speedrunning that- (Patreon)

synopsis: your best friend is a little bit of a loser. you still love him! just, um, maybe not quite as platonically as you thought when you catch him jerking off and realize that you might like a lot more than just his personality! how long will it take for you to get another look at what's in his pants? or will you give up before you get a taste of what else he's keeping from you?

pairing: dorky!best friend x horny!reader

wc: 4.7k

content: smut. porn with plot. masturbation, reader catches him jerking off, small misunderstanding, reader scheming to get her man, teasing, flirting, awkwardness, sexual frustration, she wants him bad, mutual pining, he's a bit oblivious, they are both giving loser lol, best friends to lovers, confessions, kissing, oral sex (f!) receiving, fingering, happy ending

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Your best friend was keeping a big secret from you. 

One that was approximately eight inches long and had a girth of about-

Okay, you hadn’t really approximated that when you were more distracted by how pink his swollen tip was the same shade as his lips as they parted in a low whimper, pre-cum glistening while his fist roughly stroked the base of it. 

Your brain went blank. And before you could say or do anything, he somehow picked up on your presence anyway, his head turning to catch you standing in his doorway. 

Shame prickling your skin, crawling up your bones as your own mouth dropped open, about to stutter an apology just for him to breathe your name in a strained voice, heat your brain immediately flagged as wrong wrong wrong coiling in your core. 

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammered, stepping back and half-slamming the door shut behind you. Closing your eyes only to find the image of him imprinted fully in your head, pumping his unfortunately extremely pretty cock as the way he said your name started looping with it. 

You tried to turn it off. 

To remind yourself that he was firmly cemented in the box neatly labeled best friend in your heart, but how were you supposed to convince yourself he belonged there when you were suddenly imagining him whimpering beneath you instead?

It wasn’t like you could just fuck him like some stranger and never see him again.

But you also didn’t know how the hell you were supposed to sit next to him on the couch watching anime when you knew what he was hiding in his sweatpants. 

You swallowed hard, your throat going dry as you reminded yourself that it wasn’t like he saw you as anything else anyway. You’d caught yourself crushing on him a couple times over the years, considering what he might be like as a boyfriend, but those had been easier to shut down. 

He was cute. Considerate. Like a loyal puppy dog who would plop itself by your feet and listen to you talk while you stroked his hair, tail wagging when you told him how much you liked being with him. One that just also happened to be hot in the messy, disheveled dorky way. Hiding a broad frame underneath thick hoodies with cartoon characters on them, pretty blue eyes always squinting at you from his thick glasses he refused to update his prescription for.  

As far as you knew, he didn’t go out with anyone, discarding receipts with girls’ numbers on them he tended to receive when you dragged him out to dinner or the movies with the promise of going to one of his favorite stores to buy whatever new game or comic or Lego set he liked afterwards. You befriended him back in school, back when you were both kinda gangly and awkward and you noticed him reading a book you liked, but unlike the rest of the puberty-mad morons, he never seemed interested in anyone, despite the ample flirting and teasing from classmates and strangers once he started to fill out his tall frame and look less like a boy and more like a man.

God, even these days when you talked him into going out to a bar or club, he never once checked out your cleavage or told you that you looked pretty, no matter how hard you tried to bait him into it. 

Maybe you just weren’t his type. 

So you convinced yourself that he would’ve made a move by now if he felt the same and distracted yourself by dating other losers that were nothing like him. 

But those relationships always ended for the same reason they started. 

They weren’t him. 

Didn’t make you laugh the way he did or remember your birthday or pick up the phone when you had a nightmare at three in the morning. Didn’t spoil you with just because gifts or send you a picture of a cute stray cat that reminded him of you. Called you weird for being into certain video games or shows instead of asking to play or watch it with you.  

And apparently, they weren’t nearly as large as him either. 

“I, um, I’m just gonna go,” you called out to him, thighs pressing together as you sucked in a deep breath, already planning on returning to your bed for  your own alone time. “I should’ve called or texted or something before coming over.” 

Sure, he’d given you the key to his place and told you to come over anytime, but in all the years you’d been abusing that privilege, you’d never walked in on that. Usually, he was just playing video games after work or asleep with a manga volume on his chest, drooling onto his pillow. 

“N-no, wait,” he called out, and you wondered if he had actually managed to finish, or if you just edged him. 

You had started to walk down the hall, but you heard the door creak open and his socks sliding against the wooden floor as you looked back over your shoulder at him. 

Sweaty strands of hair falling forward in his face, his glasses slipping down his sharp nose as he looked at you with wide, wild eyes. But your own had drifted down to the incredibly clear outline of his bulge in his gray sweatpants, a small damp spot growing through the fabric as you swallowed the spit pooling in your mouth.

Both of you awkwardly staring at each other, unsure what to say or how to say it as the best your brain would offer was telling him that he could go cum if he hadn’t already. 

“I’m sorry, I-” He began to apologize, like there was something to be sorry for when it came to masturbating in the peace and privacy of his own room. You were only trying to surprise him, a bag you’d almost forgotten about still dangling from your fingers from the new bakery that opened up down the street with sweet treats stuffed inside it. 

“What were you jerking off to?” The question came out all on its own, your tone lighthearted like you were teasing while your stupid heart was still slamming into your rib cage.

Stupid stupid stupid-

“Can we pretend that never happened?” He thankfully ignored what you asked, cheeks pink and hot as you nodded. 

It wasn’t like he was going to tell you if it was you anyway. 

“I, uh, brought stuff,” you changed the subject, holding out the bag as he reached out to grab it – just for his fingers to be a little sticky. 

Holy shit. 

He realized it the second you did, his face nearly a new shade of red as you let him take the bag, beginning to gesture to his hall bathroom as your brain malfunctioned. 

“C-can I use the bathroom?” You half-squeaked, rushing into it anyway before waiting for a reply. 

Shutting the door hard behind you, resting your back behind it as you struggled to catch your breath, covering your mouth with your own hand so he wouldn’t hear how heavy it was. 

And then there was the creak of his weight on the other side, the door knob jiggling as he called out, “Please don’t hate me, I’m-” 

“It’s okay,” you interrupted him. “It’s normal.” 

“A-are you sure?” He stuttered, and you hated yourself for finding the way he was panting and panicking cute. Whatever box you used to contain your former crush on him now bursting at the seams and letting it break back through. 

“Uh-huh,” you insisted, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you walked over to the sink, running the water as you washed your hands. “I’ll be out in a minute. Just, um, put something on TV and we can hang out.” 

And you’d pretend like you weren’t still thinking about the size of his cock. 

Splashing water on your face with a sigh, struggling to clear your head. Swearing that this could still go back to normal. That the two of you could continue like nothing had happened. 

Which might have been possible, if your brain didn’t suggest something that made you freeze, water droplets rolling off your face as a question you failed to ask yourself floated up to the surface. 

What if he was masturbating to you? 

Okay, that was probably egotistical, but something inside you latched onto the idea, desperate to believe that maybe you weren’t totally delusional to feel something more for him. 

And by the time you had mostly recollected yourself, quietly opening the door and peeking out and listening out for the tv playing in the living room, you had made a dumb decision to figure it out for yourself. Creeping back into his bedroom, chest constricting tight as you saw his computer was still on, still unlocked – even if all the tabs were closed. 

Like an idiot, you were slipping into his computer chair, chewing on your bottom lip and praying he hadn’t used private browsing while you pulled up his history, well aware that this was maybe more wrong than walking in on him before. 

But there it was. 

Three results down, your social media page in the recently closed. 

Shit. 

Before you had even processed it, you shut the browser again, hurrying back out into the hall and walking back out to the living room like you hadn’t seen anything, a bowl of popcorn on his coffee table and his broad frame squished into the corner of the couch like he was trying to make himself as small as possible, the treats you bought all neatly placed on a plate by it. Cans of soda left next to it, rings of condensation left like he kept moving and rearranging everything. 

“So, uh, we’re good?” He asked, looking nervously over as he fiddled with the long sleeves of his hoodies. 

“Great,” you nodded, forcing the word out like your throat didn’t feel like there was a huge lump lodged right in the middle, giving him a thumbs up.

But the entire time you were next to him, you were just thinking about what the hell you were supposed to do from here. 

God, even when you left his place and went back to your own, you only ended up pacing your floor and trying to figure out if he actually wanted to be with you, or if you were just overthinking it. 

Embarrassing heat curling and coaxing you towards a conclusion you didn’t know how to feel about. 

Even if he might not actually want to have sex with you, you were being forced to face how much you might actually want to fuck him.

You weren’t a pervert. 

Definitely not. 

It wasn’t just because of his cock. 

It might have been part of it, but the longer you thought about it, the more you realized that perhaps it was always inevitable. That sooner or later, you would be right here wondering whether or not he really only saw you as a friend anyway. Questioning whether or not your own feelings could be classified as pure when you were second guessing every intimate interaction you had in the last decade. 

This was all his fault. He started it.

Jerking off to your photos at four in the afternoon around the time you usually came over? 

You buried your face in your own pillow, trying to ignore the fantasies floating up of his big palm pressing down on the nape of your neck and that fat cock of his bottoming out inside you as you nearly groaned into it. 

What you really needed was a plan. 

Some way to solve this…problem of yours. 

And okay, perhaps the steps you decided were a little obvious, but you didn't know how else to get a guy like him. 

Attempt one? 

Wear as little as possible around him as often as possible. 

Skimpy shorts and skirts, the kind that you had to borrow from your other friends and constantly readjust to make sure your ass was at least mostly covered, checking to see if he was stealing glimpses only for his stare to be completely and utterly appropriate even when you wore a shirt that had half your tits hanging out. 

The most you got was him asking if you had a date later like you weren’t standing there waiting for him to ask you on one. 

So, uh a failure. 

Your second step was moderately more successful. 

Sending him flirtier text messages, winky faces and selfies that you were sure that he would at least start to suspect were hints that you shared his attraction. You were a little tempted to just straight up do the childish thing and send him the whole ‘I like someone,’ spiel to see if he’d play dumb and ask who so you could say it was him. 

But you wanted him to make a move. 

To save your pride even if it felt like there were fresh cracks spreading across it every day he acted like he was totally unfazed by you throwing yourself at him. 

He did go from sending you thumbs up to your photos to polite compliments, telling you that you looked pretty or telling you that the color of your shirt was nice, which, uh, you guessed was something. 

So you kicked it up another notch. 

Buying him a figure he mentioned wanting, proudly presenting it just for him to pout at you and tell you that you shouldn’t spend your money on him, guilt glinting in his eyes as he mumbled a grateful thank you before insisting on buying your food for the next three days to make up for it. 

So you switched to finding tiny excuses to touch him, letting your hand rest over his for a few seconds too long, brushing up against him in public and showing up to his apartment halfway hoping that you’d find him in the same position again. 

He just let you do everything. 

Never questioning it when you claimed there was food on his face that you needed to use your thumb to wipe off or suggesting grabbing a second blanket when you said you were too cold on his couch and wanted to snuggle closer under his. 

Did he simply not care? 

Could anyone be that nonchalant? 

Three full weeks of flouncing around in front of him and feeling like a fool, and he still wasn’t looking at you any differently than usual. Only throwing a brief glance over your outfit when you let yourself into his apartment wearing one of his shirts you snuck from his closet, and the smallest shorts you could find, just asking if you were hot instead of telling you that you were hot. 

You kind of wanted to take it all off to see what he’d do with you in your bra and panties. 

But instead, you took a deep breath and just asked what he was up to. 

Apparently, playing video games was indeed more interesting than your bare thigh pressing against his firm one on the couch, your head resting on his shoulders as his fingers flew fast across the controller to input stuff. 

He was rambling about a speedrun, blue eyes glittering as he showed off the strats and rambled that he’d stayed up late practicing the night before. 

“It almost sounds like you’re trying to impress me,” you attempted to tease, although your voice fell a little flat, already anticipating his response.

“Are you impressed?” He genuinely asked, and you could nearly see big puppy dog ears flopping on his head as he paused the game to look over at you. Tilting his head to the side as if you hadn’t just spent almost a month trying to get in his pants just for him to wonder whether or not his video game strategies were cool. 

The only thing that really impressed you right now was your own stupidity for thinking this was going to go any other way. But still, you were nodding along, not wanting to let him think you thought it was lame as you offered a small smile, “Yeah.” 

“Do you wanna try?” He offered, holding out the controller, eager to share with you just for  you to slowly shake your head. 

“I, uh, think I’m gonna get some water,” you excused yourself, standing up and walking back into his kitchen to make yourself a glass as he watched you walk away. 

You couldn’t let yourself look back.

Not wanting to know how quickly his attention snapped back to the screen as you sighed to yourself. 

But even when you cooled yourself back off, sipping on the ice-cold water and slowly returning to where he had started to play again, fate had decided to help humiliate you more when you almost tripped on a loose extension cord and spilled your drink on the shirt, the soaked thin fabric not disguising the lacey bra you picked out beneath him. 

And still, when he looked over, you couldn’t detect an ounce of lust.

Just concern in his crinkling eyes as he paused his game again to gesture down the hall to his bedroom, “I can clean everything up. Do you want one of my shirts?”Did he even realize this was one of his? 

You couldn’t fucking take it anymore. 

Peeling the damp shirt over your head and discarding it on the floor after setting the glass down, half-storming over to where he was sitting just to get on his lap instead of next to it. 

“Do you wanna fuck me?” 

Never, in the ten years of your friendship, had you once imagined you would be straddling your best friend’s lap – all for him to blink back at you through thick glasses like this was totally platonic. 

“Me?” He asked, and you briefly contemplated jumping off the building if the idea of the two of you having sex was truly that unbelievable to him.  

“Is there someone else here?” You asked, exasperated as you waited for the rejection you apparently needed to just let this go.  

“Do I want to fuck you?” He reiterated your question, like he couldn’t comprehend it. 

And every second that passed with you sitting on him without answering it just made you feel dumber and dumber. 

“You were fucking your fist to me, weren’t you?” You asked, hope you couldn’t hide peeking through. You tried to hold onto your composure, keeping your chin held high as his stare stayed fixed on your face – and not on the way your breasts were pushed-up in your bra. 

“What?” He asked, brows scrunching together. “No, I wasn’t.”

You wished you didn’t believe him.

That you didn’t know him well enough to know when he was telling you the truth. 

“Shit,” you swallowed hard, awkwardly climbing back off him — but not returning to your regular spot on his couch. Glancing around to look for your purse, humiliation burning beneath your skin and blurring all your thoughts as you walked over to collect your stuff. Unable to even look back at him after embarrassing yourself like that. 

You picked the shirt back up off the floor, not caring if you’d be giving anyone out on the street a view of your bra when you already showed the person you wanted to see them and he hadn’t given a shit.  

“What are you-” He started to ask, but you were too focused on trying not to cry, sure that you had completely fucked your friendship up as you put the shirt on, ignoring how uncomfortably it stuck to your skin. “Where are you going?”

He hadn’t answered you. So you didn’t feel too bad about not answering him, nearly making it back to his front door before you felt his fingers snag your wrist, spinning you back around before you could make your getaway. 

“What the hell?” He asked, and you still wouldn’t look at him. 

“I thought you liked me,” you muttered, humiliation heating up beneath your face, second-degree burns scalding your heart as you steeled yourself for him to give you the obligatory, ‘I do, but just as a friend,’ speech. 

“Oh,” he breathed.

Yeah. Oh. 

You pulled your wrist free, about to turn away from him again to go before your heart could completely shatter, but then your back was suddenly pressed against the door, his hands slamming down on either side like you were in some cheesy anime as your face snapped back up to look at his. 

“I mean, I have masturbated to you before.” 

You really never would’ve thought that sentence could sound romantic before. 

“What?” It was your turn to blink up at him like a clueless idiot as his cheeks turned cherry red again. 

“I didn’t last time, I mean, not technically, I was just liking your last post because you said it made you sad when I didn’t and um, I just got-” 

Horny? 

He didn’t finish his sentence, trailing off his rambling as he awkwardly held his breath, looking at you like he was begging you to…well, you weren’t sure what, either. Not think he was a pervert? Believe that he hadn’t meant to jerk off to you? 

“Do you like me?” He asked, the realization apparently only now beginning to fully dawn on him why you were acting like this. 

“I don’t dislike you,” you muttered, having a hard time actually saying it despite the fact you were on his lap a minute ago. 

“Oh my god,” he exhaled. “You do.” 

Was it too much to hope for him to like, get hit by a car and just get retrograde amnesia to wipe the last three weeks from his head? 

Probably. 

So instead, you were turning your head to the side, avoiding his sharp stare as you scrunched your nose up, trying to come up with some excuse, but before you could swear that he should just forget about it, his mouth crashed into your parted lips. 

The weight of him pinning your body between his and the cheap door, his lips sliding effortlessly between your own as one of his big hands cupped your cheek and tilted your face back towards him. 

And to your absolute dismay, you discovered he was a fantastic kisser. 

Far better than you ever expected, his tongue slipping inside your mouth with the sort of expertise that put your last ex to shame, your fingers trembling as you grabbed the loose fabric of his hoodie and pushed him away enough to scowl at him. 

“Who taught you to kiss like that?” You grumbled, glaring as you tried to tame the jealous beast that had somehow bloomed in your chest. 

You barely recognized yourself, struggling to believe you could actually be this jealous when you’d never given this much of a shit over any of your last boyfriends. 

“Was I good?” He grinned, proud of himself as he looked down at you with those big eyes. “I watched a YouTube video.” 

You pushed out your bottom lip, shoulders slumping with relief, you stopped imagining him doing this with some faceless coworker you never met before or the cute girl that lived two doors down from him you sometimes passed by on the elevator. 

“You’re okay,” you murmured, although you immediately felt bad once he frowned, his brows furrowing. 

“Just okay?” 

You were about to admit that it was more than okay, but before you could, he was picking you up, throwing you over his shoulder as your confession twisted into a squeal, one hand landing on your ass as he started carrying you back to his messy bedroom. 

“Guess I’ll just have to try harder,” he hummed. 

God, with the way he had you stripped down and spread-eagled in his bed, you suspected he was trying to speedrun sex. 

His hands on your hips and his mouth dragging in-and-out of your pussy, painting messy stripes and swirls with the thick muscle of his tongue, making quick work of diving as deep as he could. Pausing every few minutes to ask if that was alright, if you liked something new he tried, if you wanted it from a new angle. 

Like you weren’t already a wreck in his navy sheets, clawing at his hair as his thick glasses fogged up from his heavy breathing, moving up to wrap his pretty pink lips around your clit, moaning like it was bringing him pleasure as you struggled not to scream his name at the intensity of his suction. 

“F-fuck, god, did you learn this on YouTube too?” You whined, thighs trying to close around his head as he pulled off to chuckle at your squirming. 

“It, uh, might’ve been from a different website,” he admitted, eyes crinkling as he peered up at you. 

Yeah, you figured. 

But you had zero complaints this time as he devoted himself fully to making out with the sensitive bud between your thighs, his fingers of his left hand digging into the soft flesh to hold you still while his right shifted down – and found their way inside of you to fill the space his tongue left behind. 

Two thick digits stuffing you full, pumping in-and-out as your best friend made pretty moans and whimpers as he rutted into the bed. 

Had he been dreaming about this too? Planning on what he’d do the second you did more than just fall asleep in his bed and finally getting his chance to make good on it? 

Was this what he had in mind when he was masturbating thinking about you? 

You wouldn’t mind making this an every day thing as he found that one sensitive spot towards the back that nearly had stars splitting your vision, your own fingers curling tight in his silky strands as you gasped his name. 

Maybe after he made you cum, you could return the favor. 

Get down on your knees and wrap your own lips around his tip, get a taste for yourself of what he’d been keeping from you for years. 

“R-right there,” your voice broke, your heart thrumming when he pushed right up against it again, his tongue dragging over your clit rougher than he had before and making your brain go completely and utterly blank. 

No thoughts swimming around your head except for him. 

Craving, wanting, needing, a burning ache bursting and breaking you down until you were trembling and clinging onto him, ignoring the way his nails were digging into your skin as you let out a whine that didn’t even sound remotely like you. 

And then he was popping off again, clueless that you were so close, looking up at you with that cute puppy dog expression as he batted his long lashes, “Like that?” 

“Oh, please, please,” you nodded, desperate and not particularly caring how needy it came out, arching your hip up off the bed as he brought his mouth back down, warm air dancing over your clit as you nearly crumbled at that alone. 

His fingers dove back in, picking up the pace with a precision that had you melting, his mouth returning to suck and play with that sensitive bud as something inside you suddenly snapped without your permission. 

Cumming hard with a cry of his name, head tilting back on the pillow that smelled just like his shampoo, your eyes scrunching shut just in time for his mouth to move back down to your soaking entrance, slipping his tongue in like he wanted to capture what the taste. Lapping you up and licking you clean, switching positions so his thumb could coax your clit while you shivered and shuddered through the orgasm. 

And once you were starting to come back down from your climax, he was reluctantly sliding his tongue back up, pink lips glossy with you, looking up at you with expectant eyes. 

“Did I make you cum?” He questioned, like he suddenly found his new purpose in life. 

“Y-yeah,” you breathlessly admitted, just for him to look down at the watch you hadn’t noticed on his watch and grin as he checked the time. 

“Sub eight minutes,” he grinned. “Can we do that again and see if I get a better time?” 

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