Pairing: John Munch x F!Reader
Tags: Oral (F receiving), PinV Sex, Service Top Munch, Munch being a D1 eater, Teasing, Older Man x Younger Woman (implied but it doesn’t make any difference), Slight Femdom
Summary: John has a bad habit of neglecting you in favor of his work during your quality time. Thankfully, you know how to get his attention.
Notes: Can be read as HLotS or SVU
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You hated when John brought work home. It was bad enough you rarely got to see when because of his job, you’d like to have some quality time with him uninterrupted.
“Johnnn,” you whine dramatically, intentionally dragging out his name in the way you know he hates, “Are you finished yet?” It had been approximately two hours since you’d arrived, and the two of you had barely said 20 words to each other. You don’t want to interrupt whatever he was doing because it was probably really important, but you were starting to get bored.
He hums, “Almost, just a minute sweetheart.”He pats your leg absentmindedly, head nowhere near the conversation. Technically, you are spending time together, the two of you are literally sitting on the couch not even inches away from each other, but he’s not really there. You roll your eyes, you don’t want to seem like a brat, but it’s getting ridiculous. “You said that 30 minutes ago.”
He sighs, “I know, I’m sorry, I just don’t want to miss anything.” You can hear a slight apologetic tone in his voice, but he doesn’t even look up from his papers. You huff a frustrated breath, getting up from the couch and going into the bedroom.
It’s frustrating being with a cop, let alone a detective, and even worse one as dedicated to his work as John. You know he works too hard, and part of you feels guilty for being upset. After all, he’s working to get justice for who knows how many women and children around the city who’ve been hurt, it’s a good thing that he’s giving it so much attention. But you’re important too, and you just want him to give himself a break. And maybe fuck you, you’d like that too.
Looking in the mirror, you contemplate getting your stuff and leaving. You could try to reschedule, but God knows when either of you will have the time. You’re just about to go tell him when an idea hits you.
If he won’t pay attention, I can make him pay attention
You remember the drawer he’d saved for you so you could keep some clothes for when you stayed over. Opening as quietly as you can, you dig through it for a bit until you find a lingerie set you had brought over a while ago. You know, in case of emergencies. You change into it, fixing your hair in the mirror before leaving the room. You hit the kitchen first, pouring yourself a glass of wine which you take into the living room.
John still doesn’t notice when you enter the room, which is fine, he’ll notice in a moment. You sit in the armchair opposite him, bringing your legs up to drape over the arm. You sip your wine, humming some song you can’t remember where you heard it from, giving your plan time to take effect.
It doesn’t take long for John to look up, likely to ask you to politely stop, but whatever he was going to say is caught in his throat at the sight of you. “What the hell…”
You hum, feigning ignorance, “Something wrong, John?”
He blinks rapidly, as though he’s trying to snap himself out of a dream. His grip on his papers tightens slightly, and for a moment he thinks he must’ve somehow died and went to Heaven in the middle of his paperwork. He knows the Jews don’t particularly believe in Heaven, but he imagines this is how he'd like it to be.
You frown, a fake apologetic look on your face, “Oh, I’m sorry, am I distracting you?”
He shakes his head slowly, as though in a trance. His eyes rake over your barely-clothed body, looking at you in a similar way to how a dog who hasn’t eaten in a week would look at a rare steak. “No, it can wait.” He starts to put the papers on the table, but you hold a hand up, stopping him.
“No, it can’t.” you say firmly. He wanted to focus on work? Then he’s going to fucking work. “Whoever’s case that is is important, John. You’ve been working so long, no need to break your momentum.”
He shakes his head, “Really, honey, it can wait.” His attention is fully on you now, but he’s not getting off that easy. You frown, tutting in disapproval, “No, you’ve only got–” you count the paper in his hands, “–four pages left, finish them.” You finish off your wine, setting the glass on the floor.
He has this tortured look on his face, but he knows he deserves this. He forces his eyes back on his work, trying unsuccessfully to ignore your presence. You get up from your seat, circling the couch and perching yourself on the back of it. You can tell his head is nowhere near whatever is on those papers and you bring your hand to his hair, burying your fingers in it and gently tugging, “Focus. These people deserve your full attention, Detective.”
A shiver runs through him at both your touch and your voice, and he lets out an odd, slightly choked-sounding noise. The obvious tent in his slacks is clear proof that your plan is working. He manages to get through one page, making some hurried notes in the margins before setting it on the stack on the coffee table. You can see some pages are longer than others, some mostly consisting of pictures and others with just words. You lean in, licking the shell of his ear, and he flushes a deep red. You drag your hands down to his shoulders, massaging, and he groans at the feeling of your fingers working out the tense muscles. He needs the relief, you just wish he would let himself want it.
He makes quicker work of the second and third pages, reading and annotating them thoroughly but also obviously trying to get them out of the way. Pleased with his efficiency, you place wet, open-mouthed kisses down his neck and loosen his tie to get better access. “Only one more, don’t quit now…”
He barely suppresses a moan, forcing himself to focus. After all, the long he takes to finish up, the more painful this experience will be. You undo the buttons of his shirt, using your newfound surface area to suck a hickey into his collarbone as you play with the hair at the nape of his neck.
John is horribly, painfully hard. You look at the paper in his shaking hands, and as if by some sick coincidence it has more text than any of the previous ones. You decide to alter your plan slightly, after all you need him to last long enough to actually fuck you when he’s done.
Laying off the physical approach, you hop off the back of the couch and go back to your spot in the armchair. John lets out a breath of relief, and you smile. He must think this shit is over. His eyes are still somewhat on you, so you angle yourself so you’re fully in his view before leaning back and sighing. “Honey…” You say breathily, bringing your hand up to your neck and slowly dragging it down to your bra, toying with the lace. “What paragraph are you on?”
He doesn’t even answer at first, just sits there staring at you with that hungry look. You’re good, it’s not often John Munch is speechless. You snap your fingers, knocking him out of his trance. “Two…”
You hum, your fingers slipping into your bra and gently rubbing your nipple. You moan softly, “How many are there?”
“Oh, ok…” Leaving your nipples alone, you continue your descent down your chest and along your stomach until they reach the waistband of your thoroughly soaked panties. You slip past, bringing your fingers to your clit, rubbing it at an agonizingly slow pace. You whine softly, your eyes slipping shut at the feeling; it’s good but it isn’t enough. It isn’t John. You’re so caught up in your pleasure that you almost forget he’s there. Opening your eyes, you see him staring at you, frozen and practically drooling. Aka, not working. You shoot him a glare so palpable he’s surprised it didn’t send him bursting into flames. “John, stop fucking staring at me or I promise you I will put my clothes on and go fuck myself somewhere else.”
John’s not able to stop the whimper before it passes his lips. He hesitates before reluctantly turning his attention back to the sheet, a tortured look on his face. You continue to play with yourself, even going the extra mile as to moaning theatrically to make the experience worse for him. He’s watched you masturbate before and you’re never that vocal. Even though he can tell you’re playing it up for his own torture, it only manages to make him harder. He has to fight not to look at you, even going as far as removing his glasses in an attempt to negate the urge. It makes it slightly more difficult to read, but these are good slacks and he’d rather not ruin them.
Thankfully, he manages to finish before you do. He places the paper in the stack, probably rougher than he intended. He stands up and crosses the room to you in a few quick strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. Your eyebrows raise as he grabs your wrist and pulls your fingers out from between your legs only to put them into his mouth, licking your juices off of the digits. The sheer eroticism of the gesture takes you by surprise, but you don’t have much time to lament on it before he tugs your soaked panties to the side and dives face first into your pussy, his nose bumping your clit as he sinks his tongue into your folds just the way you like. You moan so loudly you’re sure the neighbors can hear, eyes crossing out of pure ecstasy. He lifts one of your legs onto his shoulder, the hand not holding your panties to the side gripping your thigh. “Fuck, you taste good,” he groans, his breath warm against your entrance, “I’m so sorry for neglecting you…”
You can barely hear his apology over your own moans, your toes curling in pleasure. You only let it go one for a little while, because as much as you’d like for this to continue, you can feel yourself getting close and you didn’t do all this just to get some, albeit very good, oral. “J-John, stop.” You pull him away by the hair, and have to hold back a moan at the sight of him, hair ruined from its usual gelled style and mouth glistening with your slick.
As if he read your mind, he starts to undo his belt as you push yourself out of the chair and onto his lap, immediately going to undo the rest of the buttons of his shirt. You get his shirt off of him just as he pulls himself out of his slacks, precum dripping from his tip. So much for the slacks… You waste no time lifting your hips, lining him up with your entrance before sinking down, a choked cry leaving your lips at the stretch of his cock inside you. John moans filthily, your walls squeezing perfectly around his length. Neither of you can speak, too blissed out by the feeling of each other. He gives you a moment to adjust to his size before gripping you, guiding your hips to rock against his. You ride him steadily, your two bodies moving together in sync as though you two were made for each other. He kisses you, firmly but simultaneously gentle as you’ve ever felt, your tongues swirling together in a heated, erotic dance.
You whine at the burn in your quads and John, who’s stronger than he looks by the way, takes over, lifting and lowering you up and down, the sound of your ass colliding with his pelvis filling the room. He lays back on the floor to better thrust up into you and you lean forward, bracing yourself on the floor above his shoulder. This isn’t necessarily the most comfortable position and he’ll definitely be paying for it later, but God is it worth it.
You’ve been together for a while and have had a lot of sex, so you’re at the point in your relationship that both of you can tell when the other is about to cum, and that moment is fast approaching. You pick up the pace, trying to keep up your momentum as you feel yourself reaching your peak. You climax first, sparkles appearing in your vision as the orgasm runs through your body. John follows soon after, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he spills into you with a cry. Coming down from your high, the adrenaline wearing off also saps you of whatever strength you had left. You collapse onto his heaving chest, your breaths syncing in shared exhaustion.
The two of you just lay there for a while, basking in the afterglow. You probably should move to the bedroom or something, but neither of you can find it in you to move right now, so floor it is. After a few minutes you hear him sigh, “I really am sorry, I know what little quality time we have together is sacred but our caseload’s just been so heavy.” He strokes a finger up and down between your shoulderblades, lazily playing with the end of your hair. He actually feels bad, and he would never want you to feel unappreciated or neglected, and he hates that he didn’t notice how you felt until you forced him to pay attention.
You hum, in your opinion the sex was apology enough. “It’s alright,” you say, shrugging. You sit up and lift your hips off of him, stifling a groan at the newfound emptiness as you settle back on his lap. You smile down at him, playing with the hem of his undershirt, “You should probably go over those last few pages though, I might’ve impaired your judgement.”
He smiles, taking your wrist and bringing your hand to his lips, gently kissing the inside of your palm. “I promise, it can wait.”
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