. he shifts after a moment, knees bending to reach better as he plants your ass on his forearm, his freed hand gripping tight on the doorknob and shoving you both through it.

two doors between you and someone who could catch you was better than one. this one, too, jensen locked behind him, before he slid you onto the marbled countertop of the sink.

there was no time for the simple luxuries of teasing. you were on a time crunch, and jensen seemed to guess such, too, as his big palms slide underneath the skirt of your dress and shove it upwards. the glossy marble is cold on your bare skin, but he doesn't give you any chance to adjust to it before he's shoving your legs open and stepping between them.

"i knew you were a naughty girl when i met you," he rasps into your throat, two fingers dipping into his mouth before he pops them free, a string of saliva following the motion. "show me how naughty you can be, baby girl. open up."

you would have on your own, but he pushes those two fingers between your lips and presses them against your tongue. his eyes are hooded, heavy and dark, as they take in the sight of your lips wrapped tightly around his fingers.

the thought enters your head on its own, like for once, your subconscious has decided to work in your favor tonight. wonderin' if that mouth of yours sucks as good as it runs.

your cheeks hollow as you suck on the digits, the taste of his saliva coating the inside of your mouth. it does taste spicy, the subtlest taste of bourbon burning as you swallow the mix of saliva down your throat.

jensen's head tips back in a groan, shoving his fingers farther into your mouth, enough to make you choke on a cough. his laugh is breathy, the sound of it intermixing with another sound, something metallic jingling.

his belt hits the floor and the sound stops. his fingers don't. "who would have guessed such a pretty little thing had such a filthy little mouth?" jensen muses, popping his fingers free from your mouth and thumbing away the tears that sprung in the corners of your eyes. "might just have to keep you. you'd like that, huh?"

his free hand shoves the dark, tight boxers hugging his legs down, and before your eyes can drift down to see what springs free, that hand comes up and holds your jaw between his thumb and index finger, making you nod in answer. "yeah, baby girl would like that."

you swallow thickly, your lips red and swollen from his kiss, parted to try and suck down a solid breath. you weren't sure you'd breathed since he kissed you, your chest aching with it.

the grip he has on your chin tilts it downwards, shaking it gently until your eyes drop his gaze and land on what you'd tried to get a look at before, and were denied. "might have to keep you regardless," he murmurs, tracing his thumb over your bottom lip, "'cause i don't think anyone else's gonna live up to me."

your lips twitch, some semblance of control reentering your system. "you're cocky."

his head dips downward, brushing his mouth over the swell of your bottom lip, the stubble of his facial hair tickling and electrifying the skin of your upper. "you don't know cock yet."

his two fingers, still wet with the mix of both of your saliva, are back under your dress, the cool wet of them tracing a line up your inner thigh. "say yes," he breathes, stopping just above where your panties cover the evidence of your arousal, "daddy wants to hear it."

you're not breathing again, at least not solidly. instead, your mouth opens and closes fruitlessly, a choke of a "yes" loosing from your throat. those two fingers curl underneath your panties and tug you closer to him by the hold on the fabric.

"good girl," he murmurs in his approval, and one more harsh yank draws a whimpering gasp from your lips, along with the sound of the thin fabric tearing.

the roughness is put on pause as jensen's hand grabs one of your thighs and hooks it around his waist. his two fingers stay between your legs, smearing your wetness along the slit of your folds, not dipping his fingers in like you wish he would.

you catch yourself watching his face again, like every microshift of his expression is something you want to witness. especially as you move your other leg for him, hooking your ankles behind the lower half of his bare back.

"i knew you were trouble," he says, nosing your chin up to take your bottom lip between his teeth. "stay quiet for me, yeah?"

it wasn't something you needed explained to you, but you don't argue with him. not when his fingers finally slip into the creamy folds of your pussy and drag upwards, lazily circling over the sensitive bud of your clit, and not when he captures your mouth in a proper kiss to swallow the squeak of a noise that breaks free from your throat, anyways.

jensen takes his cock into his hand and replaces the drag of his fingers with the sensitive tip of it, keeping up the slow circles with deliberate slowness. you're about to beg, your lips parting against his, when finally, with that same agonizing slowness, he pushes the tip inside of you.

and doesn't move.

when your eyes open, jensen is already staring at you, his pupils blown. "keep goin'?" he asks, as if this is something leisurely to him, as if you can't feel the throb of his hard cock just barely granting any sort of relief to either of you.

"don't be an ass," you breathe, your voice cracking on the words.

jensen's mouth quirks at the corners. "baby girl, asshole is my middle name."

there's no warning to the way his hips jut forward in one harsh movement, filling you completely. your back arches, pressing your chest into his, a choked gasp of a moan stuttering out of your mouth.

his pace is set and relentless, the obscene sound of his balls slapping against your skin as he ravishes you and forces you to stretch around his size. each thrust, your walls grant him more reprieve, the wet squelch of you squeezing around his cock joining the onslaught of obscene noises in the room.

jensen's eyes are laser focused on yours, watching the curve of your mouth to make sure nothing slips free. it's almost more intense like this, being fucked in silence than if he were making you scream and mewl.

you didn't doubt asshole was his middle name, either; not when his palms slip under your ass and squeeze handfuls of the flesh, lifting you off of the countertop. the shift in the position has you clawing at his shoulders for purchase, the only thing keeping you from stumbling to the ground being your legs around his waist and his guiding hands on your ass.

he held you like you weighed nothing, the muscles in his biceps flexing with ease, veins outlined beneath the skin. you were helpless to how he moved you around, using his grip on the supple flesh between his palms to bounce you up and down on the hard fullness of his cock.

the pace slows, just enough for him to maneuver your body down the entirety of his length, the tip of it buried in your cervix. it's almost enough to make you crack, your head pressing into his shoulder, but you bite it back. it was too detrimental to risk being caught just because he was right; he was ruining you for anyone else.

but jensen starts to move you again, starting that deep within you and guiding you back down to that spot, over and over again. you weren't going to be able to walk after this, didn't know how you planned to get back outside to enjoy your party, not with how you could feel the bruising pleasure of him splitting your puffy walls open and grinding into your cervix like this.

you can't even help it when the sharp moan falls out of your mouth, your lower stomach pooled with heat that only seemed to deepen each time he sheathed himself deep inside of you.

"shh," he rasps, the gravel in his voice an intoxicating mix with the strain of it, "don't make me make you quiet. don't want your family hearin', do we? wonderin' what their baby girl's doin' up in here with me?"

your whines are embedded with each harsh thrust of his hips into you. "can't help it," you try to answer, but you aren't sure at all if it came out in a coherent sentence.

his one hand stays cupped firmly over your ass, fingers denting the skin as they dig in. the other comes up to take your throat into his palm, thumb and index pressed hard enough to your pulse points to make you see stars.

"shh," he echoes, the same rasp to his tone as the last time, but much more gentle now, his voice only a whisper, "daddy's got you."

your eyes are wide when they lock onto his, every sound you want to make cut off with the grip he had over your skin. not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to make your pulse beat harder beneath his touch. "y'wanna come, baby?" he watches your eyes, hissing in a breath when your nails bite into his shoulder again. "go on, baby girl, give daddy all y'got."

the heat builds and builds in your lower stomach, the pleasure roiling through you intensifying until you choke on a little sob, only barely heard over the pressure on your throat. everything explodes into clarity, every color in the golden-lit bathroom growing more vibrant, your body going slack in his grip. your legs tremble around his waist, each thrust past your orgasm making you soundlessly mewl and writhe against him.

jensen lets out a low groan, his head burying into the curve of your neck, his relentless pace stuttering to something slower inside of you, the warmth of his cum filling you and dribbling down the length of his cock, and your thighs. he doesn't fully stop, still driving into you, fucking every drop of cum back into you.

his nose traces across your cheekbone as he lifts his head from the smooth skin of your neck, his fingers loosening around your throat in the process. for a moment, he's gentle again, every trace of the man who defiled you for anyone else gone and replaced with a side you didn't have enough time to figure out.

his thumb brushes lightly over your pulse point, his gaze taking in the mess that he'd made you: flushed cheeks, swollen lips, fingerprint marks ever so slightly evident on the soft skin of your throat, the tears welled in your eyes.

"you should get back to your party, naughty girl," he whispers, wiping away a stray tear that'd slipped from your waterline, "they're probably wonderin' where the girl of the hour went."

all of the softness is clamped down again before you could catch a final glimpse of it. jensen, at the very least, helps to readjust your dress and clean you up, sweaty hair clinging to his forehead that he doesn't pay any mind to, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his skin. it's when you look presentable enough again, when you spin around to say something, anything, and his back is to you in the bathroom, closing the scene you'd both had without so much as a cut.

he doesn't meet your gaze in the mirror this time, either. you didn't think he was shutting you out for good — he couldn't, he was staying three more days — but you recoiled regardless. whatever he was going through, you weren't close enough with him to be a part of or know about.

you were just his former best friend's daughter, who he'd just thoroughly wrecked, in that friend's own home.

what had you done?

notes. IF THIS IS CRAZY I'M SORRY BUT NOT REALLY. pls let me know if u guys want part twos & threes & fours for this bc i have so much lore about dads best friend!jensen i cannOT BE FORCED TO KEEP IT IN. & IF U WANNA REQUEST STUFF FOR HIM PLS DO. HE'S TAKING ME OVER LIKE A DEMON. IF U READ THIS FAR GO SAY HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO BREE RN. ───ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤfeedback & reblogs appreciated <3 !!

tags. @deansbeer @figthoughts @ultravi0lence14 @whyyouegg @honeyryewhiskey @angelblqde @angels-silhouette @seven7lee @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @theosaurous @beausling @soldiersgirl @mahi-wayy @unfortunate-brat @losers-clvb @jensenacklesballsack @chevroletdean @h8aaz @stereotypicalbarbie @sunsbaby @samslovebug @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @briisbananass @fuckedupfate @losers-clvb @blossomingorchids @bitchykittenconnoisseur @faiszt @moonstruks @chiierful @collywobblvs @severe-mental-illness @doublecrazyyymofo

#dahlia's ☆ journal #dad’s best friend!jensen #best friend’s daughter!reader #jensen ackles #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles smut #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles one shot #my raunchiest fic yet pls #EVERYONE SAY HAPPY BDAY BREE RN #i <3 bree

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msbigredmachine · 2 months ago

Text

Off The Record (Roman Reigns)

When passion gets recorded, it becomes the hottest track of the year.

Pairing: Roman Reigns/Black female rapper!OC

Warnings: Fluff, smut

Word Count: 3k

Song muses:

The neon lights bathed the walls of the recording studio, their pulsing hues reflecting off the glass panel that separated the booth from the control room. Lyrica Walker, better known to the world as the award winning rapper and singer Sweet Lyrica, was deep in thought. Her gaze flicked between the blank page and the microphone in the recording booth. A heavy bass line rumbled through the speakers, but the rhythm wasn’t igniting her the way it usually did.

Something was missing. Scratch that—someone was missing.

She tapped her pen against the spiral binding of her notebook, her full lips pursed in concentration. But no matter how hard she tried to focus, her mind kept drifting back to him.

Her man. Her love.

It was coming up to two years since she started dating Roman Reigns, and every day felt like she was living in a constant state of excitement and need. He spoiled her with everything—a constant flow of dinners at fancy restaurants, spontaneous trips to places she hadn’t even thought about, and a stream of expensive gifts and trinkets that made her feel like a queen. But it wasn’t just the gifts. No. It was the way he looked at her, touched her, loved her, like she was the only woman in the world.

“You’re zoning out again,” Dez, her producer, said from behind the console. His fingers hovered over the controls, his expression hovering somewhere between amused and exasperated.

Lyrica snapped out of her reverie, shaking her head as if that would dispel the image of Roman’s eyes, his lips, his hands, his dick…

“I’m tryna lock in,” she lied, her voice sultry even when she wasn’t trying. “It just don’t feel right yet. It’s too…soft. I need that shit to hit harder, like Roman does in bed.”

Dez cast her a sidelong glance, clearly uncomfortable. “You just had to say that, huh,” he griped.

Lyrica shot him a playful look. “Oh, come on. You gotta give me credit. With my line of thought, this track’s gonna be fire.”

Bree, her assistant, was sprawled out on the couch, scrolling through her phone with a grin plastered across her face. “I don’t know, Dez. I think this one’s gonna be a megahit. You can’t ignore the realness of it. It’s raw.”

Lyrica leaned back in her chair, tapping the pen against her lips. “I’m thinking of calling it ‘Can You Tell’.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Like, Can you tell when we alone in a room, we got the vibe and we got the tune?”

Dez nodded, impressed. “That’s a start.”

“And it’s facts, too,” Bree added with a smirk. “I mean, the neighbors definitely know when y’all are in the same room, that’s for sure.”

Lyrica couldn’t help but grin at the numerous reminders. Like the night before Roman had left for the UK. They fucked each other up and down her condo with such intensity that she woke the following morning to a complaint filed by her neighbors. If only she cared. It had been two weeks since then, and she was feeling every second of his absence. She had memories to hang on to, all of which made her toes curl and her lips curl into a small, secretive smile. But it wasn’t enough. She craved the real thing.

“Wait! How’s this? Can you tell from the way I don’t walk straight, that he eats my pussy out on every date?” she freestyled, her voice dripping with sass as she jotted down the lyrics.

“Oooh yasss girl, get that shit,” Bree cheered, snapping her fingers.

Dez’s reaction was the complete opposite, his hand over his eyes. “Lyrica, please! I do not need to hear about any more of your…dates with Roman. You like a sister to me, man,” he cringed.

“Come on now, let Miss Mama do her thing,” Bree interjected. “This song is gonna go viral. Big man’s gonna love it.”

Lyrica smirked. “He definitely will. This the kinda dirty shit he inspires.”

Bree snorted, “Girl, everything you do is inspired by Roman. I don’t blame you, though. Have you seen him?!”

Lyrica shot her a look but didn’t argue.

“Exactly,” Bree laughed, “I’m just sayin’,” she added, holding up her phone to display a video of Roman from his match the night before in London. He strode around the ring, dripping sweat, his long hair falling over his shoulders like a god carved from marble. “If my man looked like that, I’d write a whole damn album about him.”

“Exactly. He makes me wild. And wild is what sells,” Lyrica replied, her pen tapping again on her notebook. Bree wasn't wrong. Roman wasn’t just her man; he was her muse, her balance. With him, she felt powerful and vulnerable all at once—a walking contradiction that made her and her music come alive.

“Girl, it’s not just wild; it’s real,” said Bree, “That’s why people love you two. Y’all are couple goals, for real.”

Lyrica’s smile softened, but her voice carried the weight of a confession. “He’s so…different. The kind of man I didn’t even know I needed. I don’t know where I’d be without him. Like, literally.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truths. Dez and Bree exchanged a glance, their silence louder than anything they could say. They both knew the depths Lyrica had clawed her way out of—a nightmare disguised as a high-profile relationship with a rapper that had unraveled into chaos. What had started as love turned into suffocating control, bruises hidden beneath designer clothes, and a fear she’d once thought impossible to escape. Then, Roman was no more than an acquaintance. They’d met through mutual friends, and from the beginning, his kindness was disarming, selfless in a way she wasn’t used to, his quiet strength a balm to her chaos. She’d sensed his attraction, but he never once overstepped, respecting the fragile walls she’d built around herself.

It all changed on a storm-drenched night when Lyrica found herself standing on his doorstep, soaked to the bone, trembling, and broken. Her words had been disjointed, barely audible through her sobs, but the sight of her swollen face said more than enough. Roman didn’t ask questions. He didn’t hesitate.

“You’re staying here tonight,” he said, his tone steady and resolute as he guided her inside.

She shook her head weakly, her voice breaking. “I don’t wanna be a burden…”

“You’re not a burden,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. His hands settled gently on her shoulders, grounding her. “Lyrica, you’re worth protecting.” He dipped his head, his eyes locking onto hers. “I’ll protect you. That fucker will never hurt you again.”

Lyrica remembered the rain pouring outside with the same intensity as her tears as she broke apart in his arms. For the first time in years, she’d felt something she thought she’d lost forever: hope.

It was Roman who encouraged her to testify against her abuser, standing beside her through every painful step of the process. His unwavering support gave her the strength to reclaim her life, and when her ex was finally sentenced, she knew she owed—and loved—Roman, more than she could ever express.

An idea came to her mind, and she quickly scribbled it down:

Can you tell by the way I glow, his love is my fire and I can’t let him go?

The door to the studio creaked open. Lyrica barely registered it at first, assuming it was another assistant or studio tech coming in to fetch something. She didn’t bother looking up...until she heard a voice she hadn’t realized she was holding her breath for.

“Y’all talkin’ bout me in here?”

Familiar. Deep. Hers.

Her heart lurched, and a shiver raced down her spine. Slowly, almost afraid to hope, she turned her head.

Roman stood in the doorway, a bouquet of deep red roses cradled in his hand, his presence commanding the room like a storm that had just rolled in. The custom-made Nike tech fleece hugged his broad shoulders, his hair was tied back in a sleek bun, and that signature smirk—equal parts cocky and endearing—curved his lips. But it was his eyes that undid her. They locked onto hers, brimming with amusement, heat, and something softer, deeper, that made her chest tighten.

“Hey, baby girl,” he drawled, his deep baritone smooth and magnetic, the sound wrapping around her like a blanket on a cold night.

Lyrica’s breath hitched. It felt like the room had shrunk to just the two of them, his presence filling every corner of her world. She wanted to say something clever, something casual, but her words faltered under the weight of her emotions. She hadn’t seen him in weeks, and now here he was, looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

Her pen slipped from her fingers. “Baby!” She was on her feet before she realized she was moving, rushing across the room and leaping into his arms. He caught her with ease, holding her carefully as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“What are you doing here?” she breathed, burying her face in his neck. His scent—clean and masculine with a hint of his cologne—made her head spin with a myriad of emotions. “Oh my god, you smell so good,” she gushed.

Laughing, his lips pressed against her skin. “Your birthday’s in three days,” he murmured against her ear, “You really think I’d miss that?”

Her grip on him tightened. “I thought you had more shows.”

“I did.” He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his huge hands possessively gripping her equally bounteous ass. “But you’re more important.”

Bree squealed softly from the couch, breaking the romantic moment. Finally setting Lyrica down on her feet, Roman’s eyes flicked to Bree, then to Dez, and his expression shifted to that commanding dominance that never failed to turn Lyrica on.

“Out. Both o' you. I need a moment with my girl,” he said.

Dez and Bree exchanged wide-eyed looks. Bree gave a sly smile and was the first to head for the door, dragging Dez along with her. “Don’t mind us, we’ll just…uh, take a break,” she said, clearly amused, shooting Lyrica a cheeky grin as she grabbed her bag.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Roman turned to his girlfriend, that sexy smile back on his face. His eyes softened, a perfect mix of affection and desire. “So,” he began, his deep voice tinged with amusement, “what songs have you been working on lately?”

“A few here and there,” Lyrica teased, recalling the brainstorming session from just moments ago. “They’re about you, of course.”

His grin widened, and his hands slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him. “Yeah? I like the sound of that already,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing gentle circles on her sides. “But I got some lyrics for you, too.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh, you got bars? Lemme hear ‘em, then.”

He leaned in just enough to let his lips graze her ear, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m the flame to your fire, the calm to your fight, The one who showed you love could be so right.”

Her heart thudded at his words, striking deeper than she expected. For a moment, she could only blink at him, her playful facade slipping into something softer, more vulnerable. “Sounds like a hit already, baby,” she whispered.

Roman chuckled, low and warm, as Lyrica cupped his bearded cheeks and guided his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle, sensual, and full of untapped love, leaving them both breathless and clinging to each other like they were each other’s anchor. The room around them quickly melted away, the only sounds the faint hum of the studio equipment and their breaths mingling.

“I’ve missed the fuck outta you,” Roman admitted, his voice low and hungry as his hand slipped south to squeeze her ass in his possessive grasp. “Every time I was in the ring, all I could think about was getting back to you.”

Lyrica's fingers curled into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer. “You think I’ve had it any easier? I can’t even write 'cause all I want is you.”

“I want you, too, baby. Come get this dick,” he growled, making her pulse quicken. As a couple, nowhere was off limits to fuck, not even in a recording studio. That’s how needy they were for each other. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, even more so as he kissed her again, fierce and persistent. With a soft groan into her mouth, he carried her blindly over to the console, settling her on the edge as he pressed into her. The control he had, the way he handled her like she was the only thing that mattered in that moment, aroused her to no end.

Shoving his joggers down his legs, Lyrica cupped that big ol’ dick of his in her palm, massaging him through his briefs. A moan emanated from both their lips at her touch, her acrylic nails scraping his rapidly stiffening flesh. Her fingers hooked the waistband of his briefs, and she pushed them down too, all the way to his ankles. In turn, he lifted her hips enough to drag her boy shorts off, then practically tore off her panties. He brought the scrap of lace material to his nose, eyes fluttering shut as the scent of her desire filled his nostrils. He smiled down at its source, gleaming from between her toned legs. "I see you're wet for me, baby," he observed, his voice thick with desire.

“I’m always wet for you,” Lyrica purred, resting on her hands behind her, watching him stroke himself in preparation for her. “Fuck me, baby. Hard.”

“Yes ma’am.” Roman inclined her against the glass paneling, hooked her legs around his bulging biceps and slowly guided his dick into her slick warmth. "Mmm, fuck yeah," he hissed as he started off with deep, plunging strokes, desperate for her as she was for him. He said nothing, for now, simply focusing on giving his girl something they’ve both been missing for weeks. The sensations flooding through him proved time and again that FaceTime could never replace the raw viscerality of his length wrapped by her tight, potent pussy.

Pushing her top up, he squeezed on her titties, caressing the soft, pliable flesh as he upped the tempo. “Such a good girl, keeping this pussy wet for daddy,” he rasped, leaning in for a sloppy kiss as he stared deep into her eyes. Her heavy breasts bounced in his palms, the glass panel rattling behind her as he fucked her against it. “Like how I’m fucking this pussy, baby? You missed this dick, huh?”

"I missed it, daddy, mmm, you feel so good," Lyrica whimpered, and it was the sweetest sound the OTC had ever heard. He plucked her nipples, gritting his teeth as her pussy squeezed his shaft, intensifying the already incredible sensations.

“So fucking tight…” he growled, pounding into her harder, driving in and out of her dripping pussy. His hands left her breasts to grip her ass cheeks, lifting her against him while he hammered white-hot pleasure into her body, making her cry out again and again.

“Mmmph, mmm, yes, yes, daddy, fuck me!” One hand moved to claw at his bicep, her fingernails digging into his taut skin, her breaths expelling with every slam of his pelvis. “Good ass dick…” she whined, her eyes rolling back, her stomach clenching along with her pussy as ecstasy beckoned. “Shit, I’m gonna come…”

“Uh huh. Get your nut, baby. Come on,” Roman rasped, grabbing her thick thighs and spreading them far apart as he kept up his ruthless pace. A sound of pleasure rumbled from his chest at the sight of his groin area smeared with her juices, the squelching sounds of her wetness mingling erotically with their sex noises. His glazed eyes locked onto her face, alight with ecstasy, and he watched her arch off the console and her jaw drop, moaning with reckless abandon, her legs trembling as she came apart around him.

“Unnnnhhh…”

"Shit," Roman gasped, pinning her down, his hips snapping furiously. He was so close, his end building with a near-crippling intensity that made his dick throb. "Fuck, Lyrica..."

“You're close, ain’tcha, Ro?” she taunted, her hands closing around his pumping hips to pull him deeper. “Come inside me, baby. Come for me.”

His groans harmonized with hers as he shuddered, releasing everything he had into her, Lyrica holding him close as pleasure swept through his big body. His nut seemed to go on forever, but at last, he stilled, his face buried in her neck, his heart hammering in his chest.

Lyrica laughed breathlessly, tenderly rubbing the back of his head. “Damn, big daddy,” she teased.

Roman wrapped a gentle hand around her neck and grinned down at her. “Told you I missed you.”

“I know, baby. I missed you too,” she nodded, sighing softly as their mouths met again, their tongues twining slowly, deliciously. Then, a loud gasp escaped her as she suddenly realized something.

“Oh shit!�� she muttered, looking around the room, then at Roman, her eyes wide. “The mics were on!”

Roman looked over at the recording equipment, his eyes narrowing. “What?”

Lyrica quickly pushed a button, and the playback button lit up. What followed was the unmistakable sounds of their passionate exchange—her breathy moans, his gruff grunts, the rhythmic slapping of wet skin. The lewd yet intimate sounds filled the entire room, layered over the faint beat Dez had left running in the background.

“Oh my god!” she said, burying her face in his chest from embarrassment. “I can’t believe that got recorded!”

Roman burst out laughing, clearly entertained by the whole situation. “I think it’s perfect,” he said, kissing the top of her head. He could see the wheels turning as she looked off to the side before shrugging her shoulders, her confidence returning.

“Ya know what? Fuck it. I’ma keep it.”

Roman raised an eyebrow, fighting the smirk that tugged at his lips. “Really? You ain’t worried about how it’ll look?” he teased.

Lyrica grinned, her fingers trailing up his chest. “It’s raw. It’s real. I might just build the whole track around it.”

He chuckled, gently tapping her backside. “As long as the world knows who you singin’ about.”

“Oh, they’ll know. You’re unforgettable, baby.” Her voice was a sultry purr as she kissed him. “It’ll be the most fire part of the song. People will be talking about it for months.”

And they did.

A month later, ‘Can You Tell’ dropped, and as soon as the track hit the airwaves, the world exploded with speculation. Fans flooded Lyrica’s social media trying to figure out if the breathless sounds in the song were truly hers and Roman’s. Neither of them confirmed or denied it, letting the mystery add to the song’s allure.

The song went viral, and while the critics loved it, it was the rumors surrounding the track that kept the public hooked. One thing was certain, though: Lyrica and Roman had created a track that no one would forget. It was wild, passionate, and raw—just the way they both liked it.

But for Lyrica, the real triumph wasn’t the song’s success. It was the love that had inspired it, the beautiful, amazing man who had helped her heal and reminded her that she deserved the world.

THE END

Thoughts?

Shout out to the Anon who sent the idea for this a long time ago.

Credit to the owners of the pics and the gifs

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