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John was slightly inconvenienced at worst when he realized what might be happening. Maybe that was denial, he never thought it would be him that was affected. “Acting his age” wasn’t his way. He threw tantrums like a child, scolded like an old man, and fucked like he was in his prime.

This shouldn’t be an issue for him.

Inside and out, he was hot. Magma ran through his veins, sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped all the way down to his neck. Your breath was somehow cooler than the air surrounding you both. The bed was a disaster, sheets and pillows spilling over the edges from the multiple positions he’s pushed your malleable body into. He can feel you everywhere except where he wants to. His fingers dug into your waist, dragging your hips against his— to no avail.

“Damnit to hell,” he huffs.

You smile sweetly against his lips, hands caressing his boney sides, “Wanna take a break?”

A fucking break, you say. God, he envies your youth.

“No.” John mutters.

You make a cute sound of surprise when you land on your back, gasping as he moves to sink between your legs— again.

“Johnny,” you chide with a wavering voice, “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful here—“

“Then stop talking.” He smirks, but stops and hovers at your resistance.

“—but three times is a lot!”

The scoff he lets out is stuck somewhere between playful and bitter.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, that’s all. If you’re not…” You wag your head, eyes dropping to the uncooperative third party still hiding in his briefs, “We don’t have to do anything else.”

He sighs heavily. Slowly, John settles on his side with his head propped in his hand.

It’s unfair. Sex was the closest thing he could get to love for a very long time. He wasted his better years yearning for exactly this— for you! He should be satisfied just being next to you like this, but he’s not. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t love you, he does, with all his heart, but there’s this horrible nagging feeling in the back of his skull that has nothing and everything to do with you.

Indescribable yet easily explainable, he can’t put it into words. Frustrating doesn’t begin to describe it.

You’re perfect, you’re naked, you make the most obscene faces and lewd noises that have him on cloud nine for hours because he knows he did that to you. But are you fulfilled? He works long hours, his attention is never wholly yours, he’s always lacking in some department of this relationship. The question isn’t is his insufficient performance bothering you now, but when.

“Stop thinking.” He hears you say before your hands tug his hair and bring his lips back against yours.

That gets a small laugh from him, “You know who you’re talking to?”

Much like his attire, it all depends on the mood. He won’t complain if you’re trying to impress him, surprising him with anything risqué is sure to do a number on his weary heart. Jokes aside, he’s not a hard man to please.

However.

There’s a certain je ne sais quoi about picking something out for you himself that borders on foreplay. Or torture. Actually, they’re identical to a massochist so both are correct. The point is he has a preference, but it all depends on the mood. The mood that’s always changing, inconsistent like he is. Such is the life a detective.

“How long is this going to take?” You ask, curious and a tad worn out.

“Patience, sweetheart.” He says instead of answering.

You’re with a romantic. When he has the time, he wants to unwrap you like the gift you are. That calls for silk. John holds the garment up to your skin. Behind his glasses his eyes are intense. It looks like he’s merely testing the color against your complexion, but you know he’s watching for the rise of goosebumps.

Lace is temperamental, like him. The quality is often cheap and John doesn’t waste his time with that. Putting money into something that would snap under his fingers dips into that imprudent side of him that he forgets about. Unless, of course, he’s feeling ravenous. Reckless, even. Hearing you gasp as he intentionally rips the garment, or pulls it to the side so his mouth and teeth can reach your skin is more than worth it.

There’s a misconception, or debate, that leather leads down a slippery slope to BDSM related activities. While John wouldn’t label himself as an active participant, he isn’t uninterested in such… exploits. Certain aspects of it he likes, others he doesn’t. Despite being a judgmental asshole, he reads up on things so he doesn’t make an ass of himself. Educating himself is important, he has to at least know what he’s talking about when he’s verbally tearing into it. The point, though, is that he likes leather on you as well. It just doesn’t solely need to be worn in acts of pure lust or degradation. Cuffs, collars, harnesses… quality leather will be appreciated where John’s involved. Especially on you.

All that to reiterate that he will like absolutely anything on you.

“This one,” he says, almost breathless. His pupils are blown wide, his ears and cheeks are tinged pink, he has to adjust the way he stands and look away from you to stop himself from sporting a complete hard on.

You grin, shameless, “You’re already imagining it on me, aren’t you?”

He delicately folds the blue garment over his arm discreetly and finds interest in the carpet.

“I wouldn’t need to imagine if you’d stop teasing me and get walking. Weren’t you complaining a minute ago about this taking too long?”