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.
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.
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
dare I be silly and ask for april fools headcanons w john..
If you thought John Munch is a man that doesn’t appreciate practical jokes… you were sort of right!
He hates being on the receiving end of pranks. Pulling the strings of them, though? He’s rather good at that
Munch has a very creative and ruthless mind, he knows just the buttons to push on his victim(s) to piss them off over something “harmless”. It’s almost scary to witness. Such a specific prank designed to elicit a vibrant reaction all the while he smiles smugly from a safe distance, shrugging, “It’s just a joke.”
Turn the tables on him and you’ll get an earful of vile threats, especially with the messier pranks that ruin his hair or clothes— or, god forbid, his shoes!
Summary: John Munch's sweet-tooth is not a secret. So when he is offered a sweet treat... How can he refuse?
Notes: Reader is not a detective in this one and actually works a "normal" job (your classic 9-5). That's just so the difference in schedule makes sense, but I didn't specify what they work with, so feel free to go with whatever you want!
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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.
In the end, John Munch will always find room for dessert.
