#john munch

If there was one thing you could count on about John’s work hours, it was that there was nothing to count on at all.

A schedule simply didn’t exist in his line of work, it came with the territory of being a detective. Sure, he’d grumble and dig his heels in when a new case or call dragged him out in the middle of the night, treating it like a personal offense against his sleep.

But the truth is, no one gets to tell trouble to wait for business hours. And as much as he complained, he still answered every time.

So, of course, he got home well past midnight.

It wasn’t unusual, but it still pulled a quiet, bone-deep sigh out of him every time he made it down that last stretch of the hallway. The job drained him in ways that went past simple exhaustion. It wasn’t just the cases, the noise, the constant edge of it all.

It was the fact that, more often than not, he didn’t get to come home to you awake.

He didn’t get to see you, talk to you... Hell, he didn’t even get to wake you just to hear that sleepy, half-coherent grumble you always let out when your rest got interrupted.

Thought that last one was because he didn't let himself do that anymore.

John noticed that about you, early on. How you would wake up slowly and then never quite manage to drift back to sleep once you were pulled out of it. Your reaction to one intentional disturbance and two accidental ones had been enough for him to learn.

Whatever small, selfish amusement he got from your drowsy protests wasn’t worth trading for your sleep.

So he adapted.

He learned how to come in quieter than he ever did before. Keys handled carefully, door eased shut, steps measured. All of it done with a kind of unconscious precision, just to make sure you stayed asleep.

Even if it meant he didn’t get to hear your sweet voice until the next morning.

It had been a few months since you’d “moved in”, unofficially.

Your apartment still existed, technically, but it might as well have been a storage unit by now. You barely spent nights there anymore. Ever since you got your own key, his place had quietly, naturally become yours too.

He was used to unlocking the door and being greeted only by his JFK memorabilia: Newspaper clippings, books stacked in uneven towers, that one framed photo he swore was “historically significant” and not just unsettling at two in the morning.

And then, beyond that, either your sleeping presence in the bed… Or the ghost of it, the faint presence you left behind on the sheets when you weren’t there.

You’d only spent the night at your own place a handful of times, and each one had felt worse than the last.

He loved slipping into bed beside you, letting the day finally fall off his shoulders while he watched you sleep for a minute longer than necessary, like it grounded him. Like it proved something steady still existed.

It had become routine.

Expected.

Which is why tonight feels… Off.

He notices it before he even reaches the door, fishing his keys out of his pockets, movements sluggish, mind already halfway to sleep.

A smell.

Something warm. Seasoned. Fresh.

John frowns faintly, glancing down the hallway like it might explain itself.

“… Yeah, because nothing says 'stability' like cooking at 1 a.m" He mutters, voice rough with fatigue. “What particular breed of idiot looks at this hour and thinks 'oh yes, this is prime time to explore my hidden culinary talents'?"

The smell only gets stronger the further he walks down the hall.

Fantastic. Insomniac neighbors with a flair for late-night domesticity.

Just what he needs after a shift like this.

When he finally gets to his door, he stills.

… That thin strip of light beneath it shouldn’t be there.

He’s certain he left everything off. He always does. Habit. Routine. Control over at least one thing in a day that offers him none.

Wait… The aroma of fresh food wasn’t drifting in from some inconsiderate neighbor.

It was coming from his own apartment.

It’s my lovely idiot who’s cooking at such an ungodly hour! He mentally concludes, the previous confusion and indignation bleeding straight into something warm and disbelieving. A smile tugs at his lips as he turns the key in the lock.

The apartment greets him wrong, in the best possible way.

It feels lived-in, awake, like the night bent just enough to make room for him.

For a second, he just stands there, taking it in.

He barely registers dropping his keys somewhere near the entrance, shrugging his jacket off on instinct, his attention already pulled forward. He follows the sound, the smell, you.

There’s a faint clatter from the kitchen, and there you are: Lively, awake, putting away the now clean utensils you had previously used to prepare the recipe...

Waiting for him.

“Hey, you. How was wo-” You barely get the sentence out.

He’s on you in two strides, arms wrapping around your waist from behind like he needs to make sure you’re actually there, pulling you back against him as his face drops into the curve of your neck. He exhales into your skin, long and heavy, like he’s finally letting the day go all at once.

“I definitely died somewhere on the way back…” He murmurs against your neck, breath warm, a quiet huff of disbelief in it. “And this? This is my afterlife. Which, honestly, raises some theological questions, but I’m not arguing.”

You let out a soft laugh, squirming just enough in his hold to turn in his arms, hands coming up to rest against him as you look at his face.

“Oh, of course.” You tease, eyes glinting. “And I can see you because I’m strange and unusual, yeah?”

The reference comes out without effort, fond and automatic, your grin widening as you lean in just slightly.

“… Though I have to say, if you’re dead, you’re wildly underprepared. Where’s your handbook for the recently deceased?” You add, glancing around like you might spot it. “Oh! Don't forget you can't leave the apartment ever again. You know, sandworms, very much a concern-”

He cuts you off mid-ramble, tightening his arms around you and pulling you in just enough to steal a firm, lingering kiss.

When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch, breath still ghosting over your lips. “… You and your goddamn Beetlejuice references.” He mutters, there’s a faint, exasperated fondness in his expression. You can only giggle in response.

“... How’re you doing, my love?” Your hand comes up to his face, thumb brushing along his cheek, and it’s almost embarrassing how quickly he melts into it. The tension he carried in with him just… Gives, shoulders dropping, eyes half-lidding for a second as he leans into your touch without thinking.

“Mm. I was fully prepared to be miserable tonight.” He murmurs, voice softer now, a little rough around the edges but lighter than before. One hand slides to your waist, keeping you close like he’s not planning on letting go anytime soon. “You know, cold dinner, bad mood, maybe a little dramatic brooding for flavor.”

“I can always leave you to your brooding in peace, if you want.” You threaten lightly.

He reacts instantly.

His arms tighten around you, pulling you in closer like the mere suggestion offended him on a personal level, a quiet, disbelieving scoff slipping out as he dips his head toward your shoulder.

“Absolutely not!” He grumbles, voice dropping into something softer, almost whiny in a way he’d deny under oath. He leans down, pressing his face back into the crook of your neck. “You don’t get to cause the problem and then walk away from it.”

“I didn’t mean to cause any problems…” You trail off, putting on an exaggeratedly apologetic tone. “… All I wanted was to make a humble little potato kugel for the most devastatingly charming, criminally handsome, unfairly lovable detective in the entire city.”

He blinks.

“…You made kugel?” John repeats, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, eyes widening in a way that’s almost boyish, caught somewhere between disbelief and something a lot softer.

“You made potato kugel.” He says again, quieter this time, a hint of awe creeping in despite himself, like you’ve just personally rewritten his entire night for the second time in a row.

The look he gives you after that is all warmth. Fond, a little stunned, and very, very gone.

“Mhm… I’m not sure if it actually tastes right, though. It’s my first time making it.” You admit, a little sheepish. “But I didn’t burn anything, and it looks good, so… That has to count for something, right?”

He watches you go through the whole explanation, and there it is, as always: That familiar fondness washing over him, quiet but unmistakable.

You always do this with savory food, second-guessing every step like you didn’t already prove, over and over, that you know what you’re doing. He knew baking sweets was your area of expertise, but you still nailed it with the few meals you've prepared.

His hand comes up, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek before settling at your jaw, keeping your attention on him.

“Hey.” He murmurs, softer now. “You could hand me a plate of cardboard and tell me you made it, and I’d still be impressed.”

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth, eyes warm as he studies you. “But you made kugel from scratch?” He adds, a touch more animated, almost reverent in a way he’s not even trying to hide. “That’s not ‘that should count for something,’ that’s- Honestly, that’s damn impressive.”

His other hand tightens its grip on your waist just a little. Grounding, affectionate.

“And, for the record…” A faint, crooked smile pulled at his mouth. “It already beats anything I was planning to eat tonight. By a humiliating margin.”

You can't quite find the words to show how much you appreciate his kind words, so you lean in and press a soft kiss to his lips instead. “… I finished it a couple minutes ago.” You murmur when you pull back. “Just kept it in the oven so it’d stay warm. It’s ready, so go sit, I’ll set the-”

“Nonsense.”

One second you’re standing, the next he’s got you gently turned around, hands firm at your waist as he steers you toward a chair.

“Sit.” John insists, pulling the chair for you. “You cooked, you retire now. That’s the rule.”

Before you can argue, he’s already grabbing plates, glasses and cutlery with a kind of loose, automatic efficiency, like he’s done this a hundred times.

He hasn’t. But he's been committing to the task ever since he met you.

You watch him from your seat, fond and a little amused, right up until he reaches for the oven. “John.”

“Hm?”

“Use a mitten. Or a towel.” You warn, already half-laughing. “You’re going to burn yourself.”

He pauses mid-motion, face scrunching in immediate, sheepish realization.

The look is so boyish it’s almost ridiculous.

“…Right.” He mutters, clearing his throat as he reaches for a towel instead. “Yeah. That would’ve been- Yeah. Good call.”

He recovers quickly after that, and, with proper precautions this time, he pulls the dish from the oven, a soft exhale leaving him as the heat hits his face.

Carefully, he sets the kugel down at the table like it’s something worth handling gently. Which, to him, it is.

Then he’s moving again, grabbing the wine, pouring you a glass first without thinking, then his own.

There’s a quiet pause as he looks at the table… The the food, the glasses, you sitting there…

“…You’re aware this is how people develop unrealistic expectations, right?” He starts, a faint, crooked smile pulling at his mouth as he settles into his chair. “Homemade kugel, waiting up for me… I don’t remember doing anything to deserve this.”

“I can think of about fifty different reasons to start with. You’re kind, compassionate. You help me whenever you can, even when you’re exhausted. You’re dedicated, smart, you don’t bend to every expectation people try to shove on you, you question things because you actually think, you’re-”

“Hey, hey- I wasn't asking for you to try and prove me wrong.” He cuts in, a little too quickly. There’s a faint flush creeping up his neck, his ears betraying him as he ducks his head, suddenly very interested in his plate.

It’s weak deflection, and he knows it.

“You deserve it because I say so.” You add softer, nudging his foot lightly under the table. “That being said… Eat to your heart's content.”

He nods weakly at that, trying to will away the giddy smile that settled over his face.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward.

It settles in naturally, warm and easy, filled with the soft clink of cutlery. He takes his first bite, the crisp edge gives way under his fork, the inside is soft, tender, rich with that comforting, savory warmth.

There’s a hint of sweetness in it, balanced just right, the kind that lingers at the back of his tongue. The top has that golden finish, slightly firm, just enough to contrast with the softness underneath.

He exhales quietly through his nose, shoulders easing again as he chews, the tension of the day slipping further away with each bite.

It tastes like effort.

Like care.

For once, he just eats, not trying to fill in the silence with some quip. He steals occasional glances at you like he’s still connecting the dots between the meal in front of him and the fact that you made it for him.

... And if his foot nudges yours lightly under the table, or his expression stays softer than usual, he doesn’t comment on that either.

There was no denial just how much he enjoyed your cooking, going for seconds as soon as he's gotten rid of all the crumbs from the first serving. “You were worried about this?” John mutters at some point, almost incredulous, shaking his head faintly as he takes another bite. “This is-” He exhales softly, like the word doesn’t quite cover it.“... Really good. Like, amazing.”

By the time he’s done, he leans back slightly in his chair, hand dragging over his face with a quiet, satisfied huff. “I’m full.” He declares, though it sounds more like reluctant surrender than fact.

Knowing you'd get up to do the dishes, he reaches for your plate before you can, stacking it with his and heading for the sink on autopilot. He glances back over his shoulder, catching you shifting in your seat, already reading the movement wrong.

“Don’t even think about it.” John starts, tone slipping into a familiar, low complaint as he turns back to the sink, about to start the water so he can start cleaning the plates. “You cooked, you’re not doing the dishes-”

“... You sure there’s no room for dessert?”

Your voice comes from right behind him.

He clicks his tongue in consideration.

“Oh, absolutely.” The change of heart is immediate, and he turns just enough to try and reach for you. “Let's just leave these pesky dishes here. Come here-”

You’re not standing behind him with any intention of leaning in. You're actually holding a tray, a puzzled expression gracing your features, before you snort in amusement.

“I meant actual dessert.” You say, lifting the tray slightly. “I made condensed milk pudding. You know, Brazilian style?”

Oh.

“…Right." John mutters, glancing between you and the pudding, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. That- Uh. That looks great.”

And it does. Smooth, glossy, absolutely loaded with sugar… Exactly the kind of thing his sweet-tooth is always aching for.

He watches you set it down like a hawk, eyes tracking every movement in a way he couldn't help. Because now that you’ve said dessert… He realizes he might be craving something, after all.

By the time you straighten up, he’d already closed the distance. Long, quiet strides that prevented you from noticing his approach until he was pressing behind you.

His hands find your sides first, settling there with an easy familiarity before sliding lower, giving your hips a squeeze. He leans in without a word, face tucking into the crook of your neck, a slow exhale warming your skin.

“Mm…” He hums, almost thoughtful, like he’s reconsidering his earlier statement. “I might’ve lied.” John murmurs, voice low, mouth just brushing your skin as his grip tightens slightly at your hips. “... Think I’ve got room after all.”

“John… It’s late. You just got home from work… You’re going to be exhausted for your shift tomorrow…” You try to reason, voice soft with concern, though it breaks into a small squeak when his hands slip under your shirt, warm and distracting. “You don’t need to-”

“I want to.” He cuts in immediately, voice heavy with want. There’s a quiet huff of amusement in it, but it's overshadowed by lust. “Besides…” He murmurs, pressing in closer from behind, more insistent now, his hold tightening just enough to make his intent unmistakable. “There’s nothing I want more right now than to indulge in my favorite treat.”

A low whine slips from you at the added pressure, your body giving in as he draws you closer. He doesn’t hesitate, his hands slide under your arms, lifting you with an ease that makes your breath catch, like you weigh nothing at all. He dragged his lips along your neck, warm and insistent, pressing slow, unhurried kisses that feel far too deliberate for how quickly he’s getting you to the bedroom. Each one lands with purpose, like he’s already savoring what’s to come.

By the time you hit the mattress, your breath is uneven. And the moment he’s freed you from those pesky clothes, finally having you bare beneath him, he makes good on his words.

John's gaze is one of pure indulgence as he sinks to his knees like a man about to worship, and, in a way, he is. Just not in any way that could be called pure.

He takes his time with you.

Of course he does.

His hands slide over your thighs, spreading you open with slow, deliberate care, like he’s presenting something meant to be savored. And for a moment… He just looks. “Christ…” He murmurs under his breath, something close to awe slipping through. “Look at you…”

There’s a pause, long enough to make you shift under the weight of it, before he finally leans in for an experimental taste, the flat of his tongue slowly dragging against you.

The hum that follows is immediate. Deep. Satisfied.

He does it again. Just as unhurried, dragging it out like he’s savoring every second, trying to coax more of your essence with each drag of his tongue.

You can't help but moan, hips twitching before you can stop yourself, chasing the feeling. “John-”

His hands clamp down at once. Firm. Unyielding.

Fingers digging into your hips as he presses you back into the mattress, holding you there like he’s not about to let you move an inch unless he allows it.

“Squirmy little thing…” He huffs, voice low, threaded with quiet amusement as his grip tightens just enough to make a point. “Stay still for me. I’m just getting started…”

You shudder under him, breath catching as your hands twist in the sheets, fabric bunching between your fingers. The movement only earns you another slow, deliberate drag. It's drawn out, unhurried, he's doing it on purpose just to watch you squirm.

This time, he doesn’t look away.

His gaze stays locked on yours, like he’s completely taken in by what he’s seeing. Every reaction you give him pulls something out of him in return, his expression shifting in quiet fascination. The flutter of your lashes, the way you bite down your lower lip to try and muffle your moans, the subtle arch of your back against the mattress… He tracks all of it, consciously committing it to memory.

There’s something almost entranced in the way he watches you.

“Please…” You whine, voice barely holding together as your lashes flutter. Your back arches helplessly into the sensation despite the firm way he keeps you pinned.

He only tightens his hold, fingers pressing in with quiet insistence, keeping you grounded against the mattress even as your body tries to chase more.

“Ah, ah, ah… Stay…” John chides softly, the words brushing warm against your skin as he laps your essence again and then closes his mouth on you.

He preens at the moan you let out.

Your lips part on a soft, broken sob, breath catching as your expression unravels. Brows drawing together, lashes fluttering helplessly as your eyes struggle to stay focused. There’s a dazed, overwhelmed look to you now, mouth slightly open because you can't quite catch your breath.

“Feels good, hm?” John chuckles, low and pleased, repeating the motion with the same slow, deliberate intent. He gets off on tasting you, but watching your face as he does so is the cherry on top. The way your eyes rolled back into your skull right now? He found it beautiful.

“Tell you what, hun…” He continues, voice roughened with satisfaction. “Tastes fucking delicious, too.” He also loved to use his filthy mouth to make you fall apart in more ways than just one.

A sharp, breathless sound tears from you before you can stop it, your body reacts instantly, like he struck something deep and sensitive with nothing but his voice. Your lashes flutter, struggling to stay open as heat floods through you, lips parting on a shaky exhale.

It’s not just what he’s doing.

It’s how he talks about it.

He sounds so sure, so pleased, like he’s delighting in every second of you.

Your fingers tighten in the sheets, twisting the fabric as your back arches again, slower this time, more helpless. As if your body was giving in piece by piece.

He begins to dive in with more intent, savoring properly, finally letting himself indulge the way he’s been wanting to.

A broken cry slips from you, louder than ever, your breath catches hard in your throat as your body jolts under his hold. Your thighs tense around him, trembling, hips lifting in a helpless, stuttering motion before his grip forces you back down.

“John- Fuck... Fuck!"

Your voice fractures on his name, dissolving into breathless sounds as your fingers clutch tighter at the sheets, dragging them out of place. Your head turns to the side, pressing into the pillow as if it might help you deal with the overwhelming sensations, but it doesn’t.

Nothing can save you from this sweet torture.

You feel him smirk.

That subtle shift of his mouth curving, the faintest exhale of satisfaction against your skin.

When you manage to look down, it only makes it worse.

He looks absolutely ruined. Completely absorbed, his expression dark with focus, something almost sinful in the way he watches you fall apart. There’s a glisten to him now, evidence of just how thoroughly he’s been indulging. Yours juices coated and dripped along his chin in a way that makes your stomach twist.

And he has the audacity to grin.

Fucking bastard.

“So desperate…” John murmurs, voice soft, almost sweet in its condescension, like he’s humoring you rather than pitying you. “Listen to yourself…”

One of his hands shifts, fingers dragging lightly, gathering your arousal before lifting just enough for you to see.

“So messy, too…” He adds, quieter now, gaze flicking back up to yours, something almost reverent threading through it. “Fucking beautiful…”

He licks his fingers clean without a second thought. You don't even have the time to react, cut off mid-groan as he dips his head and goes right back to work, absolutely feral.

John savors you like a man on death row savors his last meal: Unwilling to waste a single fraction, unwilling to rush a single moment. Taking his time with a kind of indulgence that borders on devotion.

Your breath stutters again, fingers tightening in the sheets as his pace stays maddeningly controlled, every movement deliberate enough to make you feel every second stretch.

“Could stay right here all night…” He murmurs under his breath, eyes still locked on you. “And I just might.”

And the thing is, he meant that.

He didn't power through all night, of course, but he stayed between your legs through most of it.

He didn't rush it.

John is not the kind of man that burns through the moment just to reach the end.

He drags it out instead, keeps you right there on the edge and then pushes you past it, again and again. He keeps going until the distinction between one orgasm and the next blurs into something continuous, overwhelming in the best possible way.

John is a giver, so getting you off only once is nowhere near enough.

Through the whole time he has you under his care, the tension coiled inside you builds and spills and builds again, each wave folding into the one before it, leaving you breathless, softened, unable to fully come back down before he draws you under all over again.

When he is finally satisfied with his work, there’s nothing steady left in you.

Your body feels loose, heavy in the best way, every muscle softened into the mattress as your breathing gradually steadies. He lingers for a moment, just looking at you, and his expression settles somewhere between satisfied and quietly proud.

Because, really, how could he not?

He’d taken his time with you, unraveled you more than once, never rushing, never cutting corners. And when it was over, he didn’t just leave you there. His touch turned careful, grounding as he softly dragged a damp cloth against your skin, slow and thorough, a quiet kind of attentiveness that felt just as deliberate as everything that came before.

He made sure you drank something, too.

Held the glass to your lips with a faint murmur about your voice, about how vocal you are. The way your cheeks heated up at his words was adorable.

And, one of the best parts: For once, sleep didn’t fight you.

All due to him! (And his unorthodox methods.)

There was no restless shifting, no lingering tension clinging to your limbs. Just a slow, effortless drift as you curled into him without thinking, wrapping your arms and legs around him, subconsciously refusing to move at all.

That’s the part that stays with him.

Your weight against his chest… The steady warmth pressed along his side… The way your fingers held onto him even after you’d slipped fully under, your grip loosening just enough to relax, but never letting go.

Morning comes with less pleasant consequences, though.

There’s a dull ache settled deep in his jaw, a dryness scratching at his throat no matter how many times he swallows.

And yet… When you look at him like you're doing now, all concern and soft apologies, like his lust driven actions from last night were your fault, he only huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a hand over his face before shooting you that familiar, crooked smirk.

“Worth it…” John mutters, voice roughened at the edges.

His tongue presses briefly to the inside of his cheek, testing the soreness before he clicks it with mild annoyance. “Might have to revise my menu choices tonight.” He adds dryly. “Something soft. Low effort. Minimal jaw involvement.”

“Finally, some self-preservation instincts.” You mumble softly, gently tracing his facial features with your fingers.

“… Though I’m not above making very poor decisions again." He admits with a grin. "In fact, I am quite fond of the idea."

Because, really, he has never been particularly good at moderation.