Rating: Not Safe For Anything
Prompt: Do you think you could write about reader and flip both being cops and having to go under cover together as a married couple and since you’ve always liked him it’s like your dream to have to “pretend” to be in love with him? If you want you can try and make this a little smutty please and thank you
A/N: Do I think I could write about this? Fuck yes. Do I think I could do this justice? Also yes. Lets get some of that hot cop action. I’m keeping this nice and short so I can “test the water” - if you guys like it, maybe there’ll be more?
It’s easy, you think, to get wrapped up in a story that isn’t yours in this job.
Acting is part and parcel - you test the ropes, fit into the skin of someone else entirely. Their thoughts become yours, and there’s always an intangible moment of the threshold being crossed. The match is struck, and suddenly: your thoughts aren’t your own.
But there are those times.
Those moments when the stage lights dim, and oh: it’s hardly a performance at all.
And that’s on Flip fucking Zimmerman.
Bridges pulls you into his office at a quarter past the hour, stubbing a cheap cigarette into the ashtray on his desk in the cold morning light.
“Narcotics bust. Investigation’s been handed to this department against my better judgement, but let’s just cut out the politics for a moment.”
Flip just leans back in his chair; scent of woodsmoke and rain all caught up in the pinstripes on his shirt. His lip always twitches when he’s bored, you realise - it’s a habit he’d hate if you ever dared to bring it up to him.
Unsurprisingly: it’s a habit you’ve grown to absolutely adore.
Bridges leans forward on his seat.
“Now”, he licks his lips, pointing to his office door, “out on the floor there’s talk of this case being a dead-end. But I don’t fucking care what you’ve heard - we nail it, and we nail it this month.”
He opens up a drawer and throws a dossier right at you; eliciting a sound as you catch it in the air. Paper splays, your heart kicking up a notch.
“You’re newlyweds. Married couple of months back: shotgun elopement over money troubles. I want it to be the most fucking convincing shit that you bring to this table, got it? You’re there to get cushy; just show up, make an appearance. Lots of wandering hands. Hell, just sell it, and sell it well.”
You don’t even look at Flip - you don’t make a damned sound. Just sit there flushing with this…this warmth, this gorgeous feeling of excitement and nervousness and panic, holy shit, this is not good, you are in about five layers too deep here–
Flip huffs a disbelieving laugh, running a huge hand through his hair. His cheeks are a shade darker than usual - one hand splayed on his jeans.
“Chief, when I signed on for this job: I wasn’t exactly expecting to be–”
“–to be an undercover fucking cop? What, you didn’t read the job description?” Bridges leans back, folding his arms. “It’s acting, detective. Either you take it or get the hell outta my office.”
And even though this isn’t the job you signed on for; it’s sure as hell a job you’ll gladly do.
Because here’s the the one, catastrophic, beautiful, terrible thing about Flip Zimmerman:
He’s absolutely intoxicating to watch perform.
He’s your favourite actor in every way that counts. A calloused hand that takes yours with this poetic certainty, your matching wedding rings glinting on your fingers. The bar’s low lit; smells of stale beer and stained wood in the booth as he brings your knuckles right up to his plush lips.
They part, wet and gentle, right as his eyes spark to yours.
“You’re so beautiful”, he murmurs, breathless as his moustache tickles at your hand. The fire that he says it with lingers on every inch of his freckled face; pulls him into the look of a lovestruck teenager, burning with appreciation and passion at the smallest insistence.
And if your heart drops at the realisation of this being make-believe - it can only be for a moment. Only a fleeting hesitation that can mar your features, because this flirtation is just…
So you laugh musically and drag your body close, leaning into the crook of his flannel shirt. Your dress flows, the jukebox flicking between songs as you trail two fingers across the planes of his chest.
Every inch as hard and taut as you’d imagined.
“I like this”, you confess, giddy on the role that blurs between fiction and reality.
Flip takes a swig of his beer. Lets it play on his tongue before he fans his palm against your stomach, pushing the material there tight. His fingers point downward suggestively; in response, your whole body jolts with electricity and promises.
“And what is it you’re liking?”
You purse your lips, shuffling to push your ass halfway onto his lap. His body seems to tighten for a moment before slackening into your motions; remembering himself and his part in this performance.
“Being with you” you admit, “spending time just…” your hands snake downward, pausing at the place his leather belt meets the hemline of his jeans “…showing you everything I think of doing to you.”
Flip hums in appreciation, but your heart…shit, it’s going at a mile a minute.
“You mean…” he swallows, cracking in his throat as his head dips towards your ear. Lips skim the shell, his breath hot on your jaw and making you shiver.
“…something like this?” Flip huskily whispers, and oh.
He pulls you further into him; pulls your ass flush against his jeans so that you can feel…feel everything. Every throb of his hardening cock that begs for relief in this shitty, quiet bar. The heat of it already; God, he’s so fucking good at this. Getting himself so worked up for the sake of a job, managing to flirt his way into getting aroused–
There’s no need to pretend on your part; at the feel of him subtly gyrating his hips towards yours, your cunt clenches. A whimper stifles in your throat as he rearranges himself to push your thighs either side of his - your back against his chest, his lips nipping and biting at your neck.
Oh God. Oh Christ. This is too much, this is so much.
How could it ever be enough?
“So beautiful”, his hand strokes at the inside of your thigh, right where your hip and legs meet. The heat between your legs is like a wildfire; having Flip Zimmerman, the most exquisite man you’ve ever seen, so brazenly fucking himself against your ass in a quiet corner of a dim bar just in case anyone is watching.
Could be that nobody you’re profiling is here. Could be this is all just a show for an audience who never bought a ticket.
Your brain is slurry as his hands fist the material of your dress, big and clammy but certain: tracing lines dangerously close to a thousand places you need him to touch. Your hips are out of view, just below the booth’s table, but anyone who makes the mistake of walking by will know, in an instant, that you’re every inch the newlyweds you pretend to be.
The thought of this being just a job is gone - replaced by lust; a haze so strong you can hardly see through it.
Fingers dip below the hem of your dress; inching the fabric, peeling it back as slowly as possible. Where his fingertips touch your bare skin, your blood catches: when you push back just so against his thick cock, Flip takes an unsteady breath.
“You’re so hard”, you sigh, genuinely shocked by how painfully real this all is.
He squeezes the flesh on your thigh, swallowing hard.
“You like it, don’t you?” Flip’s lips dust your hairline, his voice dripping with quiet wanting. “Knew you would. Bet you’re dripping for me.”
And it’s madness - call it dedication to the job, or just full-on losing every last inhibition, but you just can’t stop yourself. Your hand finds his under your dress; rides the material up, up, up and guides him to dip below the waistband of your underwear.
His heart begins to pick up pace against your back as he brings one index finger down towards the wet heat of you; cautious, he just ever so slightly strokes it over your slit.
You whimper at just how wet you are: Flip’s muscled arms tightening on your waist.
“Look at you”, his finger stroking through the wet heat of you, edging inside just slightly as he feels you part for him, “I knew. Knew you’d be nice and tight for me.”
You nod emphatically as Flip eases a second finger deeper into you, testing you as his nose nuzzles into your cheek. His breath is sharp from the beer, scent spicy from cologne.
He’s fingering you in the bar. In public.
And this - is this even…are you still on script? What was his name? He’s…
Flip’s fingers grow less cautious as he dips them out, stroking at you and making your whole body vibrate.
“Say my name”, he whispers very, very quietly. His breath stutters and shakes. “I’ll let you cum, just…my name.”
You rock into him, craning for release as one of your hands grasps at the leather couch cushions. You shouldn’t - you shouldn’t say it, but nobody’s close, and the thick haze - God, it’s so strong–
“Flip” you half-whisper, choking on it as it leaves your lips “let me cum, Flip. Please.”
He groans into your hairline.
Flip rubs these tight circles into your clit until you’re teetering, pulling on the edge, almost certainly ready to snap–
And then pushes them inside you; two thick fingers that fill you up right as you clamp around him. Bright white dots at your vision; your heart thundering, eyes fluttering as Flip claps his free hand over your mouth. His hips are pushing flush against your ass, rocking himself as he cusses under his breath.
When he pulls his fingers out of you, you gasp at the feel of aching from emptiness. You drip all the way down your thighs as Flip wipes his fingers off on his jeans; now a mess of precum and you.
And even though you’re not quite his girl - not yet - at least you were right about one thing:
Flip Zimmerman is intoxicating.
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