ayo, fellow neurotypical

Munch knew he was in the wrong the moment the words left his mouth.

The realization arrived with the same cruel efficiency as a bullet finding its target, but by then it was already too late. For all his intelligence, for all the hours he spent dissecting motives, reading people, and spotting lies hidden between carefully chosen words, his tongue had always operated several steps ahead of his better judgment. Sarcasm came naturally to him. Sharp remarks came even easier. Sometimes what was meant to be a harmless jab left a wound instead.

And sometimes, like now, he didn't even realize how hard he'd swung until after the damage was done.

The day had already been determined to test his patience.

Working Special Victims meant ugly days were practically guaranteed. Every case carried some fresh reminder of humanity's capacity for cruelty, and after enough years, those reminders accumulated like rust beneath the skin. Usually he could compartmentalize it. Usually he could leave at least some of the darkness inside the precinct walls.

Today, however, the universe had apparently decided to supplement the usual misery with a series of mundane inconveniences specifically designed to irritate him to death.

Traffic had trapped him for nearly an hour that morning, the coffee he'd grabbed on the way in had somehow been wrong despite being the exact same order he'd been making at the exact same place for years. Then, Cragen had sent him digging through storage for a decades-old file, forcing him into a cramped records room filled floor-to-ceiling with dusty boxes because some lazy detective couldn't be bothered to return paperwork to the proper shelf. He'd spent nearly forty minutes sneezing his way through archival hell before finding what he needed.

By the time afternoon rolled around, exhaustion sat heavily on his shoulders, and his patience stretched so thin it was practically transparent. 

Then his phone rang.

One call from his loved one should’ve helped his case, not make it worse. But no, fate apparently had one final joke left.

"Hey, Munchies."

The nickname landed softly against his ear, carrying the familiar warmth that usually made him smile despite himself. Today it only managed to loosen some of the tension in his jaw.

"Matteo’s just called me, so I went over there." Something in your tone changed. It wasn't panic exactly. More caution. The kind people used when delivering bad news to someone already having a terrible day.

Standing in the SVU break room with a lukewarm coffee in one hand, Munch frowned and shifted his weight against the counter. The room was mostly empty save for Fin, who was rummaging through a cabinet in search of something edible.

"You see, their new hire got a bit distracted and took on more clothes than he could handle." A small pause followed, as if you were deciding how best to phrase the rest. "... He accidentally burned your black suit."

Munch froze.

For a second, he genuinely wondered if he'd heard you correctly, and the sounds around him seemed to dull. The humming refrigerator in the corner, the distant ringing phones filtering in from the bullpen... Even Fin's cabinet search faded into background noise. 

The suit.

The suit.

Not one of his cheaper jackets, no. The black cashmere blend suit he'd spent an embarrassing amount of money on years ago and treated like a museum artifact ever since.

His eyes slowly closed.

"Excuse me?" The question emerged dangerously calm. "They let some rookie dry clean my cashmere blend?"

Across town, you winced despite knowing he couldn't see it.

"Yeah. Apparently he fumbled with the new industrial iron." You adjusted the shopping bag hanging from your wrist and sighed quietly. The manager's apology was still fresh in your mind, as was the sight of the ugly scorch mark stretched across the front of the jacket. "I talked to the manager and-”

"Well, did you tell them we're not paying them for ruining my clothes?"

The words cut in so abruptly that it took you a second to even register the tone behind them. 

You pulled the phone slightly away from your ear, staring at it for a brief beat as if distance alone might soften what you’d just heard. Then, with a quiet exhale that already carried the beginnings of frustration, you brought it back into place, steadying your grip as you prepared yourself to respond.

"You already paid for it.” You reminded him, forcing patience into your voice. 

“Oh, fantastic!” Munch’s voice rose sharply, cutting through the break room with enough force to make Fin pause halfway through opening a cereal box, eyebrows rising in quiet curiosity as his attention shifted from having a snack to understanding the drama that was unfolding.

"I can't get your reimbursement without the receipt-”

“Wait, wait, wait. You just accepted it?!”

“... Yes, John, because that’s how reimbursement policies work.” Your reply came with a steady inhale, fingers briefly pinching the bridge of your nose as you leaned against the side of the building. The street noise around you blurred into something distant as you tried to keep your patience intact, a dire challenge, as you felt your eye twitching. “What exactly did you want me to do? Climb over the counter, crack open the register, and burn a hole through each of their bills so we’re even?” The suggestion came out lighter than you actually felt, but there was a strain underneath it now, the kind that always crept in when you were the only one trying to keep things reasonable.

The joke, under any other circumstance, might have worked. It might have earned a tired laugh or at least a begrudging exhale through his nose. Instead, Munch let out a heavy breath and set his coffee down before dragging a hand down his face as he leaned back against the break room counter. His jaw tightened, the pressure of the day finally finding somewhere to land. None of it was really about the suit anymore, and that was the problem he wasn’t acknowledging.

"Can you tone down the comedy routine for two seconds?" He snapped, sharper than intended, the words cracking through the room with immediate weight. "This is the last thing I need right now."

The response caught you off guard in a way that had nothing to do with volume. It wasn’t just that he was irritated, you’ve dealt with grumpy John Munch before just fine. What bothered you was that the irritation had stopped orbiting the unfortunate fate of his suit and had landed squarely on you instead, heavier and more personal than you were prepared for at that moment. 

Your posture shifted slightly, shoulders drawing back as your expression tightened, the easy patience you’d been holding beginning to slip. 

“Jeez.” The word came out quiet, clipped by the sudden shift in tone. You looked down at the sidewalk as if it might offer something steadier than the conversation. “I was just trying to lighten the mood.” 

"Well, maybe I don't want the mood lightened."

The words came out immediately, fueled by exhaustion and frustration before common sense could intercept them. Munch straightened up and began pacing in the limited space of the room. 

Every annoyance from the day seemed to be feeding into the next, piling up into something ugly and disproportionate.

"Ever think that maybe I want to brood in the darkness for a while?" He continued, his voice unwavering despite the immediate regret beginning to stir in the back of his mind. "If you wanted to lighten the mood, you would've been fixing this instead of calling me just to add another piece of crap to my day."

The shift on your end was almost immediate. Whatever patience you had left thinned out in real time, the warmth in your voice disappearing as you straightened where you stood and stared out across the street, jaw tightening at the sheer unfairness of the accusation. You weren’t yelling, not yet, but the restraint in your tone had sharpened into something deliberate.

“I called,” you said slowly, each word carefully placed, “to ask where you kept the goddamn receipt.”

Munch stopped pacing mid-step, the movement cutting off so abruptly it was a miracle he didn’t stumble and fall. Maybe his feet had rooted on the spot by sheer stubbornness.

“The receipt that I handed to you after hauling your suit all the way across Manhattan because that’s the only dry cleaner in New York you trust.” Your voice didn’t rise, but it hardened with each sentence, frustration now fully threaded through it. “The receipt from the place you’ve been going to for years. The place whose policies you already know.”

Each line landed with more precision than volume ever could, stacking one on top of the other.

“And gee, Munch,” you added, a humorless edge slipping in now, “that business has been around since dinosaurs roamed the Earth. Of course they’d eventually hire somebody new.”

He knew you were right. The problem was that knowing you were right somehow made him even more irritated, and his pride immediately stepped in where reason should have.

“You could be searching for the receipt instead of wasting time calling me.” The words slipped out before he could slow them down, blunt and unfiltered, already taking shape in the air before he fully registered the direction they were taking. “Can’t you look for it on your own?”

The heavy weight of regret immediately settled inside his chest..

Across Manhattan, you simply stood there for several long seconds, processing what he'd just said. Traffic rolled past, a horn blared somewhere in the distance. Someone exited the dry cleaner carrying a bundle of shirts, almost bumping into you, but you barely noticed.

A short, disbelieving laugh escaped you. The kind that happened when someone crossed a line and you suddenly stopped caring about politeness. 

"...You know what? Yeah. Sure."

Your voice dropped into something unsettlingly calm, and the change alone was enough to make Munch swallow hard, his throat suddenly felt dry as he tightened his grip on the phone. It almost felt less like he was hearing you through a line and more like you were standing directly in front of him, close enough to make him hold his breath in anticipation of what came next. It wasn’t often that you called him out, but the few times you did? He had it coming.

"It's not like I have more important things to do than spend my afternoon digging through your JFK hoard looking for one microscopic piece of paper.” The words were precise, controlled, and sharper than anything you’d said so far. “God forbid I interrupt Detective John Munch’s busy schedule by asking a question he actually knows the answer to. Tell you what,” you added before he could interrupt, “you can call me when you’re done being a dick.”

The line went dead.

Munch stood there for a moment longer than necessary, phone still pressed loosely in his hand as the dial tone gradually dissolved into silence.

“What was that about?” Fin asked after a beat, finally committing to pouring the cereal into his bowl, though his attention never fully left Munch.

John didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted past Fin, past the room entirely, fixed on nothing in particular as if replaying the last minute of the conversation on loop in his head and finding every wrong turn. Which was all of them. After a long exhale, he shifted his weight back against the wall, shoulders dropping as whatever fight he’d been carrying all day finally gave out.

“I fucked up,” Munch muttered under his breath, the words barely audible.

————————————————————————

The rest of the day seemed to pass painfully slow. The inevitable rush that came to solve the cases should've been enough to keep John focused on work. Reports needed writing, interviews needed conducting, paperwork never stopped multiplying. And yet, none of that managed to hold his attention for long, as his thoughts kept circling back to the same conversation. Every time he replayed it in his head, he found another moment that made him cringe. Another sentence that sounded worse now than it had when it left his mouth. 

You were just trying to help. Hell, you'd spent your afternoon dealing with a problem that wasn't even yours, and he'd repaid the effort by snapping at you because he was frustrated with everything else in his life.

More than once, he found himself reaching for the phone, and each time his hand stopped halfway, shame arriving in full force. A rushed apology squeezed between the end of his shift and the drive home felt inadequate, especially after the way he'd spoken to you. If there was one thing you deserved, it certainly wasn't being treated like the convenient target for somebody else's bad day. By late afternoon, Munch had settled on the only course of action that felt remotely right: Apologize in person. Face-to-face, where he could look you in the eye and own every bit of it. The problem, of course, was that he doubted he'd get the opportunity until tomorrow.

You had never been shy about your boundaries, and that was one of the things Munch respected most about you. If something bothered you, you said so. If you needed space, you took it. There were no games, no passive-aggressive tests for him to decipher, no expectation that he somehow read your mind. After the way the phone call had ended, he could easily imagine you deciding to spend the night at your own place and leave the argument to be dealt with tomorrow, when tempers had cooled and neither of you was operating on frustration. It was a perfectly reasonable response.

Still, that didn’t mean he was absolutely fine with that decision. He understood, he really did, but understanding didn’t make it any less painful. The thought of going back to an empty apartment after getting so used to your presence? It hurt. You were his eternal ray of sunshine, and he’d ruined that. His mind circled around that during the whole ride home, already mentally prepared for a sleepless night, knowing damn well he’d spent every passing minute wide awake berating himself for being such an inconsiderate fool.

So, once he got close enough to the door to his apartment to start fishing for the key in his pockets, it was only natural that he froze at the muffled sound that came from inside… The faint noise of some random television show. His eyebrows furrowed immediately.

There was no way it was merely forgotten on. Both of you always turned the TV off as soon as you were done, a habit you shared without really acknowledging out loud. The door opened with a soft click once he unlocked it, the sound just as quiet as the soft thud from shutting it behind him. 

John didn't need to take more than two steps further into the apartment to see with his own eyes and confirm the little whisper of hope that emerged when he heard that muffled TV track: You were there, eyes glued to the screen and lying on the couch without a worry in the world, as though he hadn't been a dick to you earlier that day.

His eyes reluctantly flickered to the counter overflowing with paperwork and his ever-growing pile of JFK research. It took physical effort to do so, he was afraid you would disappear if he looked away even for the briefest of moments, but his gaze drifted anyway to confirm yet another suspicion. 

The foreign apparition amidst the chaos of paper wasn't some random object you've misplaced out of spite, no, it was his suit, painfully burnt and returned in the plastic bag as if the service had been done as usual. At the very top of a stack of files was an envelope and a business card. He took slow steps toward the items, and as suspected, the card had a written apology on the back and an offer for two free cleanings. As for the envelope, it contained a refund for the original service and an additional compensation regarding the damage.

Whatever did you say or do to get the extras, he wasn't sure he wanted to know about. He was familiar with your stubbornness, but Matteo could be just as stiff-necked, so this might've involved brand new levels of argumentation. And on top of it all, you put all of these on his counter without disturbing his organized chaos, he knew how he kept his stuff, and you didn't move anything, not by an inch. 

His heart twinged with each new observation.

John slowly shut his eyes and took in a quiet breath, but that only made things worse for him, because the action caused him to finally notice the smell. He was, and still is, to be fair, too caught up in his head to notice it in the air, but with this deliberate inhale to try and calm himself down, it was impossible not to register the delicious roasted scent.

For fucks sake, you even cooked dinner.

“I-” John didn't know where to start from, his voice was quiet when your name came out of his lips.

“Mashed potatoes, grilled chicken and asparaguses…” You mumbled, eyes still glued on the TV. 

The cut off wasn't deliberately detached, it was just genuinely distracted. Your response was automatic as you assumed he'd ask what you cooked, as he usually did when he got home late and was surprised by a homemade meal.

That only made John swallow dry. God, you were too good to him. 

He took slow, careful steps toward you. He didn't care about the food, guilt had been eating him alive, leaving him with no room to even think about dinner. All he could focus on right now was you.

“... I am an idiot.” He admitted, barely above a whisper.

“At times, yes.” You answered easily, the accusation clearly there but it lacked any real bite. 

Yes, he could be a nuisance at times, but a very welcome one... Like when a cat knocked over everything on sight. Aggravating at first, but it'd only lead to gentle chiding followed by lots of smothering.

You heard his hesitant footsteps approaching, but your attention only truly snapped away from the screen when you realized Munch was now standing in front of you, or at least was, before sinking to his knees with a thud. He'd definitely regret that, as his joints had been complaining more and more with each passing year.

“I am so sorry.” He let out in a deep, uneven breath, his hands tentatively coming to rest on your legs, an attempt to anchor himself but also show devotion with reverent touches, fingers brushing your clothed thighs. “I was absolutely unfair. I had an awful morning, and it got me into a foul mood, but it doesn't justify how I talked to you. And yet, you solve my problems, you make me food and stay around even when I don't deserve-”

“Woah woah woah” You shook your head, hands coming to cup his cheeks. There wouldn't be a day where you would let Munch talk like that, you'd never allow him to think, even for a passing moment, that he didn't deserve to be treated with kindness. “We all have bad days. I wasn't exactly fair, either. Calling you a dick and all...” You pointed out with a soft chuckle.

“You were just standing your ground after I was a prick.” John immediately rebutted, frowning stubbornly at your attempt to even the way the two of you had acted.

Knowing you'd only be wasting your breath trying to convince him you acted similarly, you opted for a different approach.

“... Maybe. But I don't feel great about that call anyway.”

“... I am so sorry.” It was all he could manage.

“I know you are, love.” Your thumbs were gently caressing his face now as you pressed a soft peck against his pouting lips. “And you are so forgiven.” You quipped, hands gently gliding down his neck, shoulders and slipping under his arms to gently coax him to the couch.

As he moved to sit, you clicked your tongue a few times in disapproval, patting your lap. Those gorgeous brown eyes stared at you like a lost puppy being offered a warm, cozy shelter. Munch hesitated before lying next to you and resting his head on your thighs. “You're too good to me.”

“You deserve good.” You hummed, fingers now threading through his hair and playing with the strands in a steady, careful rhythm. “Food's still warm.”

John only hummed in acknowledgement, shutting his eyes. “I'll get to it in a second, just… Can we stay like this a bit longer? Please?” The word came out in a tired sigh.

“Of course.”

Judging by how his features slowly melted from tight facial lines into something soft, the way your fingers played with his hair helped him cool down a bit. The sight made you smile softly. “That mind of yours quieting down yet?”

John hesitated for a moment, as though actually thinking about the answer. “... A bit, yes. But I can still hear my own voice talking down to you.” He admitted in a defeated tone, which slowly turned into annoyance. “... And murmuring all the details from the latest case. And how the one bullet theory is bullshit.”

You couldn't help the snort that escaped you. “I swear your brain is gonna get you killed one day.” You sighed with fond exasperation, rolling your eyes at the mention of JFK.

“Not with those magic hands keeping me anchored, it won't.” He mumbled, clearly pleased as your hand traveled between his head and your thigh to massage his scalp, a hum reverberating inside his throat.

God, how you loved these moments. The way John always melted into your touch, how he became physically incapable to put on any facade. You especially appreciated the vocals.

“I love when you get like this, you know?” You mumbled, fingers still scratching his scalp as you bent your torso over to kiss his temple and listen closer.

“Like what?” He mumbled in a haze, sitting up to chase your lips.

You kept your hand on his hair, your other arm coming to wrap around him and keep him sitting on your lap. Your face nuzzled against the side of his neck after allowing him a peck.

“Like this.” You repeated against him, too proud by the soft vibrations that emanated from his throat, peppering kisses along every inch of skin you could find, the sequence of light, affectionate touches only got him to yield even more. John was nothing but loose limbs and content thrumming.

“... You purr like a goddamn cat, love. Should I get you a leash?”

The teasing words seemed to snap Munch out of his pliable state. Almost immediately, he stirred, not abruptly, no, but still sudden enough for you to feel the change. That steady humming came to an end, interrupted by a low, choking sound before he cleared his throat.

“A leash?” 

He echoed, aiming for a casual tone but failing miserably, betrayed by the way his body stiffened ever so slightly and his attentive gaze. The once shut eyelids were now replaced by alert pupils.

“Yeah, a leash. I think it's fitting, don't you?” You hum as though actually thinking it through.

“That's a stretch, honey.” Munch huffed in amusement, but he didn't seem exactly opposed to your… Accessory suggestion. “I may purr like a cat, as you put it, but that's about it. I'm not one.”

“Well, you sure do act like a tomcat when the job doesn't drain you dry.” You teased, continuing your soft ministrations against his scalp. Your free hand settled on his tie, fingers wrapping around the fabric before going for an experimental tug, just as he opened his mouth to argue back against your little observation. 

Any quip that might have come out dissolved immediately, replaced by a shameless little sound, something between an appreciative hum and a whine as he almost crumbled on your lap, completely willing to follow your lead. 

God, he felt as though his body had turned into jelly.

“... And you don't seem exactly against it, one could only assume you want this. Don't you?” 

You whispered with another tug, gentler this time, just enough to coax John into exposing more of his neck for you, which he gladly did so. He did want to indulge in this little fantasy, more than anything, especially since you seemed just as into it as he was. 

Still, there was that subtle hesitation, the kind of pause that accompanied people when something seemed too good to be true. You could tell by the way he took a deep breath and shut his eyes.

John felt his cheeks grow warmer, and he swallowed dry before clicking his tongue, which felt useless at the moment, much like his brain. “Honey… I… I-”

“Just relax for me, love, hm?” You suggested with a slight tilt of your head, giving him time to respond. The answer was a quiet one, a mere nod before nuzzling your palm and letting your lips press a trail of kisses from his chin down to the extent of skin that wasn't covered by the tie.

His hands flexed on his sides, unsure of how to play this out. To his surprise, you didn't want him to stay still as you lavished him with care, when his palms settled on your sides and squeezed you through your pajamas, that only got your grip to grow firmer as you pulled him impossibly closer, more than happy to let him use you as an anchor. 

You wanted to be pressed against each other with the despair of two forces trying to merge. Yes, you loved all the moments you actually got to become one, to feel John inside you and grip him like a vice… But there was something eccentric about exterior insistence. You loved this man from the inside out, after all.

“You can touch me all you want, love. That's fine….” You reassured, letting go of the tie to have both hands holding his face now, peppering a few more kisses over it before settling over his lips for a more intense one. When you pulled away to gasp for air, you managed to continue, “Just do whatever feels nice, want you to feel reaaaal good.” You dragged out.

Those greedy, large hands of his squeeze you. John sighs, pecking your forehead before just resting his against yours, mumbling in an apologetic tone and spiraling as soon as he managed the first words.

“I've been awful... Not just today. God, this past week I've neglected you so many times, I can't keep just blaming the job! I don't deser-”

Another tug.

“None of that now.” You gently chided, mouth hovering just over his ear shell. “You think I'd be here right now if I really thought you were awful? You know me better than that, John.” Your hand snakes up his back until you have it on his scalp, massaging just like you did before. You tilted your head away just enough to look him in the eye. “You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, you know? The best.”

A broken, quiet noise escaped him at your soft tone. His hand came to hold the one that wasn't conducting that little massage, and he gave it a soft peck. He wanted to dignify the comment with one of his own, but the words failed him. 

There were other moments just like this in which you'd settle for comfortable silence, just resting next to each other. Lying in bed, sitting on the couch… But as you watched the love of your life look at you with utter adoration despite the storm of shame and exhaustion inside him, you concluded that quiet wouldn't cover it. He needed to know he was loved, to be showered with the kind of affection that, for tonight, could only be communicated via different approaches. And the tie was a good start.

“You know… I wouldn't say I was neglected, but I definitely would've appreciated having you for myself more often. Feels like I am playing tug of war with SVU sometimes.” You quipped, already continuing before he'd interpret it as a genuine complaint. “... But now that I've got you here… Maybe you could make up for that.” You placed his hand back on your side and held it there, your other one stopped massaging his scalp to settle over that damn tie again and tug.  “Whaddaya say, love?”

“Absolutely.” It came slightly strained, but the hitch was only present in his voice. There was no hesitation in the way his hands slid up and down your torso before sneaking up your pajama shirt, intent on slipping it off.

However, the motion came to a halt as you coaxed him into stopping through another firm pull. His eyes searched yours immediately, desperate to know what was wrong.

“Get on my thigh.” John blinked at the comment, gaze dropping down to how he was sitting on your lap. You jerked one leg up, urging him to settle down. When his legs finally straddled your thigh, you hummed in approval, tilting your head down to his hands. “Good boy. Keep going.”

At first, the moan John let out was due to the way you talked to him, but it dragged out as you began to rock your thigh up and down, the friction just enough to be a delicious torture against his clothed dick. His fingers trembled as he slid your shirt up, dropping it on the other cushion before letting his hands wander over your skin. 

The movement wasn't as smooth as usual, all due to the involuntary jerks that possessed him with your ministrations. What started as a gentle, rhythmic rocking became more evident with each second, faster, firmer. The pleased smile on your face widened even more as you felt John's cock stir to life, his hips now moving desperately as he finally gave in. No rambling, no self depreciation, no exhaustion. Just raw desire and indulgence, all written on his handsome face, displayed for you and only you. Throaty whines, ragged breathing, blown wide irises… Oh, you loved this.

“Look at you, actually humping my leg!” A delighted chuckle escaped you at the sight. With the tie still in hand, you guided him to the crook of your neck. 

John let out a whimper and pressed his face there, lips brushing a tender kiss before tentatively nibbling and sucking. 

“You'd better not leave a mark.” You warned with another tug, and your free hand occupied itself by settling over his ass and squeezing.

John almost choked at that, nodding against your neck and licking where he had just sucked, hips working overtime and completely out of sync with the rocking of your leg.

It wasn’t like John needed any more encouragement, but it was certainly welcome either way. There was something about the contrast between your affectionate tone and all the lewd stuff you were mumbling into his ear now that just made him go feral, that tight knot in his lower abdomen growing tighter and tighter. 

“Awww, you like that?” Your hand gave another firm squeeze before just staying to offer support to his grinding. “You're such a desperate little thing, aren't you? Yes you are~” You cooed, your tone a mix of adoration and playful condescension that earned a string of incoherent half words from the man on your lap. “Keep going, handsome. You look lovely like this.”

“Damn it, John. I can feel just how desperate you are.” You groaned, eyes going shut for the briefest of moments at the feeling of his bulge rubbing against your through the layers of clothing.

His sanity was hanging by a thread, he could feel beads of sweat forming over his forehead… 

“Fuck, if I knew you'd get like this I'd have done it a long time ago.” You chuckled, the bubbly noise morphing into a moan as he licked a long stripe up your neck.

His cock felt impossibly hard. Dry humping you was certainly worth the slight sting of humiliation he felt deep inside, as it was overshadowed by absolute pleasure. 

“You're getting close, aren't ya?” You mumbled before awkwardly tilting your head to nip at his earlobe.

This was it. 

This was his limit, he was sure of it. His whimpers and moans grew louder and louder as he overlooked any semblance of exhaustion and focused solely on riding you, finally about to get that sweet relea-

“Hold it.” 

Your comment cut through his haze.

His hips stilled, only briefly so. Instead of coming to an actual halt, he only slowed his pace, unsure if he had heard it right. You were still rocking your thigh, after all, only more gently.

“Wha… What-”

“I said hold it, John. Don’t make me stop altogether and hold you still.” You threatened, and his face immediately scrunched into a pout, a low, throaty whimper escaping him before he braced himself and squeezed your thigh between his. To his credit, he was obeying, even if it required squeezing your leg like a vice.

He didn’t dare speak, but a look into his eyes was enough for you to know he wanted to ask why you were doing this. You let out a deep, pleased sigh at the view before you as you stopped rocking your leg.

“Now this… Wow. I should take a picture. I could stare at you all damn night.” You mused, and it almost sounded as if you were actually considering that.

“Please…”

His voice was so weak and whiny. God, it was pathetic. Pathetically delicious.

“You beg so well, love… Look so pretty all whiny, too.” You hummed, both hands now coming to cup his face and brush his cheeks with your thumbs. “But…”

You rocked your leg once.

“Fuuuuck…” It came out in a hiss, his legs squeezed your thigh with such force it almost hurt. He was holding onto dear life not to grind against you.

“... Good boys have to wait. Surely you can let me have this, yeah? Let me appreciate the view for a few seconds after that little stunt you pulled earlier today?” You smiled as his response was merely shutting his eyes close and mumbling a ‘yes’. You were sure he was fighting back some smartass comment. After a few more seconds of silence, you rocked your thigh again, repeating a sequence of ten seconds still, one jerk up five more times.

“... Good boy. Come on, you can get your treat.”

Fucking finally.

John immediately went back to grinding against your leg like a desperate mutt, hands squeezing your sides and back to hiding his face into your neck, all so he could keep sucking and licking on that spot you knew stoked flames in your core.

“Oh, yes. Just like that love... Such a good fucking boy…” You groaned, rocking your leg in a quick session and groping his ass again. “You gonna come in your pants, yeah? Get them all messy and sticky while you use my thigh? I’d be disgusted if it wasn’t so goddamn hot.” You teased as you witnessed the telltale signs that he was about to come, quickly letting go with one hand and using it to pull on his tie and force your lips against his, drinking his moans as his orgasm finally hit in powerful waves.

You let John ride them out as he pleased, your leg only ceasing the frantic rhythm once his hips slowed down and came to a stop. Gently pulling away, you held his face in your hands and took in his blown wide eyes and the redness that concentrated on his cheeks but spread all the way down his neck and to the tips of his ears.

“... Those were my nice pants.” He mumbled pitifully.

“It is. Doesn’t make it any less humiliating, though.” He sighed, nuzzling his face against one of your palms. “... Thank you, honey.”

“You talk as if you just spilled acid on them.” You snorted, brushing his cheek and then pecking the tip of his nose. “I’m sure it’s fixable.”

“Any time, my love.” You hummed, putting back your shirt and then gently setting John on the cushion. “I’ll go get a wash cloth and clean you up-”

You conceded immediately. There isn’t a single reality in which you don’t accept John’s embrace, that’s a daily blessing you’d never refuse. Your arms snaked around his torso and squeezed, deciding to enjoy the moment in comfortable silence for a few more minutes.

He cut you off by tugging you back on the couch as soon as you tried to get up, effectively locking you in his arms and cuddling. “I still gotta shower, it’s fine. Just… Stay here.”

“... Did you mean what you said, by the way?” He eventually mumbled.

You blinked in confusion, your brain going through everything you had said since he got home.

“I said a lot of things, love. You mean the part that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me? That’s true, one hundred percent.” You grinned, hands coming to squeeze his face and pepper playful kisses all over it.

John let out a loud, annoyed noise. His expression was anything but.

The wrinkles got more prominent as he failed to hold back a smile, rolling his eyes affectionately and gladly leaning into your smothering.

“Well, I figured that much.” He huffed smugly, but his expression quickly dissolved into a sheepish one. “... The leash part.” He managed to spit out.

“Oh?”

“Look, it’s fine if it doesn't sound that appealing…” He let go of you and slipped out of your grip to gesticulate, as if he could catch the right words in the air.

“John. Do you hear yourself? Were you too busy humping my thigh to notice I was almost drooling from how fucking great that was?” You brought him back to reality before he could spiral, tugging him back against the couch and resting your head on his shoulder. “It was a joke at first… But, come to think of it, it does sound like a good investment, don’t you think? The tie can only do so much…” You trailed off with exaggerated innocence.

“-I love the idea of collaring you up.” You cut off his fancy wording. “Come on now. Save the praises and go shower while I heat dinner up. We can go shopping on your next break. Or I can go alone and surprise you, your choice.” You gently pat his side.

“A damn good one.” And just like that, his voice was as steady as when he argued. “You see, that’s one of the many things I love about you, my dear. You embrace opportunities! You know cost-benefit, you-”

“Thank you, honey. I love you.”

John hummed in approval, a coy smile taking place on his lips before he stole a quick peck.

“I love you too.”

————————————————————————

Bonus Scene.

“... Do I really have to do it?” John grumbled, cheeks warm as he watched you hover above him.

You look absolutely pleased by the sight. How could you not? Before you was John Munch on all fours, still in his work clothes, barely holding it together as his gaze kept drifting between you and the leash you held.

“Come on, I did get you a nice collar…” You trailed off before giving the accessory a purposeful tug.

His whole body trembled at the pressure around his neck, almost stumbling forward. Damn you, you actually did get a nice collar. Simple, elegant and surprisingly comfortable. The material felt eccentric against his skin.

After recovering from the pathetic tremor, John merely sighed, finally obliging. Slowly, he lifted his arm just slightly, closing his hand in a lazy fist.

“... Nya~” It came out in a whimper.