Emily

"God damn it, John!" you fumed, your hands curled in tight fists. "Don't you check your fucking phone? I've been calling and calling!"

"Sweetheart," John sputtered, perplexed, frozen in the doorway to your shared apartment. "What happened—?"

"Don't 'sweetheart' me, old man!" You held up a finger and then pointed it at him. "You didn't tell me you were going to be home late, did you, John? Detective John Munch? S.V.U. Detective John fucking Munch? Can you see how that might make me a little fucking worried about you!?"

Munch was flabbergasted, mouth gaping like a goldfish. He was still stuck in the doorway. "Honey—"

"You can see that, right?"

"Baby, I—"

"Just what do you have to say for yourself?" you snapped. Your hands flew to your hips. Your heart punched to be free of your chest, slamming up against your ribcage.

John held up his palms in surrender. He dipped his chin low so he could look at you, several feet away from him, over the rim of his glasses. "Honey. I fucked up," he said, slowly and sincerely. "I think I know what went wrong. Can I come in, sweetheart? Can I come and explain?"

You seethed at him. Your chest heaved. You stared daggers at him until you felt your chin tremble. "...Get in," you finally said, short and dismissive. Your anger was as sharp as a spear until he walked in the door, but as soon as he crossed the threshold it all dissolved. 

You huffed and quickly turned away, folding your arms across yourself. Your eyes burned as you blinked back tears, because the sound of John's footfalls on the floorboards reminded you that he was home. He was alive. The revelation sent cooling chills down your spine. The shock of it all—the whiplash—was maddening.

"I'm so sorry, angel." John's softened voice came from behind you. "It's this stupid new phone. I thought I pressed the damn button to send the message but I—" He tutted, and his voice was thin and resigned when he said, "I clearly didn't."

"Jesus, John—the phone? Of all the goddamn things? I can't fucking believe you." It was such a boomer excuse. You wanted to tell him he was pathetic, but you bit your tongue to keep the word from leaping out.

John reached around and his mobile came into your periphery. 

You threw a glance at the screen, and did a double-take when you saw your name and a draft text message. The phrases 'home late' and 'love you' stuck out as you skimmed it. You sniffed and looked away.

"That's not good enough, John."

"I know," he agreed quickly. "I know, honey, it's not. It's just what happened."

You were silent. Unmoving. John gave you a moment as you glared out the window at the witching-hour sky. 

Then he said softly, "Can I touch you?"

Your lips trembled and you pressed them into a flat line while you gathered enough voice to speak. You felt weak and insubstantial in your body; like liquid and not in the fun way. 

But John was here, living and breathing. You nodded and said, "Yes."

From behind, John curled a warm hand around one of your shoulders. He stroked your back with his thumb. It was a firm, reassuring press. 

Your wet, itchy eyes fell slowly closed.

"Can I hold you, angel?" Munch murmured into the silence.

The tears you'd suppressed before bubbled to the surface. For a moment, you were able to murder the sobs before they could leave your throat.

But then your chest still caved in and your shoulders shook. You whirled around and faced him.

"Do you even know what I was thinking of?" you cried, voice thick and warbling. "The horrible thoughts in my head—"

"Don't talk like that." Munch was aghast, eyes and jaw wide. "I'm here now. I'm sorry, princess. I'm so sorry." 

"I called the precinct. They didn't know," you let out a sob, "they didn't know where you were, John." You gasped for air and howled. 

Munch didn't wait for another cry to wrack your body before he engulfed you in his arms. It was a rough, grasping, squeezing hold, so desperate that you simply collapsed into him. John cradled the back of your head to his chest and rested his chin on the crown of your head. His arm clung to your back, pulling you close. He enveloped you, and held your shaking, shuddering body to his. 

Still you cried, relief finally mingling with all the rest. You clenched his shirt to wrinkles in your hands and your tears soaked it through.

John muttered a name under his breath as he held you tightly. Between your sobs, you didn't catch all of it, but you did hear 'goddamn something dispatch something fucking something kill him'.

Without warning Munch grabbed your arms and abruptly ripped you away from him. 

The look on his face had you tearing up all over again.

"I'm sorry," Munch choked out, chin quivering. "Do you forgive me? I'm so sorry, baby."

"John," you hiccupped.

"I mean it. How can I tell you?" His voice cracked. "I'm sorry. I'll never fucking do this to you again. I swear it. Forgive me, angel. Do you?"

Another wave of sobs threatened to break against the shore and your features twisted to hold them back. But ultimately, a tear slipped free, and John wiped it gently away with his thumb. 

"Yes," you sobbed, searching his eyes. "Yes, John. I forgive you."

"Oh, my dear," Munch sighed, relieved. " I love you." He kissed you with a fierce press of his trembling lips before he tore away. "I love you." He kissed you again, harder, then wrenched away. "I love you, baby," he said, words slurring with emotion, before he cupped your face and kissed you once more, crushing his mouth to yours.

You hummed and moaned and clutched John's arms tight. Your shared embrace was less of a romantic connection and more of an attack of devotion. You kissed like it hurt to do it, and it hurt not to. You grabbed and squeezed and clung to each other. And soon, those desperate, crushing kisses became heated. John licked into your mouth and you sucked on his bottom lip. You kissed so passionately your teeth clacked together indelicately, inelegantly. 

It all changed, then.

You stole from his mouth for air and panted, "I need to feel you, John."

Suddenly, nothing was as pressing as the need for the nearest available flat surface.

"You'll have me, honey," John vowed, slathering kisses down your neck as he walked you back towards the dining table. "I promise. I'll give it all to you."

"Please," you gasped as your ass bumped against the table. "Show me."

John lifted under your legs as you braced yourself and hopped up onto the table. You both sighed when you landed. His breath, and yours, was everywhere as you kissed and kissed wildly. Your fingers fussed with John's belt, shaking so badly he had to take over. You settled for readying yourself instead, shifting and shuffling, hiking your skirt up and pulling your underwear to the crease of your thigh. You both did this blind, eyes closed as you tasted the want, the need on the other's tongue.

John's cock nudged against your pussy, like he was knocking on the door instead of waltzing on through. 

You adjusted your hold on your panties, crushing them in a death grip.

Forehead to forehead John murmured to you, "Are you ready, honey?" He stroked his erection as he listened for your answer, too keyed up to resist an immediate spike of pleasure. His other hand slinked around your back.

"Now, John," you said, and Munch fed your pussy every inch like your body was starved for him. 

A loud, shocked-sounding groan escaped his throat as John sunk into you. Your jaw dropped and your head tipped back as he filled you. 

John exhaled shaky, shuddering sighs and near-whimpers onto your throat as he started to move.

"Oh, my God," you drawled up at the ceiling, words stretching long as pleasure struck.

You started to move with him—or rather, against him. A counter-force to rival the laws of man and nature. Your hips shunted forward, meeting John's driving thrusts. It made his hands fly up to cinch your waist.

"Baby," Munch sighed, his lips brushing the base of your throat, "fuuck." 

You brought one of his hands to your clothed breast. 

Leaning back from your neck, John squeezed, then cupped your cheek.

"Look at me, angel," he huffed.

You brought your head forward slowly. You met each other's gaze and locked on. The burning coal of his eyes made your insides flutter and pull. 

John stifled a groan as your wet pussy seized on his hard dick. "You're so beautiful, princess," he praised, looking deeply into your eyes as he filled you full of his long cock.

You moaned and moved your hips even quicker, in jerky, eager movements. His gaze was pitch black, but searing.

John understood your body's cues. He sped up, forcing groans from both of you and the wooden table beneath you.

There was a wicked power in the way your bodies shoved together, seeking, finding, with desperate urgency. The apartment was silent, the city lights beyond the windows far far away. But around you, in the bubble you shared with John, it was loud.

Pulse pounding in your ears; the hot, heaving breaths you shared; and the slick slapping where your jolting bodies met.

Loud, hot, and wet. 

Your gaze bored into John's. "You scared me," you gasped, panting. You shook your head. "Don't scare me."

"I know, honey." John sighed. "I won't. I promise." He made the vow between laden sighs, his hips propelled forward by the need to prove it to you with his body.

You brought your hand between your legs and pressed your fingers to your wet, hard clit. "Be good to me, Daddy?"

"Ahf-fuck," John spat quickly, like he'd been scalded. And maybe your words did burn him, lighting a fire in the pit of his gut. Maybe it was the squeeze of your pussy that oppressed him with unbearable heat. 

His hand slid to the side of your neck as he drilled into your pussy. "I will, baby," John huffed, holding you there. "Oh, angel. 'M never gonna make you cry again."

Pleasure and solace tangled in your throat. You lifted your legs up and planted your feet on the table, tilting your pelvis forward. John groaned like a beast at this new angle, and the way it made your pussy wrap around his cock.

"That's it, that's it," John chanted, grip tight on your pulse and your waist. "Who's your Daddy, baby? Who's your Daddy?"

"John," you cried out, a long, loud keen. "You, baby. I love you. Love my Daddy."

The force of John's pound-pound-pounding nudged the dining table along the floorboards. The chair legs got caught, the feet scraping along the floor.

"Yes. Yes!" John growled. "I fucking love you, baby. Daddy's perfect princess," he rambled, pulling back and looking down between your bodies. He watched your fingers fly over your clit and saw your petals pushed apart by his veiny, glazed dick. He rounded his back and pushed his pelvis further, making sure the angle he was hitting and the slant of his invading cock went right. Up. into you.

"Fuck!" you squeaked.

"Yeah, baby?" John widened his stance and his hands slid down to circle around your ankles. Your fucking ankles were his new leverage, and you pushed down hard on the table to keep him there.

It contracted your pussy floor, made it squeeze around John's dick.

"OhmyfuckingGod, angel," Munch ground out through clenched teeth. "Give it to me. Like. That." 

The rhythm he set punctuated his sentences for him. You could only moan and groan like a wild thing, made a stranger to civilised life and its customs by the way John fucked you. The only word you knew was his name and you keened it, screamed it out loud until your voice rattled.

"John!" 

"Cum with me, honey," John urged breathlessly, his hips smacking into yours. "Please, baby. I need to feel it. I want you to do it."

The strain of holding back was plain on his face. His pinched brow, open mouth and tight, fixed jaw said it all.

"John!" you yelled again, hot hot hot all over. Burning up with a goddamn fever, from the inside out.

John rushed forward and trapped your moaning mouth in a blistering kiss. He groaned onto your tongue, and your spirit soared, body starting to quake. 

Your vision blanked white as you shrieked.

Your orgasm was violent, rattling through your whole body. Every limb shook and seized. You couldn't control it. Even your teeth chattered.

John released your ankles and wrapped his arms around your back, holding you tightly to him. You managed to sink your nails into his shoulders as he shuddered against you, hips jerking, with every twitching pulse of his own release. Like he had to launch it into you, instead of simply burying his cock length-long inside you and shooting it out.

Gasping and sighing and clutching each other, the pair of you slowly settled. 

And even after, you stayed like that for a little while, sharing soft kisses and stroking up and down the other's sweaty back.

xxx

Munch woke up before you the next morning. He disentangled himself from your slumbering form and pressed a kiss to your temple. He penned a note for you and put it on his pillow before he left. The note read:

Go back to sleepBe home in 20 w. coffee & croissantsIf you can't - phone is on LOUDCall - but pls don't leave bed

A short while later Munch jogged up the steps to the precinct. He jammed the buttons for the elevator like they owed him money. A lot of money. 

Someone said something to him as he stormed down the corridor.

He grabbed the guy by the collar, pointed right in his face and said, "Fuck off, wise-ass. Not fuckin' today, you hear me?" before shoving the guy roughly away. 

The officer skidded backwards, gawping. But Munch didn't hang around long enough to see that. He threw open the doors to the bullpen and shouted, "Which incompetent knuckle-dragging numbskull, shit-stain that grew up to be the world's worst excuse for a police officer, was on the god-damn relay last fucking night?"

Everything stopped. People stared. A phone rang in the distance—someone picked up the receiver and put it right back into the cradle.

Cragen emerged, slowly, from a huddle of stupefied cops. "Uh. John?" He gestured towards his office. "Let's talk about this, in private?"

"Private? No thanks, Captain." Munch waved off his commanding officer. "I want the lowest common denominator to hear this one," he said, raising his voice again. "If anyone—and I mean, absolutely any single fucking person employed by the state of New York—takes a call from a woman named," he pronounced your whole name, syllable by syllable, "that is," then spelled it out, letter by letter, "and doesn't tell her, immediately, where the fuck I am down to the longitude and latitude I will personally, personally, devote every breath I take to putting you through the worst day of your life over, and over, and over again until you beg me to make it stop."

For a moment, no one moved.

Benson blinked, and shared an alarmed look with Fin. 

Fin shifted in his seat and dipped his head to catch the eye of his partner. He was soft spoken. "You good, man?"

Munch jerked his chin in Fin's direction. "I'm good," he muttered. To the rest of the room he yelled out, "Oh, and another thing. I'm takin' today off," he pointed at Cragen, "and it better not come out of that overtime you owe me!"

Cragen gave a slow nod and raised a hand in farewell.

Munch strode out of there without another word. He left the precinct with a spring in his step. A couple blocks later, he ordered pastries and two large coffees from your favourite cafe. Munch walked home on cloud nine.

He unlocked the apartment quietly to avoid waking you and tiptoed to your shared bedroom. Munch found you in the exact same spot he left you, asleep in bed. He took the note from his pillow and slipped it into his pocket. You didn't need that anymore. He was home. 

He sat on the bed, and stroked gently over your forehead with his fingertips. You barely stirred. Munch leaned down and gently nuzzled you.