𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 | tm ᥫ᭡.
ft: best friend! tommy miller x reader | no outbreak au wc: 3,8k
incl: 18+ mdni, masturbation, voyeurism, fingering, oral f receiving, p in v, safe sex, banter, teasing, praise, tommy being an absolute hunk of a man, not spec but all my readers + tommy have a slight age gap, dialogue heavy
summary: tommy has always had the worst timing. and you’ve always been bad at taking care of yourself. tommy teases you until you admit the truth: you haven’t had the big o. he’s outraged— you’re gonna get one today.
note: based off of this request. best friend tommy is my favorite tommy, you guys. literally have sooo many unpublished works around that whole concept. this one has a special place in my heart, thank you honey bun. i hope i did your request justice ♡
Your phone is still facedown on the nightstand, the little “do not disturb” moon winking like it’s in on the joke. The bedroom smells like your lotion and the warm, sweet bite of leftover soy sauce from the carton you never put away. You were right there—the kind of edge where your calves tremble and your breathing goes thin and mean—when the knock came.
“Hold on,” you snap, breathless, a little wild. You yank the first T-shirt you can find over your head and tug on cotton shorts that don’t bother hiding the damp patch you’ve been working into them.
You fling open the door with a bite. “What.”
Tommy stands there with a hand braced overhead like he’s been leaning on your doorframe for a hundred years. Dark henley, sun-brown skin, hair curled a little from the heat. That crooked smile that never learned manners.
“Well, hey to you too, sunshine.” His gaze sweeps your flushed face, your bare legs. “I offend ya in your dreams again or is this a daytime thing?”
You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “Come in before a neighbor sees you staring.”
“Me? I’m not the one answerin’ the door lookin’ like a fire alarm,” he says, stepping past you. He smells like motor oil and cedar. He beelines for the fridge like it’s his place, finds the leftover Chinese, and pops the lid with a plastic fork he digs out of your junk drawer. “Missed lunch,” he mumbles, already eating cold sesame chicken like it’s the cure to everything.
You kick the door shut, arms folded, jaw clenched so tight your teeth ache. You stomp after him just to have something to do with your legs that isn’t clenching them together.
“What’s up with you?” he asks, around a mouthful. He eyes your pink cheeks, the sheen at your temple. His mouth quirks. “You got a… guest, sweetheart?”
“No, Tommy. I don’t.”
“Mm.” He chews, thoughtful. His gaze lingers on your mouth, then drops—one beat too low. “You… busy when I knocked?”
You stare at him like your face can kill. It can’t. He only grins wider.
“Gotta ask, ‘cause you’re standin’ there like I cut the wire on somethin’ important.”
You throw a hand up. “Can you not.”
He leans hip to counter, tapping the fork on the carton lid. “Oh, I can. Question is—were you?”
You glare. Silence stretches. His eyes light, slow and wicked.
“Oh, you were.” He laughs, low. “Well hell. Me and my bad timing.”
“Tommy,” you warn.
“I’ll be real quick,” he promises, tipping the carton to shovel in another bite like he’s trying to get out of your hair fast. Except then his eyes catch the way your thighs press together. The way you sway where you stand. His brow lifts. “Unless you want me to keep you from it. Keepin’ you from sin might be good for my karma.”
“Your karma’s a lost cause.”
“True.” He sets the carton down. “Where’s the emergency? Bedroom? Couch? Shower?” He looks at you, head tipping. “You doin’ the shower thing? People make a lotta promises about that one—it’s overrated.”
You sputter. “I’m not discussing my—my process with you.”
“Well, you ain’t gotta,” he says easily, pushing off the counter and wandering a few steps closer. “But since you look about ready to climb the wall, I could at least heat your leftovers for ya and get gone.”
“I was fine,” you insist, and even you hear the lie. “I was—God, forget it.”
He watches you for one long breath, then hums. “Call one of your little boyfriends, then.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those boys you go dancin’ with and then pretend aren’t starin’ at your ass the whole night.” He gestures vaguely. “They can come over, pick up where you left off.”
You scoff, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. No.”
“Mm?” He studies you like you’re a math problem. “Shy all of a sudden?”
“They never—” You bite it off, but the dam’s already cracked. Frustration leaks through, hot and humiliating. “They don’t… it doesn’t happen with them, okay?”
He frowns. “Doesn’t what happen?”
You give him a look like he’s being willfully dense. “It.”
The slow shock that breaks over his face would be funny if you weren’t vibrating with need. He sets the fork down, completely forgetting the food. “Hold up. You’re tellin’ me… not a one of those little bastards has ever made you cum?”
Heat crashes into your cheeks. “Tommy,” you hiss.
“No, I’m tryna understand.” His hands go out. “Not one?”
You throw your hands. “No! Okay? Happy? Can you go now?”
He stares at you like it’s a personal affront. “That’s—now, that’s a sin I can’t stand for.” He shakes his head, jaw tight with something that looks suspiciously like anger. “What are they doin’ down there, a guided tour of nothin’?”
“Jesus.”
“Nah, I’d be sayin’ Jesus too if I—” He cuts himself off, eyes narrowing. “Alright. I’ll let you take care of yourself. Clearly you were doin’ a better job than the roster.”
He turns toward the door, wiping his hands on a paper towel. You don’t think. Your hand closes around his wrist.
“I can’t either,” you blurt, soft, furious with it. “Half the time I can’t. I get—close—and then… I don’t know, I lose it.”
He goes still. Slowly, he looks down at your fingers around his pulse, then up to your eyes. Something changes in his face, the playful shine sinking to something intent and hot.
“Ain’t no way,” he says quietly.
You swallow.
He takes a slow breath, then nods to the couch. “Show me what you were doin’.”
Your stomach drops to the floor. “Excuse me?”
“I ain’t touchin’,” he says, hands up, mouth curving. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“I was a hell of a lotta things,” he drawls. “Teacher’s one of ‘em. C’mon. Lemme help.”
You should tell him to leave. You should die of embarrassment. Instead, you back toward the couch like you’re being coaxed by a wolf. You climb up, sit, then slide down until your shoulders catch the cushions and your hips perch at the edge. Your heart’s beating in your throat.
Tommy drags a dining chair over and flips it, straddling it backward like every bad decision you’ve ever made. He props his chin on his folded arms over the chair back, eyes dark and steady on you. “Attagirl.”
You stare at him.
“Shorts,” he says. “We both know they’re useless right now.”
And because it’s Tommy. Because you’ve known him forever. Because he makes everything so easy and familiar and simple. You listen. Your fingers hook in the waistband before your brain protests. You peel them down and kick them off. The T-shirt sinks to your waist when you spread your knees. Cool air kisses you and your breath hitches.
Tommy’s eyes drop, slow. His swallow is audible. The tips of his ears go pink. “Christ alive.” His voice roughens. “Pretty as I figured.”
“Don’t—” Your voice shakes. “Don’t say things.”
“Oh, I got a lot to say, but you’re the one runnin’ the show.” He nods at your hand. “How were you doin’ it?”
You wet your lips, then slide a palm down your belly. Your fingers find yourself like they always do—press, rub, a little too fast because you’re greedy, because he’s looking and it’s turned your bones to gauze.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Slow it down. You’re chasin’. You ain’t gotta chase it.”
You glare; your hips twitch anyway. “If I slow down it goes away.”
“Not if you keep the rhythm.” He taps his knuckles—one, two, three—an unhurried beat. “Match me. Little circles. Don’t hunt—invite.”
You try. Your breath catches and catches again. He watches the way your stomach flutters.
“Good girl,” he says, almost absent. “Now left a touch. Yeah.” He leans in like he’s squinting at a map. “There it is. That twitch right there. Stay there.”
You whimper.
“Feels like pressure buildin’ behind your navel?” he asks softly. “Little ache?”
You nod too fast. “Yes—fuck—Tommy—”
“Language,” he says, smiling, and you want to murder him until your thighs shake and the smile slides right off his face. His jaw hardens. “Keep your wrist loose, baby. You’re white-knucklin’ it. Relax.”
“I’m trying—”
“Breathe.” He breathes slow, exaggerated, and you match him because you’ll do anything anyone asks if it means you get there. “Better. Now, you can add a finger inside if you want. Just one. Shallow. Curl toward your belly button, not down. Like you’re beckonin’. Two knuckles, not three.”
You do it. The angle is… different. A bright little hook that makes your hips jerk off the cushion. Your voice breaks. “Oh—oh my God—”
“There she is.” His eyes burn. “You feel that? That’s yours. Don’t run from it.”
You want to, because your body always does—clenches, darts away, skitters to the edges. You force yourself to push into it this time, heels braced on the edge of the couch, breath shattering. You’re aware of him in the periphery—big hands wrapped around the chair back so tight his knuckles blanch, chest barely rising because he’s holding his breath like he’s the one about to fall apart.
“Tommy—” It comes out a whine. “I’m—”
“Keep the pace,” he says, voice gone sandpaper. “Don’t get greedy. Let it—yeah, just like that, baby—”
You break with a ragged gasp, spilling over your own fingers, thighs trembling. It feels like heat and weight and a relief so sharp you could cry with it. You ride it through because he doesn’t let you lose it, murmuring, “uh-uh, stay with it, that’s it, that’s my girl,” until your hand finally slows.
You blink up at the ceiling. There are little bursts of light at the edges of your vision. You swallow and lick your lips and realize your fingers are still between your legs, and Tommy Miller is still sitting three feet away watching you like a war is over.
He scrubs a hand over his face. When he drops it, his mouth is a line. “I’m about to be extremely stupid.”
Your laugh is a small, wrecked thing. “Join the club.”
“C’mere,” he says gently, and when you don’t move quick enough he stands, sets the chair aside, and kneels between your knees. He doesn’t touch. He braces his hands on either side of your hips and looks at you the way people look at altars. “Can I?”
All the air leaves you. “Yes.”
He leans in slow, giving you a chance to change your mind, and presses his mouth to your inner thigh first. A kiss. Another. Then his thumb slides to the place you’ve just made tender and he looks up to see the way your lashes flutter.
“Pretty,” he says, so soft you barely hear it. “You’re so pretty.”
“Tommy—”
“I know.” He breathes out. “I’m gonna show you. How this is supposed to feel.”
He doesn’t dive in. He tastes you with small, reverent swipes, learning the shape of what you like. His tongue is unhurried; his hands sure. When you start to pant, he hums like he’s pleased with himself and says, “There you go,” into you, the vibration making you jerk.
“More,” you whisper, and he gives you more like he’s been waiting his whole life to be told what to do. He drags two fingers through your slick and eases one inside while his mouth works you in patient, devastating circles. When he adds the second his knuckles nudge that bright spot again and your back arches.
“Right there,” you gasp.
“Right there,” he echoes, voice breaking against you. “Hold me if you want.”
You fist your hand in his hair and he groans like the sound is pulled out of him, moving his mouth just so. He doesn’t speed up when you start to chase—he keeps you on that same relentless edge until your thighs tremble around his ears.
“Let it happen,” he says into you. “Don’t think. Just take it.”
You fall apart so hard your heels drum against the couch frame. He doesn’t stop until you push at his shoulder, half-laughing, half-pleading. “Okay. Okay, okay—God, Tommy—”
He kisses the inside of your knee, then your hipbone, then the soft skin just under your T-shirt. He looks up, pupils blown, mouth wet and wrecked.
“Still with me?”
“Barely.”
“Good.” He stands, and you feel very small and very safe all at once with him towering over you. He thumbs a smear of you off his chin and licks it absently, eyes never leaving your face. “Lesson ain’t over.”
“You—” Your voice is a croak. “You think I’m gonna survive an advanced course?”
He laughs, chest-deep. “You’ll manage.”
He reaches for his belt, then stops. “Condom?”
You blink, hazy, then fumble end table drawer on the side of the sofa open and toss him a foil. He catches it one-handed without looking away and the little flare of competence should not be hot but it is; you feel your stomach drop like an elevator.
He steps out of his boots, pushes his jeans and briefs down, and for a second your brain pulls a hard blue screen. He’s thick, heavy in his palm, the blunt head flushed. He rolls the condom down with practiced ease, then leans over you, one hand braced on the cushion beside your head, the other cupping your jaw. Your eyes say keep going.
He drags the head of his cock through the slick he made of you, slow enough to make you whine, then presses. Your mouth falls open. The stretch is sharp, sweet. He pauses halfway, forearm shaking, eyes squeezed shut.
“You’re so warm,” he says, like a confession. “Jesus, baby.”
“More,” you say, and he huffs a laugh that sounds strangled.
“I’m goin’, sweetheart. I’m goin’.”
He pushes the rest of the way in and it knocks a noise out of you you’ve never heard yourself make. He’s deep, deeper than anyone’s ever felt, and you grab his shoulders without meaning to. He groans, low, into the hinge of your jaw.
“Look at me,” he says, and when you do his face goes soft and hungry all at once. “How’s that?”
“Like—” You struggle. “Like finally.”
He curses under his breath, like that hit him somewhere tender, and draws back. The first thrust is careful, gauging you, but the second rolls hard enough to make the couch creak. You gasp; he watches your mouth like he’s starving.
“Good?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He finds a pace you can’t name—not fast, but deep and steady, like he’s trying to carve his name somewhere no one will ever erase. One big hand brackets your thigh and folds your knee up, opening you wider. The angle tilts and your breath breaks.
“There,” you say, already wrecked. “Tommy—there.”
“Yeah?” His grin is quick and sinful. He snaps his hips just right and your nails bite his shoulder. “There, baby?”
“Don’t stop.”
“Not plannin’ to.” His voice goes rough, the edges fraying. “You feel me? Huh? Doin’ alright?”
You can only nod. He fucks you like he’s been dying to—like you’re both getting away with something and also like there’s nowhere safer than this. The rhythm pulls you higher; that curl of heat builds again and your eyes sting with it.
“Relax into it,” he says, almost coaxing. “Don’t run. Let me—yeah, just like that.” He grits his teeth, control fraying when you squeeze around him. “Goddamn, sweetheart, you’re squeezin’ the life outta me.”
“Don’t—” Your voice shivers. “Please, baby, please don’t stop.”
He laughs, breathless. “Bossy.” He cups the back of your head and kisses you, finally, nothing polite about it—his mouth hot and sure, claiming. You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into him, and he swears, deep, like you just took his knees out. “You sound so sweet when you call me baby,” he mutters against your lips. “That what i am now? Baby? Ruined me for bein’ your friend. You know that?”
“Been ruined,” you pant. “Keep—oh God, keep going—”
He reaches down between you, finds your clit with two slick fingers, and rubs the same exact rhythm he taught you earlier, like he’s memorized it. Your whole body lights up. You clutch the back of his neck and his thrusts turn messy, desperate.
“There she is,” he grits out. “C’mon. Show me. I want it.”
“Tommy—”
“Look at me,” he says, voice gone ragged. “I want your eyes on me when you cum.”
You do it because you always do what he tells you when he uses that voice, and the second your gaze locks with his the wave hits. You shatter around him with a broken cry, clamping down so hard he gasps your name like a prayer. He keeps moving, keeps rubbing you through it like he can’t stand the thought of you not getting every drop.
“Fuck,” he chokes. “God, baby—fuck.”
He folds over you as he drives deep and goes still, groaning into your neck as he comes, the heat of it pulsing even through the thin latex. The weight of him is everything—sweat-damp and solid and Tommy.
For a long minute, there’s only breath. His, yours. The tick of your wall clock. The way his thumb rubs your jaw like he forgot how to stop touching you.
“Tell me that was good,” he says finally, words muffled in your throat like he’s afraid to hear otherwise.
“Tommy.” You smile against his hair. “Good is rude. That was—” You breathe out, dizzy. “—that was missionary-position fireworks. That was baptism. That was illegal in some counties.”
He laughs, a burst that shakes his chest against yours. He tilts up and kisses your mouth again, softer. “Had to know. Had to show you.”
“You made your point,” you say, drowsy and warm. “Multiple times.”
“Damn right I did.”
He eases out of you with care, ties off the condom, and disappears to your bathroom for all of thirty seconds. He comes back with a warm washcloth like he’s done this in your space a hundred times, even though he hasn’t, and cleans you slow, almost reverent. You watch him with something like awe tugging at the edges of you.
“You okay?” he asks, finally meeting your eyes.
“Yeah.” You nudge him with your foot. “Hungry.”
He grins. “I can fix that too.” He helps you sit up and tugs your T-shirt back into place like you’re something precious he’s keeping warm. Then he pads to the kitchen in his socks and you admire the view as shamefully as you deserve to.
He reheats the sesame chicken and brings the carton and a fork back like it’s a prize. You take a bite and groan indecently.
“Careful,” he says, eyes dancing. “I’m tryin’ to be a gentleman for once.”
“First time for everything,” you tease, and he puts a hand over his heart like you shot him.
“Uncalled for,” he says, then sobers, mouth curving as he studies your face. He drags his knuckles under your chin, gentle. “Gotta say… I don’t like thinkin’ about those boys not… takin’ care of you.”
You tilt your head. “Jealous?”
“Pissed,” he admits, unabashed. “And yeah, maybe a bit possessive, which ain’t my right.” He shrugs one shoulder, eyes going a little shy in a way that doesn’t happen to Tommy very often. “You deserve to feel good. Every damn time.”
You stare at him. The room feels suddenly tender, the air thinner.
“You made me feel—” You break off, fighting a lump in your throat you didn’t invite to this party. “Like I could just let it happen.”
“Because you can.” He taps the tip of your nose with his fingertip like he’s the only person allowed to do something that sweet to you. “Because it’s yours. I just… helped you find it.”
You set the food aside and slide your hands up his chest. “Teacher,” you murmur, and he groans like the word does something to him. “You said lesson wasn’t over.”
His grin returns, slow and sure. “It ain’t.”
You crawl into his lap like it’s the easiest thing in the world and settle on his thighs, knees bracketing his hips. His hands come to your waist automatically, thumbs tracing the dip there.
“Second module,” you whisper, leaning in so your mouth skims his ear. “You show me how many times you can make me forget my name before I bite you.”
He laughs, husky. “Baby, I’m gonna have you forgettin’ your address.”
“Big talk,” you say, but the shiver that runs through you gives you away.
He stands with you clinging koala-style, mouth on yours. “Bedroom,” he says, already walking. “And for the record?”
“What.”
“You call any of those little boys again,” he murmurs, all grin and teeth, “they’re gonna have to submit a request in writin’ and I’ll get back to ‘em in seven to ten business days.”
You snort against his mouth. “Possessive.”
“Teacher’s prerogative,” he says, and then he’s laying you down, the afternoon light painting his shoulders gold, and you’re opening for him like it’s always been this easy.
𓍯𓂃𓏧♡
Later—after he’s wrung you out twice more by sticking to his own rules (“keep the rhythm,” “don’t run,” “breathe, baby, I got you”) and you’ve repaid the favor with your mouth until he cussed and laughed and said he was gonna have to build you a trophy shelf—he sprawls on his back with one arm flung over his face, the other hand idly combing through your hair where you’re draped across his chest.
“You know this changes stuff,” you say into his sternum, voice small in the big quiet.
“Yeah,” he says. “Kinda figured that when I had your knee by my ear.”
You bite his skin to punish his grin. He flinches, delighted, and drags that hand from your hair to your jaw, tipping your face up so he can see you.
“We can take it slow,” he says. “We can call it a very hands-on study group and see where it goes. Or we can—” He exhales, smile softening. “—we can just keep makin’ sure you feel good for a while and not call it anything yet.”
You think about his mouth on you, his hands steady, the way he said my girl when you came like he didn’t mean to.
“Study group,” you say, trying for lightness and failing because your voice wobbles. “You bring the notes. I’ll bring… snacks.”
“Already did,” he says, nodding at the abandoned carton on the coffee table.
You kiss his chest, grinning. “I meant me.”
He groans like you actually did kill him. “I swear to God, you’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Worth it?”
He looks down, all play gone from his face for a heartbeat. “Yeah, baby,” he says softly. “Worth it.”
He pulls you up and kisses you slow, the kind that rewrites history. And just like that, he’s shown you, patiently and then not, exactly how good it can be—how good he is at figuring out your body—until you’re breathless and bright and ruined for anyone who doesn’t know your rhythm like a favorite song. And just like that, that’s how friendships are ruined.
note ext: ah, this was just a joy to write. you guys can tell.. i love playful tommy so so so bad. ugh— this one gives me nothings gonna hurt you baby vibes. you guys are on fire with these requests omg.
