pretty girl
You and your (very married) detective friend Sammy Bryant have known each other for a while now, and you're trying not to be desperately in love with him. Sammy is also deeply in love with you, a fact that you're both oblivious to but which Sammy's partner Nate is painfully aware of. When Sammy comes over one evening for some friendly drinks, a secret is revealed - will your relationship ever be the same?
Sammy Bryant x f!virgin!reader
Word count: ~3k
Warnings: AFAB!reader; smut; angst; married!Sammy (no cheating though); deep pining; male masturbation; virginity kink (no actual sex); possessiveness; friends to ?; chubby Sammy my beloved; reader's virginity is a pre-established fact
A/N: I have had 80% of this fic, as well as several other semi-unconnected parts of the same universe, sat in my drafts for literal months now with no ideas for the sections to connect them into a longer piece of writing. Courtesy of my friend Jess, I have decided instead to just polish up what I have as the separate, tenuously connected parts that they are and post them for your reading enjoyment (hopefully).
It’s a beautiful day in LA, and you’ve spent the last few days cooped up doing work, so you decide to take your day off to do outside errands instead of inside chores to make the most of the weather. You just got done with groceries, and you’d decided on a whim to buy some booze with your food - such lovely weather is worth getting tipsy for.
As you’re walking your groceries to your car, you hear a familiar laugh and spin at lightning speed to catch sight of your favourite cop in all of LA - all of the world really - detective Sammy Bryant. He’s leaning against the front of his car with his partner Nate, eating lunch and laughing about something you can’t quite make out. You turn in your tracks and start walking towards the pair, a big sweet smile gracing your face.
Nate notices you first, and tilts his head in your direction with a knowing smirk on his face, causing Sammy to turn to you. The moment he sees you, his face erupts into a huge goofy grin and he waves to you, which you attempt to return with a little finger wiggle, your hands in the handles of the grocery bags.
“If it isn’t my two favourite detectives, slacking on the job,” you joke once you’re within talking distance.
Sammy jokes right back, “it’s not slacking it’s lunch!” he waves his sub in the air as if it’s damning evidence, wedding ring catching the sunlight and reminding you how off limits this beautiful man is. His voice is pitched up slightly, a little whiny in your presence. “Besides, pretty girl, at least we’re actually at work, unlike some people.” He looks pointedly at you and you swallow your jealousy, determined to maintain a friendly demeanor with him.
“Hey, I had a day off! And I’m being productive aren’t I? Doing errands and everything.” You lift the bags slightly, straining a little at the effort. The move makes Sammy suddenly realise what you’re holding, and he quickly puts his sandwich down in its container, grabbing some of the bags from you and offering to help you pack them into your car. Nate’s eyes roll, completely forgotten in lieu of his partner’s little puppy crush, but he takes a bag too and helps out.
Your car is only in the next row over, and you unlock it once you’re there and open the trunk, putting in the one bag you’re still holding. Sammy adds in the ones he took (the heaviest ones so he seemed strong) and Nate places his in last. He notices the box of beers poking out of one of the bags and throws you a teasing look.
“Planning a big night, are we princess?” Nate gestures vaguely to the bag.
You laugh and shake your head, “I wish, no I just figured it might be nice to have a couple drinks with dinner to celebrate the nice weather. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like,” your eyes flick to Sammy. “Once you’re off of course, wouldn’t want you slacking off even more.”
Nate laughs, a chortle that shows on his whole face, “I’d love to, princess, but I’ve got kids waiting for me at home and a beautiful wife who’d be very pissed if I abandoned the dinner she slaved over.” You give him a friendly smile which he returns, only his has a hint of mischief. He claps his partner on the shoulder “I’m sure Sammy here will take you up on the offer though, won’t you buddy?”
Sammy coughs, clearly shaking himself from some kind of daydream, “Uh, yeah sure! I’d love to hang out. I’ll have to let Tammi know but I’m sure she won’t mind.”
You beam at him, and his heart does a little treacherous flip, “Really? I’d love to have your company!”
“Definitely beats drinking alone,” he teases, but there’s no malice behind it, only slightly desperate, vaguely hidden adoration. If you notice the lovestruck look he’s got on, you don’t mention it.
“Great!” You haven’t stopped smiling. You gesture to your trunk, “I’d better get all this home and packed away, tidy up so my place is presentable.”
“Oh I don’t care about that,” Sammy sounds a little too sincere now, a little too excited at the prospect of an evening with you, and forcibly reins himself in.
“You would if you saw the state of my coffee table” you joke, “Anyway, I should let you boys get back to work, or slacking, or ‘lunch’ as you called it,” you put airquotes around lunch, and Sammy and Nate both chuckle. “It was great to see you, Nate.”
He pulls you into a little side hug “You too princess, and don’t be a stranger yeah? Don’t think our Sammy could handle if you disappeared on him.”
You giggle and hug back, “I’m sure he’d just about manage, after he’d mourned the friendship appropriately," you joke back, turning to Sammy. “I guess I’ll see you later? Just come by when you’re done with work. Message when you leave though so I can start on dinner.”
Sammy rolls his eyes with a fond smile, “Don’t be stupid pretty girl, I’ll order us pizza or something. It’s the least I can do if I’m drinking your beers and taking up space on your couch.”
“Okay, if you must. But you don’t need to, I want you there.” You turn away, closing your trunk and just missing the way Sammy blushes red at your words. You turn back and offer a little wave to the both of them before walking slowly towards your car door. Nate returns the wave with a smile and leads his partner back to their car by his shoulders, muttering a teasing jibe about Sammy’s ever-growing crush that you thankfully don’t hear.
Hours later, you and Sammy are sprawled across your couch, pleasantly buzzed with pizza boxes and empty beer bottles strewn across the coffee table. Conversation flows as easily as ever, the intimacy of the evening intensified by the alcohol running through both your systems.
Sammy is telling some nonsense story from work that he’s probably told you before, all smiles and humour as he makes genuine, hearty laughs bubble out of you. You’re just on the right (or wrong) side of tipsy to stop holding back so much, to quiet that voice in the back of your head that worries about Sammy noticing how much you look at him, or the way you soften in his presence. Sure, you’ll probably kick yourself for your indulgence in the morning, but for now there’s only you and him and the beer, too close and yet altogether too far apart.
You’re too preoccupied with your own desire to notice how he preens at your laughter, how he almost glows with unabashed pride at being able to pull that beautiful, lilting sound from you. He’d do just about anything, his inebriated mind betrays, if it meant you would laugh again like that because of him. He’d do just about anything for you anyway, not that he’d ever admit that to anyone outside of the dangerous quiet of his own mind.
The conversation lulls, and he’s not quite sure what possesses him to do so when he fills the silence with a question: “So,” a breath. “Why haven’t you?”
You look at him, brows furrowed in confusion. “Why haven’t I what?”
He sips his beer. “Had sex.” His stupid mouth starts running before he can stop it. “I mean, you’re young, and you’re a beautiful girl. I’m sure anyone would jump at the chance. So why haven’t you been with anyone?”
“I haven’t met anyone I wanted to have sex with,” is your simple answer. He should take it, let it be, move the conversation on. If he were sober enough, smart enough, he would. He is not.
“No-one? You’re sure?” You nod decisively. “You’re telling me in 20-whatever years not one person has ever caught your eye? That you’ve never looked at a single man and thought ‘yeah I want that one’?” Your cheeks heat, face flushing a deep red as you chuckle nervously into your beer bottle. “There is! There’s a guy! Come on, why not go for him? Surely he’d want to.”
“He’s not exactly available,” you mutter under your breath, hoping he doesn’t hear you, that he drops it. Of course he doesn’t.
“Pfft, not available my ass. He’s a complete idiot if he’s not available for you.” He really should stop. “Any fool would make time for you.”
You respond before your addled brain can think. “He’s married.”
Sammy doesn’t have a response for that one. A silence falls over the two of you, heavy and constricting under the admission and the alcohol. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, staring intently at your feet while you feel his gaze on your face, processing. You take in a breath. “I need some water,” you mumble, rising from your seat. “I’ve had too much to drink.” You make your way skittishly to the kitchen, leaving Sammy frozen on your couch, mind catching up to your revelation, eyes still stuck on the spot you just vacated.
In the kitchen, you sigh deeply, leaning against the sink before you grab a glass from the cupboard. You move slowly, dragging out the time alone in fear of what you might return to in the living room. You fill your glass and settle back against the counter, relishing in the cold water trickling down your throat and sobering your racing mind.
You’re not sure how long you spend in the silence of the kitchen. Minutes, hours. You stay stuck in limbo until you hear Sammy moving, heavy steps slowly making their way towards you. He leans against the doorframe silently. When he does speak, he’s quiet and apprehensive. “I, uh, I should really head out. It’s late, and I- I’ve got work tomorrow.”
You close your eyes briefly and sigh. You can’t exactly blame him for wanting to leave. You basically just admitted you want him, your very kind, very sweet, very married friend. “Yeah, yeah okay. I’ll walk you to the door.”
The walk is awkward in a way you and Sammy have never been. You refuse to look at him, and there's a tension in the air. The unspoken spark between you has been almost acknowledged, skirted around in a way that aches.
At the door, Sammy hesitates, then turns to you. He’s still quiet, but certain, as if he’s made some decision in the time it took to get here. “For the record, if he wasn't married I'm sure that guy would be here in a heartbeat.”
That makes you look at him, eyes wide as you huff an almost laugh, more of a breath. You shake your head, trying to get him to drop it.
He doesn’t drop it. "No really, he probably thinks about you all the time. It probably tests his self control every time he spends any time with you." You breathe shakily, and his hand comes up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. Quieter, with a soft smile, he says, "you're probably causing him some kind of awful moral dilemma."
You huff another laugh at that. The tension has shifted, still thick and heady but softer now, less uncomfortable by a fraction. His eyes are intense, almost burning into yours. You can’t stand it.
So you crack a light smile. “That’s a shame,” you joke. “Because I’ve heard Nate’s wife is really lovely.”
Sammy chuckles deeply at your joke, the tension broken. His hand returns to his side as his head shakes. “Yeah, she is. Wouldn’t want you breaking up a family.” His eyes return to yours as he opens the door, “Thank you for tonight, I really needed some time to relax.”
“It’s no trouble Sammy, you’re always welcome. You know you can call me if you ever need a break.” You keep that light smile, head tilted with fondness. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”
“Yeah, of course.” And with that, he steps out, smiling back at you once more as you close the door, and walks to his truck.
Sammy white knuckles his steering wheel as he drives home, heart still racing and breaths still heavy. He probably shouldn’t be driving after the amount he had to drink, but if he’d stayed at your place he would’ve done something he might regret.
He’s not quite sure what happened tonight, but he does know that something shifted, and he’s pretty sure it’s his fault. Him and his stupid drunken mouth, asking questions he so desperately wants the answers to. Selfish questions, ones, ones that could hurt you. Could have hurt him if the answer had been wrong. But it wasn’t, was it? He knows in his heart it wasn’t. Even now, as he’s sobering up, as he saw how ashamed you had seemed, he feels a too big tug of pride and want in the pit of his stomach at the idea that you want him, that you’ve only ever wanted him. Your only. The thought makes a shiver run down his spine, and he grips the steering wheel tighter.
He’s close to his place before he realises, but he can’t bring himself to turn onto his street, continuing instead to circle the block. He can’t face his marital home, not while he’s all worked up with thoughts of another woman, of you, all sweet and pretty and young, and wanting him of all people. He feels dirty.
Even dirtier still when he parks down a side street a block away from home, and instead of getting out of the car and cooling off in the night air he finds his hands wandering to his belt, unbuckling before he can stop himself and freeing his aching cock from its confines. He wraps a hand around it that feels too big, too rough, not quite satisfying the beast gnawing at his brain.
He tries to feel ashamed as his hand begins to move, sensitive and whining as his head falls to rest on the hand still at the wheel. It’s impossible though when his head is already so full of images of you. How you laughed so brightly tonight, genuinely entertained by his stupid jokes. How your eyes light up when you see him, an easy smile infecting your face. How he wishes he could see that face under him, scrunched up in pleasure that he’s the cause of, only him, only ever him. His pretty girl, all laid out bare and beautiful for him. He knows you would be. Beautiful. It’s the only thing that makes sense right now.
As he strokes he imagines you moaning and writhing under his tongue, his fingers, his cock. Coming apart again and again in ways you’ve never experienced, with him as your guiding hand, your teacher, showing you all the ways he can make you feel good. Fucked out and fuzzy for him, just for him. His pretty girl. His. His. His.
He’s close before long, moaning low as his mind floods with pictures of you in the various positions he’s denied himself from thinking about for too long. He throws his head back now, his release fast approaching, wondering where you’d let him spend his seed. Would you let him paint your lovely face, your tits, your stomach? Maybe you’d take him in your mouth, swallow him down with a satisfied moan. Or, fuck, would you let him empty himself inside you, face buried in your shoulder as he fucks you full of him? It’s this thought that sends him over the edge, a whined “pretty girl” falling from his lips as he spurts into his hand, sucking in laboured breaths as he comes down from his high.
He wipes himself clean with a napkin from his glove box and finally has the decency to feel ashamed, though not, as he should, at the fact that he just got off thinking of a woman that isn’t his wife. No, instead he feels ashamed that he’s tainted your image like that, feels like he’s taken advantage of you in some way, like you might notice the depth of his feelings for you one day and turn away from them, pull back from him and cause him to lose you entirely. All before he’s even really had you.
He doesn’t get to have you, he reminds his awful, treacherous mind, eyes screwing shut briefly as tucks himself back into his pants and starts his truck back up. You’re not his to have, and he’s really not in a position to take anything anyway. You were right, he’s not available.
With that, he pulls himself from his stupor and drives home, dragging his feet all the way to his bedroom. He can’t bring himself to look at his wife already asleep in their bed for fear of wishing too hard that it was you there instead.
