Steno
Pairing: John Munch x Reader
Rating: E
John's curious as to why you would break things off with a seemingly great guy.
Started watching SVU from the beginning for the first time as an adult.
Became unexpectedly feral for Detective Munch.
Lack of content has brought me out of retirement.
You're in one of the courthouse break rooms grabbing a coffee when Detective John Munch comes in.
"Hey, haven't seen you in awhile," he says, also pouring a coffee. You lean back against the counter sipping yours.
You run into each other sometimes, being a stenographer. You like it when you're assigned to a trial he's called to testify on, like today. The sound of his voice. His sometimes dryly sarcastic responses given during cross examination. You both have the same sense of humor. He likes you because you never ask him to spell anything, including psychological terminology.
John gives an "ah" of understanding.
You sigh.
"Got tied up on a double homicide. Mistrial. It's on hold while they find a new jury."
"How you've been? How's Eric?" He teases pleasantly.
Eric was an up-and-coming attorney you'd started dating about two months ago.
"Over that fast? Did it even have time to get started?" John jokes.
You make a face.
"Mmm, just went ahead and ended it. Wasn't going anywhere."
You shrug nonchalant.
"Well, when you know, you know."
He nods, deciding not to push.
"You?"
"This case has been a bitch, I'm expecting the trial will be as well."
"Seems to be headed that way."
You check your watch.
"Better get back to it, recess is almost up. You know how Judge Schneider is when it comes to punctuality."
"Oh believe me, I know."
The jury reaches a verdict after three days of deliberation. Now the end of the third day, Munch is there to hear it, sitting in the gallery.
Your fingers hover over the stenotype in anticipation as they stand to deliver.
"The jury has found the defendant Not Guilty, your honor."
There's a stunned kind of silence throughout the court room. It takes you a second to process before you can transcribe it.
You glance over at Munch. Stony expression says it all.
He approaches you once it's all over, the courtroom clearing, you're gathering your things.
John's standing there tall and slender, black suit, dark grey shirt, dark salt and pepper hair brushed back. Blue tie with his signature silver tie clip.
"I could use a drink after that, care to join?"
He's not really expecting you to agree, but what the hell right.
Handsome in an academic sort of way.
"You drive?"
"Yeah, actually, same."
Can't be any harm in commiserating with someone in essentially the same field. Your friends only put up with so much of your work talk.
"No, not today, took the subway."
He looks at you, skeptical.
"What?"
He shakes his head, pulling his keys out of his pocket.
"Alright, come on."
He takes you to a quiet, little bar, where you'll actually be able to hear each other talk. Soft piano music playing in the background.
John orders a Scotch, neat, and you order a Manhattan.
After about an hour and two drinks of lamenting the outcome of the trial, debating the downfalls of the legal system, and generally catching up --John decides he's curious.
"So--wanna tell me what actually happened with Erick?" Tone only half serious.
"Is this why you brought me out? To get the details of my romantic life?" You reply, teasing.
"Well I'd tell you the details of mine, but it's non-existent," he replies in that signature deadpan way.
"I have a hard time believing that."
"Believe it."
You finish your drink and signal for another. He waits, expectantly. Sometimes half of getting people to talk is just being quiet.
"I did tell you, just wasn't going anywhere, no point in wasting time when you know it's not going to work," you explain.
John finishes his drink and leans forward, elbows resting on the bar, also signaling for another.
"Ok, but why wasn't it going anywhere? Come on, the guy is practically prince charming-- attractive, good job, promising career, nice car, apartment on the nice side of town from what I hear-- If that's not considered 'going anywhere' for women, what possible hope can there be for me?"
You smile and roll your eyes, playful, as the bartender places new drinks in front of you.
"Yeah, he sounds great on paper, but we just weren't compatible."
John studies you now, trying to read beneath the smiles and guarded responses.
"Did he hurt you?" He asks frankly.
You give him a pointed look.
"No, nothing like that Detective," you place a hand on his upper arm, attempting to placate him, "trust me, it's not that serious."
John glances down at your hand on his arm. The light touch somehow burning through his suit jacket and shirt. Brings his eyes back to yours. A moment. Another smile before you withdraw.
You each sip your drinks.
"If I tell you, it stays between us ok?"
"Hey, loose lips sink ships," John says casually, not wanting to appear over-eager.
You drink again.
"Like I said, Erik sounds great on paper, he's nice, but the sex was-- less so," You finish wryly.
"Less so?" John prompts, pleased to be making progress, but this is only piquing his interest, not satisfying it.
John processes the information, annoyed now on your behalf, but checks his composure.
You hum, thinking.
"Let's just say I never saw any sparks." You give him another pointed look, before drinking again.
"You mean, never? Not once?" He asks, casual.
"Not once," you reply simply.
The brief silence however, encourages you to continue, unable to suppress the impulse overshare while under the influence.
"Ah --well, that'll do it."
He drinks.
"He always wanted me to blow him but wouldn't eat me out--" you roll your eyes, decidedly less playful now and drink "hate that, so annoying."
John clears his throat, caught off guard by your sudden bluntness, and certain illicit images they conjure.
"Did you tell him that?" He asks, matter of fact, once he's able to form words.
"I mean, I think he tried once or twice, but it was just--disappointing."
You make a face.
"No, no need to be cruel, it's not like he did me wrong or anything, just easier to tell him it wasn't going to work."
"Sounds like he was doing you wrong." The comment is out of John's mouth before he can think. He panics momentarily, hoping he hasn't been too crude.
John cracks a smile.
But instead you're actually laughing.
"Got me there."
"Maybe he's insecure, maybe he knows he's not good at giving head so that's why he doesn't like to do it." He's playing devil's advocate now. "I mean the poor bastard can't do any better if someone doesn't teach him."
John raises a brow.
You make another face.
"He's 30-something. Not 19. If he doesn't know by now," you shrug, finishing your drink, "I'm sure he'll be fine, he'll meet someone nice."
"Someone nicer than me." You add, not sure when you and the detective had gotten so close. You're practically elbow to elbow. You can smell his aftershave -- clean and inviting. You press your thighs together. Just so.
"I don't mind driving you home," he offers, "would rather make sure you get home alive."
You check your watch, sighing.
"It's getting late. I should call a cab."
You guess you can't really argue, both knowing the hundreds of horrible possibilities that can happen at any given time in this city.
He calls the bartender over for the tab, and you both straighten up.
"I can--" you start, only for John to wave you off.
"Wouldn't dream of it, one tab please," he tells the bartender mildly.
The drive home is quiet, but comfortable. You don't want to give him the wrong directions.
"Just up here on the right, that's my building."
He pulls up to the sidewalk, eyeing the building.
"I know, it's not much, but it's decent, for New York at least."
John turns off the car.
"You know I'm walking you to your door."
You could live in the Upper East Side and he would walk you to your door. Doesn't trust anyone or anywhere at this point in his career.
"Came all this way," you tease putting in the key, "might as well come in for a night cap."
There's no doorman, which he scolds you for.
You hit the keypad for entrance, take the elevator up to the 5th floor, and walk all the way down to the end of the hall.
Thinking all the while about how you're not ready for your time with the detective to be over.
This old song and dance, John thinks, regarding you. You're looking at him with something, dare he say, dangerously akin to want.
"Twist my arm why don't you," he replies easily.
You turn on a light and slip out of your blazer, tossing it lazily over the back of the couch.
John takes the opportunity to shamelessly admire the line your body while you're not paying attention.
Formal t-shirt tucked into your modest knee length pencil skirt, lingering on the curve of your ass, then down your legs to your simple, black pumps.
You make your way over to the bar cart in your so-called dining room.
Whiskey and two glasses, setting them on the table, pouring generously.
A silent toast.
"This was nice," you hum, leaning back against the table.
"Yeah, it was," he murmurs, allowing his gaze to drop to your mouth.
John smoothly downs his in one go.
He steps forward, setting his now empty glass on the table but doesn't move away.
You're not moving away or re-directing the conversation. Just standing there looking back at him through long lashes.
He closes the small distance between you, slotting his mouth over yours. You return the kiss, lips pressed for long moments to his, before separating.
You set your unfinished drink on the table, pushing it off to the side, and returning your mouth to his. An exchange of kisses that quickly grows hungry. Your hands slipping beneath his suit jacket, palming his chest, he shrugs out of the offending item, lips still half connected to yours.
Then he's lifting you effortlessly onto the table, tongue running along your lower lip when you gasp. Dizzy from the way he licks into your mouth.
"John," you breathe. He's kissing your neck now, pushing up your skirt.
"Yeah, yes," you say pulling gently at his tie, and he's kissing you senseless again, running a hand up your thigh to the edge of your panties, lingering momentarily before long fingers are stroking your folds.
He pauses.
"You good?" He asks, looking to you for reassurance. He's not sure really if his pride can handle hearing that this was just a drunken mistaken the morning after.
He groans.
You whimper in agreement.
"Sweetheart, you're so fucking wet."
Breath hot against your skin, savoring the easy way his fingers slide over you.
He withdraws, eager now to act on what he's been thinking about half the night since you brought it up. Rolling up his sleeves and taking off his glasses. Dropping to his knees. He'll probably feel this later.
He pushes apart your thighs as you look down at him in half-lidded anticipation, lifting your hips as he slides off your underwear.
Then he's licking into you like a half-starved man, because well he is, dragging the flat of his tongue against you and moaning, pleased with the high-pitched little sigh you make, needy.
"Taste good too, baby," he says looking up at you, "so fucking good, sweet little pussy."
Returns his mouth to you, easy, taking his time, you card a hand through his hair. It isn't long before you're pushing your hips against his tongue, trying to press your thighs together. Only then does he slip two long fingers into you, stroking you deep and curling them, sure you were vocal before but now you're loud.
He hums low in his throat, pleased, tonguing your clit in a gentle, steady rhythm with his fingers.
"Fuckkk, John --"
Hand tightening in his hair, one leg thrown over his shoulder.
It's been a long time since it's been this good and suddenly it's too much, you're coming apart, John's name the only thing you're capable of saying between pants and high moans, and John just keeps going, dragging the wave all the way out, feeling you spasm on his fingers, leaking on his tongue, just when he thinks you can't get any wetter. He doesn't stop until your inner thighs start to tremble and you're oversensitive, weakly stroking his hair.
He rests his head on your thigh for a moment, gazing up at you, a few strands of dark hair falling in his face, appreciating your thoroughly fucked-out appearance.
Wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before standing.
You kiss him softly before palming his pants where he's painfully hard.
He stills your hand, reluctantly, after a few moments.
"I'm not exactly in the habit of keeping protection on me sweetheart."
"Mmm, I don't care, I'm on the pill." You reply, hand going for his belt buckle.
"You can't expect me to last very long," he says looking at you with raised brows.
"I don't care, John--just wanna feel you."
He groans, giving in, not stopping you now as you make quick work of his belt and his fly, pulling out his shirt, slipping your hand into his boxers, running your hand experimentally over his long cock.
"Hey, none of that right now angel," he pants, grabbing your wrist, he finishes pulling himself out.
Then he's easing into you, biting off a moan, your arms wrapped around his neck.
"Shit, you're tight, you're so fucking tight."
"Feels so good," you sigh, taking him with minimal effort, body thoroughly relaxed after the orgasm he just gave you.
He rolls his hips slowly into yours, setting an easy rhythm, enough to keep him just on edge, but he's still lightheaded after only a few minutes, muttering apologies and half curses under his breath that you silence by placing your lips on his.
You stay together for long moments when it's over, both still buzzed but no longer from the drinks. John thinks back to the conversation at the bar though.
"So would you say that was 'more so' than 'less so' ? See any sparks?"
