Omg, best friend tommy is literally the best.
Imagine a reader and Tommy who have been best friends since high school. Go way back. But no one sees them as a couple. It pisses Tommy OFF cause he wants that cookie BAD.
Then one night at a bar, he gets drunk, his jealousy goes to a new extreme... bar bathroom sex (WOAH WHO SAID THAT)
OOOOOFFFFFF okay i might’ve spinned this a little but OMGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BLEHHH THESE GIFS give off jealous tommy but the middle one is who i always fucking think of when i picture best friend Tommy, dbf tommy, brothers best friend tommy, Joel’s younger brother Tommy’s brother in law tommy LORDDDDDDDDD im horny
summary: tommy has been wanting you since forever, and you? you’re clueless as hell because well, you deserve a little better than the man you know way too well. but tonight? he’s too jealous to not find hot. MDNI.
word count: 1,3k genre: smut
best friend shit
You’d been posted up at the bar with Tommy since 8PM sharp, same as every Friday night since y’all were 16 with fake IDs. He wore his usual flannel and tight jeans, curls a little unruly, beard scruffy in that Tommy Miller just rolled outta bed and still looks fine as fuck kind of way. You didn’t tell him he looked good tonight—because you never did. That was the rule. Best friends didn’t say shit like that.
Instead, you nudged his boot under the table when you saw his glass getting low and flagged the bartender.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, smirking at you. “What would I do without my manager?”
“Die,” you replied sweetly, sipping your tequila soda. “Or forget how to flirt with waitresses. Which is basically the same thing for you.”
He chuckled. That soft little grin that crinkled his eyes—only ever for you.
But he didn’t know you were already scanning the room. Not for him.
You were feelin’ flirty tonight. You looked good, and you knew it—legs out, glossed lips, hair down and messy in that ‘oops I’m sexy without trying’ way that drove men crazy. You didn’t mean to ignore Tommy. You just… liked the attention. You always did.
It started with Wes Tatum from high school. He came up, offered to buy you a drink. You let him. Talked close. Laugh-laughed. Touched his forearm. He wasn’t your type—too blonde, too boring—but his eyes lingered on your legs and you liked the way Tommy’s expression soured the second he saw it.
Then came Jordan. Then Tate. Then Brett. You didn’t flirt with Tommy. You never had. That was the unspoken agreement. You didn’t go there. You couldn’t.
Because Tommy Miller was dangerous in ways the others weren’t—he knew you. He knew everything about you. Knew your tells, your heartbreaks, your bullshit. He was comfort, muscle memory, and familiarity… wrapped in 6 feet of tanned arms and broad shoulders and a mouth that made girls in town forget their morals.
He wasn’t safe. But he was home. And you never touched home.
But God, he was watching you like he wanted to bite something. Seething, silently. Nursing the same beer for the last hour, thumb rolling along the glass like he needed to keep it moving or it’d shatter.
When you spun around on your stool to talk to yet another guy—some bearded dude passing through town, rough around the edges and definitely not from here—Tommy stood up.
Didn’t say a word. Just stood. Silent. Solid. And your stomach flipped. It made you nervous for no reason other than he looked hot.
“Tommy,” you blushed, “don’t look at me like that.”
He said nothing. But his jaw? Set. His eyes? Dead on yours. Like he was burning a hole right through your skin. Like he was saying I fucking dare you to flirt with this guy too.
“I gotta pee,” you mumbled to no one in particular, grabbing your purse.
He moved before you could. Didn’t even ask. Just grabbed your wrist like a man on a fucking mission and leads you through the crowd, opens the hallway door marked RESTROOMS, and pushes it open for you. You stumble inside. Then click. He locks the door behind you. Your brow furrows, slow.
“What’re you doing?”
Tommy leans back against the door, crossing his arms. “Go ahead,” he says gruffly, “I’ll cover my eyes.”
Your lip twitches, liquid courage bubbling. “Oh, shut up, Miller. I know you’re jealous.”
He turns. Slow. Deliberate. Eyes black. Jaw tight. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just walks toward you, step by slow step. Fucking drunk bravery seeping through his pores.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, baby, maybe I am.”
You open your mouth—but his lips are already on yours, crushing, rough, claiming.
You gasp against him. His hands are everywhere—one at the nape of your neck, the other sliding around the curve of your ass, hauling you up with ease as your legs lock around his waist. You’re pushed against the bathroom wall so hard the paper towel dispenser rattles.
“Tommy—” you moan, breathless, stunned, burning.
“Been fuckin’ in love with you since I was seventeen,” he groans, his mouth dragging along your throat. “And you fuckin’—flirt with every loser in town except me?” His teeth scrape your collarbone. “You got any idea what that does to me?”
You whimper as he rucks your dress up, bunching it at your hips. You feel him, hard as a rock, grinding against your soaked panties.
“I thought—” you pant. “I thought we were just—”
“No,” he snaps. “You thought wrong.”
His mouth is back on you, messy, possessive, as he yanks your panties aside. One thick finger plunges into you and you nearly scream.
“Oh fuck—fuck, Tommy—”
“That’s it,” he grits, watching you fall apart with a look of sheer possession. “Tight fuckin’ pussy. Never let me have it, never even gave me a fuckin’ chance—but now?” He adds a second finger. “Now you’re drippin’ all over my fuckin’ hand. You been wanting me too, baby?”
“Yes,” you sob. “Fuck—yes, yes—”
He spins you, bends you forward over the sink. You brace yourself on the cold porcelain, eyes meeting his in the cracked mirror as he shoves your panties down, unzips his jeans.
You gasp when you feel his cock against your entrance—thick, angry, already leaking. “You never said anything.”
He laughs. Cold. Hurt.
“Didn’t think I had a shot.” He teases your entrance. “Everyone thinks you’re too good for me, right? Even you.”
Your mouth opens. Yes. But I don’t care. Not right now. But no sound comes out. He drives into you with a growl. You cry out as your head knocks against the mirror, legs trembling instantly.
“Fuck—, you feel like a fuckin’ dream,” he pants, gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise. “You been keepin’ this from me?” he pants. “This perfect fuckin’ pussy? All these years?”
You moan like a fucking animal.
He fucks you hard, sharp, filthy slaps echoing off the tile. The mirror fogs with your breath. You’re gripping the sink for dear life, mouth falling open when he yanks your head back by your hair to whisper
“Been jerkin’ off to the thought of this for years. So fucking perfect, so tight, so— mine.”
You shake your head, whimpering.
“Better than I ever imagined,” he groans. “So fuckin’ tight around me, squeezin’ me like you missed me.”
You’re sobbing, babbling nonsense.
He pulls you upright, lifts you like you weigh nothing, spins and drops you on the sink. Mouth back on yours, fucking into you hard, the wet sounds obscene, the pace unforgiving.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, sobbing into his mouth, thighs trembling around his waist. He presses his forehead to yours, panting, desperate. He sets a rhythm. Brutal. Deep. Perfect.
Your moans bounce off the tile. The sound of skin against skin fills the room. He fucks you into the sink. Into the mirror. Into oblivion. Every thrust is years of I wanted you but didn’t dare say it. You cry out, legs trembling, as he fucks up into you, his mouth on yours, panting against your lips. Your orgasm hits like a fucking freight train. You clamp around him, shaking, gasping his name.
Tommy follows fast, spilling deep inside you with a growl, forehead pressed to yours as he pants, hips jerking through the aftershocks.
“…Goddamn,” he whispers. “I waited so fuckin’ long to feel you. This—you. You’re—fuck—perfect.”
You’re still clinging to him. Legs limp. Heart racing. He stays inside you. Doesn’t move. Just kisses your cheek, your temple, your mouth—soft now. Like he’s scared he broke something.
You breathe into his neck. “What the hell just happened?”
He nuzzles into your hair. “Best friend shit,” he mutters.
You laugh, shaky. “Is that what that was?”
He pulls back, tilts your chin so you have to look at him.
“No, baby,” he says low. “That was me showin’ you what everyone’s been too scared to say for years.”
“And what’s that?”
His thumb strokes your lip.
“You’ve always been mine.”
