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The problem with having OCs is that sometimes you wanna read about your little guy being in situations but unfortunately he is YOUR little guy and no one is gonna put him in that situation but you. Tragic.
Tags: Oral (F receiving), PinV Sex, Service Top Munch, Munch being a D1 eater, Teasing, Older Man x Younger Woman (implied but it doesn’t make any difference), Slight Femdom
Rating: M
Summary: John has a bad habit of neglecting you in favor of his work during your quality time. Thankfully, you know how to get his attention.
Notes: Can be read as HLotS or SVU
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You hated when John brought work home. It was bad enough you rarely got to see when because of his job, you’d like to have some quality time with him uninterrupted.
“Johnnn,” you whine dramatically, intentionally dragging out his name in the way you know he hates, “Are you finished yet?” It had been approximately two hours since you’d arrived, and the two of you had barely said 20 words to each other. You don’t want to interrupt whatever he was doing because it was probably really important, but you were starting to get bored.
He hums, “Almost, just a minute sweetheart.”He pats your leg absentmindedly, head nowhere near the conversation. Technically, you are spending time together, the two of you are literally sitting on the couch not even inches away from each other, but he’s not really there. You roll your eyes, you don’t want to seem like a brat, but it’s getting ridiculous. “You said that 30 minutes ago.”
He sighs, “I know, I’m sorry, I just don’t want to miss anything.” You can hear a slight apologetic tone in his voice, but he doesn’t even look up from his papers. You huff a frustrated breath, getting up from the couch and going into the bedroom.
It’s frustrating being with a cop, let alone a detective, and even worse one as dedicated to his work as John. You know he works too hard, and part of you feels guilty for being upset. After all, he’s working to get justice for who knows how many women and children around the city who’ve been hurt, it’s a good thing that he’s giving it so much attention. But you’re important too, and you just want him to give himself a break. And maybe fuck you, you’d like that too.
Looking in the mirror, you contemplate getting your stuff and leaving. You could try to reschedule, but God knows when either of you will have the time. You’re just about to go tell him when an idea hits you.
If he won’t pay attention, I can make him pay attention
You remember the drawer he’d saved for you so you could keep some clothes for when you stayed over. Opening as quietly as you can, you dig through it for a bit until you find a lingerie set you had brought over a while ago. You know, in case of emergencies. You change into it, fixing your hair in the mirror before leaving the room. You hit the kitchen first, pouring yourself a glass of wine which you take into the living room.
John still doesn’t notice when you enter the room, which is fine, he’ll notice in a moment. You sit in the armchair opposite him, bringing your legs up to drape over the arm. You sip your wine, humming some song you can’t remember where you heard it from, giving your plan time to take effect.
It doesn’t take long for John to look up, likely to ask you to politely stop, but whatever he was going to say is caught in his throat at the sight of you. “What the hell…”
You hum, feigning ignorance, “Something wrong, John?”
He blinks rapidly, as though he’s trying to snap himself out of a dream. His grip on his papers tightens slightly, and for a moment he thinks he must’ve somehow died and went to Heaven in the middle of his paperwork. He knows the Jews don’t particularly believe in Heaven, but he imagines this is how he'd like it to be.
You frown, a fake apologetic look on your face, “Oh, I’m sorry, am I distracting you?”
He shakes his head slowly, as though in a trance. His eyes rake over your barely-clothed body, looking at you in a similar way to how a dog who hasn’t eaten in a week would look at a rare steak. “No, it can wait.” He starts to put the papers on the table, but you hold a hand up, stopping him.
“No, it can’t.” you say firmly. He wanted to focus on work? Then he’s going to fucking work. “Whoever’s case that is is important, John. You’ve been working so long, no need to break your momentum.”
He shakes his head, “Really, honey, it can wait.” His attention is fully on you now, but he’s not getting off that easy. You frown, tutting in disapproval, “No, you’ve only got–” you count the paper in his hands, “–four pages left, finish them.” You finish off your wine, setting the glass on the floor.
He has this tortured look on his face, but he knows he deserves this. He forces his eyes back on his work, trying unsuccessfully to ignore your presence. You get up from your seat, circling the couch and perching yourself on the back of it. You can tell his head is nowhere near whatever is on those papers and you bring your hand to his hair, burying your fingers in it and gently tugging, “Focus. These people deserve your full attention, Detective.”
A shiver runs through him at both your touch and your voice, and he lets out an odd, slightly choked-sounding noise. The obvious tent in his slacks is clear proof that your plan is working. He manages to get through one page, making some hurried notes in the margins before setting it on the stack on the coffee table. You can see some pages are longer than others, some mostly consisting of pictures and others with just words. You lean in, licking the shell of his ear, and he flushes a deep red. You drag your hands down to his shoulders, massaging, and he groans at the feeling of your fingers working out the tense muscles. He needs the relief, you just wish he would let himself want it.
He makes quicker work of the second and third pages, reading and annotating them thoroughly but also obviously trying to get them out of the way. Pleased with his efficiency, you place wet, open-mouthed kisses down his neck and loosen his tie to get better access. “Only one more, don’t quit now…”
He barely suppresses a moan, forcing himself to focus. After all, the long he takes to finish up, the more painful this experience will be. You undo the buttons of his shirt, using your newfound surface area to suck a hickey into his collarbone as you play with the hair at the nape of his neck.
John is horribly, painfully hard. You look at the paper in his shaking hands, and as if by some sick coincidence it has more text than any of the previous ones. You decide to alter your plan slightly, after all you need him to last long enough to actually fuck you when he’s done.
Laying off the physical approach, you hop off the back of the couch and go back to your spot in the armchair. John lets out a breath of relief, and you smile. He must think this shit is over. His eyes are still somewhat on you, so you angle yourself so you’re fully in his view before leaning back and sighing. “Honey…” You say breathily, bringing your hand up to your neck and slowly dragging it down to your bra, toying with the lace. “What paragraph are you on?”
He doesn’t even answer at first, just sits there staring at you with that hungry look. You’re good, it’s not often John Munch is speechless. You snap your fingers, knocking him out of his trance. “Two…”
You hum, your fingers slipping into your bra and gently rubbing your nipple. You moan softly, “How many are there?”
“S-six…”
“Oh, ok…” Leaving your nipples alone, you continue your descent down your chest and along your stomach until they reach the waistband of your thoroughly soaked panties. You slip past, bringing your fingers to your clit, rubbing it at an agonizingly slow pace. You whine softly, your eyes slipping shut at the feeling; it’s good but it isn’t enough. It isn’t John. You’re so caught up in your pleasure that you almost forget he’s there. Opening your eyes, you see him staring at you, frozen and practically drooling. Aka, not working. You shoot him a glare so palpable he’s surprised it didn’t send him bursting into flames. “John, stop fucking staring at me or I promise you I will put my clothes on and go fuck myself somewhere else.”
John’s not able to stop the whimper before it passes his lips. He hesitates before reluctantly turning his attention back to the sheet, a tortured look on his face. You continue to play with yourself, even going the extra mile as to moaning theatrically to make the experience worse for him. He’s watched you masturbate before and you’re never that vocal. Even though he can tell you’re playing it up for his own torture, it only manages to make him harder. He has to fight not to look at you, even going as far as removing his glasses in an attempt to negate the urge. It makes it slightly more difficult to read, but these are good slacks and he’d rather not ruin them.
Thankfully, he manages to finish before you do. He places the paper in the stack, probably rougher than he intended. He stands up and crosses the room to you in a few quick strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. Your eyebrows raise as he grabs your wrist and pulls your fingers out from between your legs only to put them into his mouth, licking your juices off of the digits. The sheer eroticism of the gesture takes you by surprise, but you don’t have much time to lament on it before he tugs your soaked panties to the side and dives face first into your pussy, his nose bumping your clit as he sinks his tongue into your folds just the way you like. You moan so loudly you’re sure the neighbors can hear, eyes crossing out of pure ecstasy. He lifts one of your legs onto his shoulder, the hand not holding your panties to the side gripping your thigh. “Fuck, you taste good,” he groans, his breath warm against your entrance, “I’m so sorry for neglecting you…”
You can barely hear his apology over your own moans, your toes curling in pleasure. You only let it go one for a little while, because as much as you’d like for this to continue, you can feel yourself getting close and you didn’t do all this just to get some, albeit very good, oral. “J-John, stop.” You pull him away by the hair, and have to hold back a moan at the sight of him, hair ruined from its usual gelled style and mouth glistening with your slick.
As if he read your mind, he starts to undo his belt as you push yourself out of the chair and onto his lap, immediately going to undo the rest of the buttons of his shirt. You get his shirt off of him just as he pulls himself out of his slacks, precum dripping from his tip. So much for the slacks… You waste no time lifting your hips, lining him up with your entrance before sinking down, a choked cry leaving your lips at the stretch of his cock inside you. John moans filthily, your walls squeezing perfectly around his length. Neither of you can speak, too blissed out by the feeling of each other. He gives you a moment to adjust to his size before gripping you, guiding your hips to rock against his. You ride him steadily, your two bodies moving together in sync as though you two were made for each other. He kisses you, firmly but simultaneously gentle as you’ve ever felt, your tongues swirling together in a heated, erotic dance.
You whine at the burn in your quads and John, who’s stronger than he looks by the way, takes over, lifting and lowering you up and down, the sound of your ass colliding with his pelvis filling the room. He lays back on the floor to better thrust up into you and you lean forward, bracing yourself on the floor above his shoulder. This isn’t necessarily the most comfortable position and he’ll definitely be paying for it later, but God is it worth it.
You’ve been together for a while and have had a lot of sex, so you’re at the point in your relationship that both of you can tell when the other is about to cum, and that moment is fast approaching. You pick up the pace, trying to keep up your momentum as you feel yourself reaching your peak. You climax first, sparkles appearing in your vision as the orgasm runs through your body. John follows soon after, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he spills into you with a cry. Coming down from your high, the adrenaline wearing off also saps you of whatever strength you had left. You collapse onto his heaving chest, your breaths syncing in shared exhaustion.
The two of you just lay there for a while, basking in the afterglow. You probably should move to the bedroom or something, but neither of you can find it in you to move right now, so floor it is. After a few minutes you hear him sigh, “I really am sorry, I know what little quality time we have together is sacred but our caseload’s just been so heavy.” He strokes a finger up and down between your shoulderblades, lazily playing with the end of your hair. He actually feels bad, and he would never want you to feel unappreciated or neglected, and he hates that he didn’t notice how you felt until you forced him to pay attention.
You hum, in your opinion the sex was apology enough. “It’s alright,” you say, shrugging. You sit up and lift your hips off of him, stifling a groan at the newfound emptiness as you settle back on his lap. You smile down at him, playing with the hem of his undershirt, “You should probably go over those last few pages though, I might’ve impaired your judgement.”
He smiles, taking your wrist and bringing your hand to his lips, gently kissing the inside of your palm. “I promise, it can wait.”
Summary: Your boyfriend, John, learns a lesson to never underestimate how crazy his exes can be
Notes: Based on s3 e15: Law & Disorder; There's basically no plot I wrote this cuz I was bored idc
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John wanted to melt into the floor. Like, he literally would if he could. Now don’t get him wrong, he isn’t ashamed of his… assets, in fact he tends to be pretty proud of them. But being exposed for everyone to see, especially against his will, is not something he would like to have on his so far semi-spotless reputation, especially in his line of work.
You’d had a pretty easy day at work, and since you both got off early you and John decided to spend the evening together. He’d told you to meet him outside the station so you got there at the time he’d said, but he wasn’t there. You’re about to go look for him inside when you spot him across the street, walking out from a building that you can’t remember ever going in. The change in location is odd enough, but John looks upset. You cross over to him, frowning at his annoyed expression. “What’s up your ass?”
He gives you a tired look, which only sours after a woman passes behind you, snickering. This wouldn’t have been remarkable had said snickering not seemed to have been directed at John. You shoot her a glare over your shoulder and she walks faster, her shoulder subtly shaking with suppressed laughter. It could have been written off as a coincidence had another few people not walked out of the building, amused grins spreading across their faces at the sight of you two. You look back at John in confusion, “Is there a joke I’m not in on or something?”
He sighs, grabbing your hand and pulling you into the building he had just come out of. He leads you down a hallway and stops once you reach the back wall. “John, where are we-” you look up at the wall in front of you, “Oh. Wow.”
You’ve seen John naked before, both in person and in pictures, but never a wall-sized image in public. The picture’s visibly old, in fact you’ve never seen him with his hair that long. If it weren’t for the pretty sizable elephant in the room, that would probably be the most surprising part of the picture for you.
Looking over at him, he genuinely looks like he could disintegrate into thin air at any moment if he had the ability, blushing with what you can infer is shame. John’s not the kind of guy to get easily embarrassed, but he’s also pretty private, you kind of feel sorry for him, even a little angry. After all, as far as you’re concerned, those are your assets too, nobody should have the opportunity to look at them but you and him. “Who did this? And where’d they get this picture?”
“One of my exes with a grudge, it’s her collection. I seriously don’t even remember taking this, I was probably high.” He huffs out a breath, “I can’t believe she would do this, it’s been like 25 years!”
Ok, maybe you understand the woman from before. Whatever he did must’ve been pretty heinous. You bite your lip to keep yourself from laughing, “Jesus, John, what did you do to that girl?”
He shrugs, hesitating before answering, “We dated for a while before I went to the academy, I was an asshole, we had a fight and I left while she was asleep.” There’s an ashamed tone to his voice, at least he seems somewhat remorseful. “Not saying I was right to do that, but I had a feeling something was off about her and I’m seeing my intuition was right.”
You’re quiet for a moment. You kind of understand her, it was a dick move and you’d want revenge too, but maybe not like this. After all, it’s been decades, he’s not the person he was in college. The comedy of the situation is undeniable though, and you attempt to suppress your laughter, to no avail. He looks at you in offense, “This isn’t funny! How would you feel if your privacy was blown up and plastered on a wall for all to see?”
You smile, still amused at the situation. “Okay, I’m sorry. But to be honest you kind of had it coming. Besides, don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic? This gallery isn’t exactly well known, it can’t have been seen by that many people.”
He looks at you blankly, “It’s in the paper.”
“...oh.” Yeah, the distress is understandable. “Does your squad know?”
He feigns a laugh, “Do they? There's flyers advertising it everywhere, they found out before I did. Of course they think it’s hilarious, especially Meldrick. Even Stan knows, his ex-wife brought a copy to the hospital to read to him. I don’t even know how I’ll face him, none of them will ever take me seriously again.”
John takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, “I’m the laughingstock of the precinct,” he says, “Everyone I pass on the street looks at me like they’ve seen my Johnson, which they have, mind you! My reputation in this city is ruined, I’ll have to buy a disguise and change my identity!”
“John, calm down.” You roll your eyes affectionately, “I really think you’re overreacting, it’s only in one gallery, and I guarantee the whole city isn’t coming over here to see your… exhibition. Can’t you ask the gallery to take it down, like for privacy reasons? There’s gotta be a rule against that or something”
He sighs, “They said I have to ask Brigitta, something about artist’s privilege. Even the curator I asked about it couldn’t look at me without laughing. The official opening is tonight, I’ll try to appeal to her better nature there.”
You nod, patting him lightly on the back. “See? Problem potentially solved.” He still has that depressed look on his face, so you kiss him on the cheek, “I’ll even come with you, for moral support.”
He shrugs and the two of you turn to leave, still being met with amused glances and quiet laughter from the people you pass on your way out. You lean in, whispering, “You know what though?
He looks down at you, “What?”
“Aside from the whole public thing,” you smirk, “You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. Believe me.”
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I’ve always been a huge Michael Jackson fan (cause honestly would I be okay if I wasn’t?) and I LOVE that thx to the movie he’s getting so much attention again it warms my heart!!!
And now I was wondering…do you think John liked Michael Jackson?
I mean I think we know he did go crazy on the conspiracy theories about his death and all
but yk!!
As much as John would like for us to believe he’s above trends, he’s susceptible to good music. He was somewhere in his late 30’s, early 40’s, (not yet working as a homicide detective) sitting in a patrol car listening to Thriller at 4am. No one needed to see him tapping his fingers on the steering wheel or humming quietly to himself.
Later in life he was, of course, deeply invested in the theories about the pop culture icon.
Finding Michael Jackson interesting and respecting his craft is different than liking him, though. The 1993 allegations would certainly put a pin in any admiration John had for the man and instead spark his interest in the controversy. (Especially if you subscribe to the unfortunate headcanon that Munch was SA’d when he was younger)
College in the 60’s wasn’t a big deal. Yeah, any decent parent would want to ship their kid off to get a degree in something but it wasn’t in the cards for everyone. John almost didn’t go.
He didn’t want to go, ok? He just survived four years of schooling, now he had to go do more!? It sounded like a scam! Besides, it’s not like they were rolling in dough. Dad was gone, mom was working two jobs, Bernie had two years left before he graduated, and David was throwing staplers out of windows and calling it science.
The Munch house was busy and full, he was the oldest so all the responsibilities fell to him, college wasn’t on his mind.
He was forced out. David clung to hug leg while Bernie forced pamphlets and a bus ticket into his hand. His mom packed his bags for him. She tried not to cry. She patted his shoulder and fixed that one piece of hair that always fell on his forehead. It was a lot harder to say goodbye to them then he thought it would be.
He stayed with his uncle in New York.
Phone calls home started out weekly, every Thursday or Friday Munch would walk his happy ass to the closest payphone and talk to his mom. Bernie and David too, if they could be bothered to say hello to their big brother. Eventually he found his footing on campus and slowed his calls to once a month.
John got a job as a library assistant, which led him into tutoring on the side. He bussed tables on the weekends, devoting majority of his time to studying… and the occasional pretty or prettier. He received a lot more attention in college than he did back home, which was both surprising and satisfying. He knew he was attractive and charming, it was nice that other people knew it too.
However, those gigs didn’t pay half as much as writing about Nixon did when he managed to get his provocative articles into The Times. Of course that’s what led him down the path that went down in history as anti-establishment. The movement was so, so much bigger than that. It also happened to heavily influence his decision to give college the finger, pack up his suitcase, and jump into a van with his new, likeminded friends that smelled like skunks.
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That wasn’t the longest he had ever gone without sleep, but getting older also means not being able to just pull consecutive all nighters. What could he say, an old man needs his sleep. And trust, he was feeling it. Everything hurt, his hair felt greasy, his eyelids felt like sandpaper, and every article of clothing on him felt like it weighed 15 pounds.
When he arrived home he was prepared to disconnect the phone, fall into bed, and spend his next few days off in peace. However, this wonderful plan was thwarted when he was surprised, although not unpleasantly, by you, waiting for him on the couch.
“Honey, what are you doing here? And what are you doing up? It's 2:30 in the morning.”
You frown, feigning offense in an unsuccessful attempt to resist a smile, “Gee, hello to you too, light of my life.” You get up and walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He sighs and smiles, kissing you chastely on the lips in greeting. You hum, “How’re you holding up?
John sighs, resting his head on top of yours, “I haven’t slept in two days and I’m wound up like a damn jack-in-the-box, so I’d say I’m peachy.”
You roll your eyes at his sarcasm but don’t say anything, after these past few days he deserves to be irritated. You take off his coat for him, hanging it up on the coat rack in the corner. “You hungry?”
He shakes his head, pushing up his glasses and rubbing his eyes, “No, I ate at the station.” He takes off his tie and starts to unbutton his shirt before you move his hands away, undoing it for him. Taking it off, you smooth your hands over his shoulders, feeling the tension. “Jesus old man, you need a vacation.”
He laughs tiredly, “Yeah, tell that to the perps.” He really must be tired, because normally he would not have let the old man comment slide. You give him another kiss, taking off his watch and belt. You notice his shoes, which are slightly scuffed and have a small stain of… something on them. He’s probably noticed but he hasn’t said anything so either he doesn’t know or he’s too tired to care. Now Tired, Worn-Out Munch may not give a damn, but Awake Munch? He will care, and he’ll probably bitch about it for the next few days, so it’s best to take care of it sooner rather than later. “Go shower, leave your shoes outside the door, I’ll clean them for you tomorrow.”
John considers replying with the usual “two in one saves water” but decides against it, he’d be too tired for anything fun like that tonight anyway. He disappears down the hall and into the bathroom and you head to the bedroom, picking up his shoes on the way.
You throw them haphazardly in the closet, they’ll be dealt with later. You showered when you got here, so you put everything else where it needs to be and change into sleep clothes. Going into the kitchen, you quickly make some tea before returning to the bedroom, putting it on the bedside table for when he’s done in the. He probably won’t drink it, but you’d like for him to have the option if he wants it.
John emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later in his pajamas, hair damp and looking to have somewhat more life in him than when he first came home. He sits on the bed with a heavy sigh, any energy he had left when he arrived seems to have been drained from him. You crawl up behind him, putting your hands on his shoulders and massaging, working out the knots and tension under your fingers. He moans almost erotically, your hands feeling like what he imagines crack to feel like when you smoke it. That’s probably extreme but he doesn’t care. You reach around him and take off his glasses, folding in the arms and placing them on the bedside table. To your pleasure, he even drinks some of the tea, humming as the warmth soothes the aches in his body. “You’re too good to me, sweetheart.”
You hum, playing with the silky hair at the back of his neck. It’s getting kind of long, and he would probably say he needs a haircut but you don’t care, you like it longer and you’ll try to keep it that way as long as you can. “You work too hard, you deserve for someone to be good to you, John.”
He feels something akin to tears threatening to rise in him and resists it, attributing whatever it is to a lack of sleep and hence impaired emotional function. He settles for kissing you, deeply this time. There’s no real heat to it, both of you know he doesn’t have the energy. It’s lazy, but it’s sweet, and it’s just what both of you want and need right now, communicating his appreciation for you without words.
You pull away, smiling, and the two of you lay down under the covers, John reaching over you to turn off the lamp on the bedside table. In the quiet dark, the two of you adjust until you're slotted together comfortably, your legs tangled and your head on his chest. There’s silence for a moment before you hear a quiet “..thank you.”
You smile softly, “You don’t have to thank me, John.”
“I don’t care, I’m thanking you anyway.”
You sigh, rolling your eyes fondly. “Go to sleep. You’ve got two days off and nothing to do, if anyone class I’ll tell them to fuck off.”
He huffs a laugh, his job probably wouldn’t like it, but it’s what they deserve if they have the nerve to call him in on one of the only breaks he gets out of the year. He kisses you on the forehead before closing his eyes. “I love you, goodnight.”
He probably doesn’t stay awake long enough to hear you respond, but it doesn’t matter. “‘Night, love you too.”
Summary: Some magazine articles are pure bullshit, preying on perfectly functional couples with promises of “spicing things up,” all just a convenient excuse to sell more products. John has zero interest in any of those ridiculous little games.
... Right?
Notes: Can be read as either SVU or HLOTS.
ARGHHHHH JOHN MUNCH MY BELOVED WOOF WOOF WOOF my mind is a machine that turns real life melancholy into fluff writing 🧍♀️
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“Since when do you read mainstream magazines?” John asked, one eyebrow ticking up as you turned another glossy page, the paper whispering under your fingers.
You didn’t look up. “Since it’s the only thing within reach and we have to wait.” A small sigh slipped out with it, your eyes skimming past bold headlines and overly bright photos. You could already feel him winding up beside you. Like a kettle about to whistle.
There it was.
A quiet scoff, the subtle shift of his weight in the chair, fingers drumming once against his knee before he leaned back just enough to start.
“Of course they make you wait.” He muttered, voice low but gaining traction. “You flash a badge, suddenly everyone’s got ‘protocol.’ Translation: Stall until legal tells them what they’re allowed to remember.”
Damn that secretary for not being impressed by badges. You just needed a quick chat with a journalist who had a lead on the case. He called it in! And now he was “in a meeting”?!
You flipped another page, more out of something to do with your hands than actual interest.
John shifted again, closer this time. Not enough to admit curiosity, just enough that his shoulder edged nearer to the arm of your chair. His gaze flicked down despite himself.
“10 ways to spice your relationship?” He read, the disdain immediate, almost automatic. “That’s stupid. These can’t even publish anything too drastic. Faux advertising right on the title.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, tilting the page slightly as if to inspect it more seriously. “True. Gotta keep it tame.” Your finger traced a line of text, pausing. “But hey… ‘Lipstick game’ doesn’t sound that bad.”
That got a sharper reaction.
He scoffed and leaned back again, but not before giving the page one last look. “That’s just big pharma finding ways to make people buy even more cosmetics. Some idiot invents a pickle-flavored lip balm, now they gotta create a game so it actually sells.”
You snorted softly at that, turning the page like you were humoring the idea more than anything.
Beside you, he went quiet for a beat, long enough to notice. His gaze dipped to the magazine again, then slid back up to your face, catching that small, thoughtful look settling in.
You hummed under your breath, thumb idly holding your place on the page. “We could try this…” You trailed off, like you weren’t entirely committing to the idea, just letting it exist out loud.
“Absolutely not.” He didn’t even hesitate, straightening slightly in his chair like he was about to argue a case in court. “We’re too smart to fall for this scam. Buying chapstick because of some, what, manufactured entertainment that’s supposed to make a relationship more interesting? Suggested by a lousy, high-selling magazine?”
He gestured vaguely toward the item in your hands, expression twisting with disdain. “All to use it once, guess a couple flavors, and then it sits in a drawer for the next ten years. Waste of time, waste of money.”
You let him finish, watching the way he got just a little more animated the longer he went on, lips pressing together to keep from smiling too soon.
Then you rolled your eyes with a quiet, but obvious fondness. “Okay, not doing it.”
He huffed and leaned back, a faint edge of indignation settling in. Not at the suggestion itself, but at how easily you’d dropped it.
That was the problem.
John loved a good argument. Lived for them, really, the pointless ones most of all. And while you usually indulged him, let him spiral into theories and counterpoints just for the rhythm of it… There was something deeply satisfying about cutting it short and watching that almost-pout tug at his mouth.
It flickered there now, gone as quickly as it came, but you caught it anyway.
“He’s ready to see you now.”
The secretary’s voice snapped the moment clean in half.
You stood, smoothing your clothes out of habit more than necessity, and started toward the hallway she indicated. John fell into step beside you, already shifting back into work mode, but not entirely.
Close enough, you leaned in, your voice dropping just for him.
“How about we get something obscenely sweet before heading home tonight? Maybe some cinnamon rolls absolutely drowning in icing.”
It wasn't actually a question, you were merely giving your boyfriend a heads-up about the inevitable.
He glanced sideways at you, fondness slipping through the remnants of the light irritation he presented earlier. “Have I mentioned how much I love you and your bright ideas?” A beat. “Because really, I do.”
You hummed, pleased, giving his arm a subtle squeeze. “Mhm. But it’s always nice to be reminded.”
Then you let go, straightening, your expression smoothing into something more professional as you stepped into the office. Like nothing had happened at all.
—–-—––--––——––--——––--––——--––—-–—
A few days had passed since the chat about that ridiculous magazine article.
John hadn’t thought about it. Not really. Not past that evening, past the cinnamon rolls, past the way you’d so easily dropped the subject and let him win. That had been the end of it.
Mostly.
It had crossed his mind once or twice, sure.
Briefly. In passing. Hard not to, when the premise involved kissing you, and that was, objectively, one of his favorite pastimes.
Still, the game itself? Stupid. Right up there with those “150 questions to ask your partner every day” lists that read like someone trying to industrialize intimacy.
So no, he hadn’t thought about it.
Not until he let himself into your apartment a few days later, key turning easily in the lock, expecting to surprise you…
And instead finding this.
You were on your knees by the coffee table, a small lineup of lip balms arranged neatly across the wood. Caps off, colors varied. A little circular mirror sat in one hand while the other carefully traced a fresh layer across your lips, your focus entirely on getting it just right.
John stopped just inside the door, blinking once.
Then, automatically, the quip came.
“Going to a beauty contest?” He asked, pushing the door shut behind him with his foot. The lock clicked, and he crossed into the apartment, setting a grocery bag down on the kitchen counter without taking his eyes off you.
You didn’t even flinch, just glanced at him through the mirror with a small smile tugging at your mouth. “It’s just lip balm.”
“Lip balm.” He echoed, stepping a little closer, gaze flicking over the quantity on display. “For a game we agreed was stupid.”
You rolled your eyes, setting the mirror down with a soft clink. “Ah, ah. I agreed we wouldn’t play. And I’m keeping my word.” You reached for another tube, turning it in your fingers before popping it open, giving it a quick, curious sniff.
He watched that, narrowed eyes, arms folding loosely as he leaned a shoulder against the back of the couch.
“Are you?” He asked, dry. “Because the evidence says otherwise.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, still inspecting the balm before wiping the previous one off and deciding to apply the other one, slow and deliberate. “I got these because the magazine reminded me flavored balms existed. They’re fun, that’s all.” A small shrug. “And it makes it easier to remember to actually use something before my lips start cracking.”
John exhaled through his nose, pushing himself off the couch and finally dropping into it behind you. The cushions dipped under his weight as he leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, eyes still fixed on the little setup in front of you.
“… So we’re not playing the game.” He said, like he was confirming terms.
“Uh-uh.” You shook your head lightly, still focused on your reflection.
A beat passed.
Another.
He leaned back, but his gaze didn’t leave you.
“… Why not?”
It slipped out before he could dress it up, carrying just the faintest edge of offense.
You stilled, then slowly turned your head to look at him properly, eyebrows lifting. “Because you said we shouldn’t play it.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. A quiet mutter followed, something half-formed and abandoned as he tried to find a counterargument and came up empty.
You watched him for a second, then sighed, amused despite yourself, shaking your head.
“Unbelievable.”
Carefully, you pushed yourself up from the floor and shifted, moving between his knees before settling onto his lap, straddling him with practiced ease. His hands came up on instinct, hovering for half a second before settling at your sides as you balanced yourself.
Your hands slid up his torso, over his shoulders, until they framed his face, thumbs brushing lightly along his jaw.
“Come here.”
He almost said something. Something that would border on deflection, some last-ditch comment to save face, insist he wasn’t invested in any of this.
But the words died the second you leaned in.
Your lips met his, soft and brief. Nothing dramatic, just a gentle press that lingered a moment before easing. He barely had time to respond, tongue just starting to move before you pulled back again.
You watched him, just a little too pleased.
“Can you guess?”
He blinked once, recalibrating, then tilted his head slightly, considering. “… Chocolate.”
You smiled, just enough to give him away. “More specific. Try again. It does have chocolate, though.”
Without getting off his lap, you twisted to reach for the table, stretching just a bit too far. You almost tipped sideways, but his hands tightened at your hips, steadying you without thinking.
“You're gonna crack your skull open.” He chided with a light frown.
You ignored that entirely, grabbing another tube and twisting it open. Your hand covered the label as you reapplied, slow and deliberate again, before leaning back in.
This time the kiss lingered a fraction longer.
He huffed softly against your mouth, more focused now, trying to place it.
“… Don’t tell me this is brownie flavored.” He muttered, mouth just hovering over yours now.
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes “Mhm.”
“… Why would there be a brownie flavored one?”
You shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, settling more comfortably against him. “Why not? It’s nice.”
“Debatable.” He tilted his head slightly, considering, the corner of his mouth pulling into a smirk. “Brownies are nice. They taste good.” His gaze dipped, deliberate, to your lips before flicking back up. “Ans so do your lips. I suppose it’s a decent combination.”
A quiet, pleased hum left you. “It is, isn’t it?” You tapped the tube lightly against your finger before setting it aside. “Too bad you’re not interested in the game. We could’ve found other combinations.”
“Just-” He waved a hand, already leaning in a fraction closer without realizing it. “Get the next one already.”
You paused, eyebrow lifting at how quickly he folded. “Wow. That easy?”
He didn’t even bother pretending this time, just giving you a look that said ‘don’t push it’.
“One more.” You said, picking up another tube, turning it between your fingers like you were considering it far more seriously than necessary. “It’ll be more fun if we make this a daily- No, weekly thing. You’ll never know when.”
“You’re cruel.” He accused, the words dragged out into something almost pitiful as he watched you apply the next balm, his attention fixed a little too closely.
“Am I?”
You didn’t give him time to answer, just leaned in and kissed him again.
When you pulled back, he was a little breathless, blinking once like he needed to catch up. “Yes.” He decided, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “You are. Utterly wicked.” He took a second, composing himself just enough to try and guess “… Watermelon?”
A grin tugged at your lips. “Atta boy.” You reached up, pinching his cheek lightly before closing the distance again.
This kiss lingered, it had nothing to do with guessing flavors. It was just about John and you.
As it turned out, it was a nice weekly game.
Easy, low effort. And just unpredictable enough to keep him on edge in the best way. A quiet kind of anticipation, the kind that had him eyeing your lips a little more closely whenever you were near.
And, to be fair, you had picked good flavors.
Because yes, your original intention had actually been practical. Keeping your lips hydrated. That was it.
Not baiting John into indulging a magazine suggestion he’d very loudly declared beneath him.
Still, it wasn’t a one-time thing. The little tubes didn’t end up forgotten in a drawer, buried under receipts and spare change.
They got used, often enough that it turned into something of a routine neither of you bothered to question.
…Mostly.
Because there were exceptions.
The pickle one.
The root beer one.
Those you had absolutely, deliberately bought later. Purely to mess with him.
He had too much to drink, couldn’t get it up or finish. No big deal, he didn’t overreact, why would he? Casanova reputation alive and well, he was still getting tail and having a good time!
Then came a certain birthday and things took an abrupt left turn
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?”
He pulls you flush against him, relishing the slick feeling of your skin on his. He wants you closer but… this will have to do for now.
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The clock on the living room wall was mocking you. Every second felt deliberate, like it knew you were waiting, like it was savoring it. Each sharp little click echoed through the apartment, filling the silence John had left behind.
You checked your phone again. Nothing. No message, no excuse, not even a lazy “sorry, something came up.” Just the same blank screen reflecting your own expression back at you—tight jaw, tired eyes, hope slowly draining into something heavier.
At first, there had been reasons. “Work ran late”, “Traffic was terrible.”, “My phone died.” . And you had believed him, because of course you did. Because back then, he’d still show up eventually, breathless and apologetic, wrapping you in a hug like that erased the waiting.
You glanced at the table. Two plates, two glasses, and the candle you’d lit an hour ago burned halfway down, wax pooling unevenly like it, too, had given up on symmetry. You wondered, not for the first time, if you should blow it out or let it burn itself into nothing.
For a moment, nothing changed.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Then—
BZZZ
Your heart jumped before you could stop it. Reflex. Hope, stubborn and automatic.
John: “Hey. Sorry. Something came up.”
You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Of course it did,” you muttered to the empty room.Your fingers moved before you could overthink it.
“Something always comes up, John.”
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly this time. That was new. That was almost worse.
John: “Don’t start, okay? It’s been a long day.”
You blinked at the screen. “Don’t start?” you repeated aloud, incredulous.
“I’m not starting anything. I’ve been sitting here for two hours.”
A pause, longer this time. The clock filled the gap again, each tick pressing harder against your ribs.
John: “I told you work’s been crazy lately.”
You shook your head, pacing now, the floor cool under your bare feet. “You didn’t tell me you weren’t coming,” you said, even as your thumbs translated the words.
John: “I didn’t say I wasn’t coming.”
You stopped pacing.
“Right,” you whispered. “You just didn’t show up.”
Your hands trembled slightly as you typed.
“What time is it, John?”
No response.You stared at the message, then at the clock.
Tick.Tick.Tick.
John: “Why are you making this a big deal?”
Something in your chest tightened, then snapped. Cleanly, like a thread pulled too far for too long.
“A big deal?” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “Yeah… okay.”
You looked at the table again. The plates. The glasses. The candle, now barely holding onto its flame.
“You’re right.”
The reply came faster this time.
John: “Thank you.”
You almost smiled at that. Almost.
“It’s not a big deal.” you typed. “It’s just what you do.”
The typing bubble flickered, stopped, started again.
John: “That’s not fair.”
You exhaled slowly, sinking into the chair across from the empty one he was supposed to fill.
“Fair,” you murmured. “You want to talk about fair now?”
“What’s not fair is making plans with me and not showing up. Again.”
A longer pause. So long you wondered if he’d just… left the conversation altogether.
John: “So what, you’re breaking up with me over one missed dinner?”
You stared at the words, a strange calm settling over you.
“One?” you said softly. “Is that what we’re calling this?”
Your fingers hovered over the screen, then moved with quiet certainty.
“No, John.”
You glanced at the clock one last time, then your gaze shifted back to the message.
“I’m breaking up with you over all of them.”
This time, when the typing bubble appeared, you didn’t wait to see what it would say. You set your phone face down on the table, reached across, and finally blew out the candle.
The room fell into a softer silence, no less quiet, but somehow no longer waiting.
——————
thank you all for being so patient with me ! as i get back into the groove of writing my style should improve tremendously , and sorry no happy ending today LOLZ
