mornings are for coffee and contemplation
The first time Flip Zimmerman woke up with you in his arms, with your warm body laid half on top of his and the smell of your sweet shampoo in his nose, he decided that mornings were the best part of his life with you.
He liked the way you pressed against him, either on your side, with your head resting softly on his shoulder, or with your back to him, his arms enveloping you to his chest, your bare legs tangled with his. There was nothing like waking up to find the sun already slanting in through the shuttered windows and knowing he’d been sleeping too well to be awoken by his faulty internal clock.
His favourite was when he awoke to find you lying right there on his bare chest, your belly pressed right up against his, your head on his chest like you had fallen asleep listening to how his heart beat for you, and he didn’t know if you had crawled there all by yourself or if he had pulled you up there in the middle of the night.
Sometimes Flip held onto you so tight that sometimes he wondered if he was hurting you. But you never complained, never once. Even when he came home from a long day of work or a particularly brutal mission and fucked you six ways to Sunday, gripping you so tight he was sure he left bruises on your hips, when he pushed your legs up over his shoulders and made your thighs sore and your back cramp. No, you just gave him the same soft smile as always, pulling him down by the ears to press his lips to yours so you could give him the same soft kisses as always.
There were mornings when Flip though he could lay there forever, just feeling your sleepy little breaths tickling his skin, watching the way your eyes fluttered every once in a while.
But other times— there were more pressing needs to attend to.
Flip wakes up so hard he is aching, his cock pressed between the cloth of his sweatpants and the smooth curve of your ass, a prison he'd gladly spend the rest of his life in. Your head is pillowed against the firm muscle of his arm, his free hand draped around your hips to keep you close. The shirt you wore, his shirt, is clutched tight in his fist, as though even in his sleep he sought you out.
He can feel the effervescent warmth of an orgasm fade away gently, showing that he had been grinding against you in his sleep, must have been rutting messily against your ass like a teenager chasing his first orgasm. He couldn't blame his unconscious self too much though, not when you were so soft against him.
Your skin is so smooth beneath his palms, pore-less and without the marring of scars or the smattering of moles you had long ago confessed to loving so much. All he wants is to bed his face against your skin and inhale, to drag his tongue over you until he could memorise the taste of your sweet soap, your sweat, your perfume, whatever natural scent your skin gave off that always had you smelling so goddamn good.
Flip frowns, ready to roll out of bed and palm himself off in the bathroom, take care of himself before you woke up so that you two could go to the farmer's market and have a nice breakfast, could read the paper together over your eggs and plan the rest of your day.
But then you're moving, rolling your hips experimentally, thrusting back against him like you know exactly what you’re doing to him. He groans, stills your hips with a hand, never tiring of the thrill that goes through him every time he sees the way his big hand seems to envelop your entire hipbone.
He nuzzles his head against the side of your neck, feeling you stir as his lips kiss along the column of your neck. You moan, still half asleep, and you catch his attention when you breath out his name in a little moan. “Flip...”
Your hand reaches down to thread your fingers through his. You pull his big palm up against your belly so that he can ruck up your nightshirt and slip his hand beneath, his fingers sliding indolently along the plain of bare flesh that he loves to kiss.
You aren’t wearing underwear, you never do when you sleep, and his hand slips between your legs without preamble. He grins when he finds you already wet for him, his ego swelling at the idea that just his hands on you had turned you on so much.
“Flip.” You breathe, needy, waking up more and more each time he strokes his long fingers over your soft cunt. “That feels...You feel so..." It's like you can't choose a word, can't describe how it feels to wake up to a hard cock and a hard man, only one of which is ever soft for you.
"Good.” You finally settle on, rolling your hips back against him, and his smile widens.
He groans, buries his face in your sleep-mussed hair, nosing at the place between your neck and shoulder where his tongue darts out to lick across your skin. He pulls your shirt over your head, fingers skating up your side to palm your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers and growling when you push your chest further into his hands.
You throw back your hips like you did those nights you dragged him out to that club downtown, where more often than not you ended your nights on your knees in the back bathroom or with his fingers stuffed inside you on the drive back.
You're fully awake now and aching just as badly as he is, and it feels like years since you've had him inside you, since you've felt him fill you so nicely.
“I want you.” You breathe and the words thrill him. You feel his rough fingers skitter over your clit as he moves you against him, taking control of your body as he knew you liked, just the right amount of roughness in his grip.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Flip promises, likes the way you always preen under the weight of his pet names. “I've got you.”
He lifts your leg and drapes it over his, his cock nudging lazily against your core as he moves, but you push him away, chuckling gently at the confusion that passes over his face. He pulls away at once and you love him for it, love that even when he's so hard he's leaking, even when he's so desperate for you that his chest is heaving and his eyes are flinty, that he's willing to pull away without question.
But as you always tell him, over the meals he clumsily cooks for you or when you climb into his lap after a long day at work, when you whisper the words to him at night when you know he's just pretending to sleep so that you'd whisper sweet words to him or when he takes you dancing even though you know he hates the noise and the crowds, you would always want him.
You feel yourself growing wetter at the thought of what he would have done if you weren't here. Was he going to have touched himself? Was he going to have thought of you? You both knew the answer, and it sent little thrills through you like electric shocks.
"Not like that, honey." You pant, breath ragged, feeling his cock bob against your lower back. "I want to look at you when you make me come."
The words make heat roil through him, the pink that crawled up his neck and filled the the tips of his ears making you smile at him, all sunshine and brightness, sweeter than anything he had ever seen. Flip pushes down his sweatpants and kicks them off, feeling you turn in his arms so you can shimmy his shirt up over his head.
He loves you naked, wishes that he could have that way all the time, and he does his very best to. Each night he comes home to you and finds you watching that evening talk show that makes you laugh or sticking a plate in the oven for him and you bounce to your feet to greet him with a kiss. By the time you drape your arms around his broad shoulders he's already tugging at the zipper of your pullover— that old police academy thing that was two sizes too small for him now— and working at your jeans, fingers sliding beneath your shirt to work at unclasping the snaps of your bra.
Theres nothing he likes more than your bare skin sliding against his, than watching the flush of your cheeks corve down your neck and across your chest, than feeling your flesh go tacky when you work up a sweat, when he makes you work up a sweat.
He's all firm muscle and hard plains, bulk and sinew, so broad and strong that it makes your mouth water every time he slips of his plaid shirts or toes off those jeans that show off his long legs so nice. He’s so strong that even without his gun or the sharp steel dagger he thinks you don’t know about, hidden behind the nightstand, you feel safe with him. Like he can shield you from the world with that broad back of his.
After what feels like hours of pulling at clothes and tugging at long underwear, once again you curse the Colorado winters for forcing you to sleep with clothes on at all, you're finally back in his arms, besieging his chest and trembling stomach with warm, open mouthed kisses.
Your lips are a goddamn dream, and he says as much, earning a teasing lick down the numerous ridges of his muscular belly.
Flip rolls you under him, grinning as you spread your legs wide for him, as you brush the dark hair from his eyes so he can look at you, can kiss you proper, as he's been aching to from the very first moment his eyes fluttered open that morning.
You love the way his skin feels against yours, all warm and soft and bared to you, only you. When be’s sandwiched you between his body and the bed like he is now you can feel every sigh, every moan, every shiver that drags through him, and you know that when he finally comes— when you make him come— you’ll be able to feel his orgasm ripple through every inch of his big body. Just the thought makes you flush, and Flip can’t help but fix you with that lopsided grin of his when the redness curls across your chest like a stole draped over your shoulders.
He kisses you long and deep, dragging his tongue across your bottom lip as his big palms reach down to cup one of your breasts, working your nipple between thumb and forefinger, pressing just hard enough to make you a little bit dizzy.
If you have morning breath your detective makes no mention of it, just presses his lips to yours and drinks down the moans you offer once his long fingers have returned to their proper place between your legs. He touches you as he has a thousand times before, but it might as well be the first time, for you're coming apart already and he's barely touched you, and that makes his ego flutter.
"Christ." he curses, feeling you clench around the fingers he pushes into you. He'll never get used to this, the way you tremble beneath him, the way your body slots perfectly against his. Like it was made for him, like you were made for him.
Part of him wants to take his time with you, wants to unravel you, to unspool you inch by inch until you were a trembling ball of pure want. But the other part was desperate for release, desperate for you. To have you as he did now, your arms winding around his broad shoulders, your legs draping loosely over his hips.
So Flip settles for a happy medium.
He fills you to the hilt in one smooth stroke, makes you jolt against him as though you had just been shocked. The silence of morning is broken by the moan that tears from you, loud and lewd, the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. Then he kisses you slow, lets his tongue explore your mouth languidly, lets your head tip back against the pillows as he gives you a moment of respite from the dull pain between your thighs.
You look so beautiful, even with your hair a mess from tossing and turning during the night, even with your cheek lined from the creases of his pillow. He wishes he had a camera, wishes he had his own darkroom, so only he'd be able to look at the photos he took of you, all splayed out and blissful and grinning from the way his cock filled you.
He knows you're ready when your arms tighten around his shoulders and your moans lilt higher, longer. He rolls his hips, stretching your thighs further apart and nestling himself between them, falling into the cradle of your hips.
He wants to be so deep in you that you can feel him in your belly, in your throat, and you’re more than happy to indulge him, more than happy to stretch your legs around his hips and cling to him like a vine against the trunk of a tall tree.
He was big, so big, and you love to feel his weight on top of you, hips slamming into you, bruising you, claiming you like no one ever has. You love when he makes you come, love when you roll away from him and you can feel the twitch of the muscles in the backs of your thighs, the clench of your abs, the burning running down the curve of your throat. But whatever soreness, whatever great exertion you feel, you'd never give it up.
Flip kisses you, sloppy and languid and warm. You can feel his tongue following the curve of your teeth, his lips pursing slightly as he pulls away to spit in your mouth, allowing you a moment of respite to swallow it down. He looks down at you, eyes so deep and dark you think you might be able to drown in them if you wanted to, if he wanted you to, and you know he’s waiting so you by do as you're told and swallow it down, sticking your tongue out, begging for more.
Flip sets a grueling pace that you’re more than happy to keep pace with, until the sound of his hips slapping against yours grows louder than the birdsong that drifts in from outside, until its all that he can hear, all that he wants to hear, provided those sultry moans of yours are part of the deal too.
He takes hold of your legs and hauls them up over his strong shoulders, opening you up to a position that has both your moans lilting through the air like a song. He wishes he could memorise you like this, on your back, legs spread. What a sight to see first thing in the morning, he thought. He can’t believe he spent so many mornings without this, without you.
He never wants to spend another one like that again, and the ring he’s hidden in a balled up pair of hiking socks in his bottom drawer proves that. But he’s waiting for a better time, the perfect time. Doesn’t want to ask you to marry him when his spit is still shining on your tits, making your nipples look like pink diamonds, when he’s balls deep inside you.
“F-f...” You grit out. He wonders if you were going to curse or say his name, but the effect is still the same.
He kisses you again, rubs his nose against yours teasingly, and you huff out a laugh. He loves your laugh, loves that even when you laugh at him theres not an ounce of malice in your voice.
Your hand fists in the back of his long hair, gripping hard, tight enough to make him growl against your lips. Liking his reaction, you do it again, smile widening at the way he shifts to slam into you harder, jerking your body fully, liking the way your small tits bounce, and the pain mingled with the pleasure to make the feel of being inside you only better.
“Fuck.” You say, each syllable drawn out by your moans. He lets his cock slide almost completely out of you, pushes back in, slow, so agonisingly slow, dragging against every ridge, every nerve, every soft edge of you.
“Don’t—“ You gasp. “Don’t stop. Flip please, don’t stop.“
He spits on his long fingers together and lowers his hand to rub them over your exposed flesh, finding your clit with a precision that would make you smile if your mouth wasn’t so busy seeking out his.
His gaze is scorching as your moans lilt higher, overcome by his touch, by the way he presses down firmly on your body. Flip can feel the way your long fingernails bite into the flesh of his shoulders almost hard enough to draw blood, and he thinks he’d be happy to wear any scar you’ve given to him.
He’s happy, so happy, and he wishes he could live in this moment forever, could fuck you forever— for he always thought you were perfect, but when he had taken you to bed that very first time and found that you liked it just as rough as he did— he knew you were.
“Fuck.” he groans, crowding you against the bed, his sweaty body pressing you down, making your skin flush as though you had spent the day in the sun.
Your fingers twist around his nipples, pinching, pulling, clawing at his bare chest. He moans your name so loudly that you can feel it ring in your ears for a moment afterwards, the depth of his voice so gravely that it has you shivering, gooseflesh breaking out over the bare arms you've knotted around him.
You pull him back down toward you, legs slipping down from his shoulders. You liked the position just fine, more than fine. In fact it made you want to scream at the top of your lungs at how good it felt, but you didn't think your neighbors— who had called the cops on you twice before, what an awkward conversation that had been when Flip returned to the precinct— would like that very much. But you just wanted to kiss him again, an insatiable hunger growing in your belly, sated only by the feel of his plush lips sliding against yours as you pulled him down to you.
Your orgasm comes upon you so quickly that you barely have time to choke out a warning before your back is arching off the bed, your hips tilting even further forward, so that Flip is buried so deep inside you that he swear he can see the impression of his cock beneath the hand he's placed on your belly.
You go tight as a balled fist around his cock, and he moans loud enough to be heard through the thick plaster walls, like when he lifts too heavy of a weight or the very few times in his life when Flip has been socked in the gut.
Flip carries you through it, he always does, but it's not long before he's coming right after you, his orgasm slamming into him with the force of a blow. He moans loud, always so loud. Loud enough that your neighbors wonder if he's hurt, if they should knock on the door and ask if everything's alright. But the answering sound of a headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall and the call of a woman's name is answer enough, and Mrs. Horowitz only blushes and turns the radio louder.
"Flip!" You cry, feeling his weight push down on top of you, his palms somehow cupping your breast and your arse at the same time. "Oh God— Philip!"
You only said his full name when you were stern, which was hardly ever, like his mom had done all those years ago when he was a kid. Or when you were teasing him, when you were only playing at being serious, until you had him smiling like a fool at the sound of his own fuckin’ name even when you were nowhere around, even when other people said it, without your sweet smiles or hungry lips coming up to catch his.
But his favourite time to hear you say it, to say anything really, was now. When he's balls deep in you, when his sweat was on your skin and you were glowing from it, when your lips were swollen from kissing him so much, and his back is aching from the marks you made when you raked your fingers down his skin.
"I love you." he breath, whispers your name, kisses you lazily. "God, I love you."
You grin up at him, looking like the subject of one of those Renaissance paintings he had always loved, with your hair splayed out over his pillows, your expression all blissful as your body gives out beneath him, too tired to even wrap yourself around him anymore.
"What a way to start the morning." You grin, using the last of your energy to lean up and kiss him.
He rolls you over, careful not to slip out of you, smiling to himself as he feels your cunt clench weakly around his cock as he shifts, until you're laying face to face. You run your fingers lazily through his hair, pulling him close. "I love you."
He looks over his shoulder at the clock ticking away on his nightstand, squinting to read the spinning hands. "Only six twenty." he said, as though reading your mind. He pulls you into his arms, wincing as he finally pulls out of you, pleased to feel the wetness between your legs as you wind them through his. "Plenty of time to sleep."
You nod, your eyes already half lidded, your hips pushing gently against his. "Plenty of time for other things too."
You were gonna kill him one day, he thought. But if he died laid in your arms or nestled between your legs, then it would be a death he'd be happy to have.
other flip fics here
