#hlots

[emraldye]

He so pretty it hurts. I want to screeeeeeam

[mister-warmth]

In a perfect world she kicked his ass at baseball.<\3

[hlotss]

Homicide: Life On The Street 1.09 "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes"

[novakcore]

SFW

imagine john dragging himself into some bright, bustling café because you insisted the two of you needed to try their new seasonal drinks. he stands out instantly, trench coat and sunglasses, muttering about overpriced coffee and hipsters while you’re already bouncing at the counter, picking the most colorful drink on the menu. he sighs when you shove the cup toward him, telling him to try it, but his lips twitch when you practically vibrate with excitement. he takes a reluctant sip, makes a face, then mutters that it’s “not half bad” before handing it back. the whole time his hand never leaves yours, thumb tracing your knuckles, like even in a place he swears he hates, he’s tethered to you.

imagine john rolling his eyes when you buy him something as simple as a keychain, shaped like a smiling sun. he deadpans about how he’s too old for knickknacks, but a week later you catch him using it, jingling from his apartment keys. when you tease him about it, he says it’s because he can’t afford to lose his keys, but the way his lips twitch upward, betraying the smallest smirk, tells you it’s because every time he touches it, he thinks of you. it’s quiet affection, the kind he’ll never say out loud, but he wears it every day.

imagine john in bed with his glasses slipping down his nose, book open in his lap, while you ramble about your day. he doesn’t look up at first, his expression flat, but you notice the way his thumb rubs lazy circles into your thigh as you talk, a grounding touch that says he’s listening. when you finally finish your long-winded story, you expect him to tease you, but instead he shuts his book with a soft sigh and says something so precise, so thoughtful, it proves he absorbed every detail. you curl against his chest, his grumpy exterior softening as he kisses the top of your head before turning off the light.

imagine john hovering in the kitchen while you cook dinner, arms folded across his chest, muttering sarcastic commentary about your choice of recipe. he scoffs when you taste-test the sauce with a spoon and grin at him, telling him it’s perfect. he takes the spoon from you, tries it himself, and after a pause, admits it’s “not half bad.” then he sets the spoon down, steps behind you, and kisses the back of your neck, his voice gruff but fond as he mumbles about how he’s glad you’re around to feed him something better than takeout.

imagine john lying in bed, trying to act annoyed when you press your cold feet against his legs. he growls about how you’re impossible, about how you’re going to freeze him to death, but his arms wrap around you tighter, pulling you flush against him. he buries his face into your hair, muttering that you’re warm enough for the both of you. by the time you drift off, you can feel his breathing slow against your neck, every ounce of his grumpiness melting into a quiet need to keep you close.

imagine john suffering through a romcom you insisted on, his monotone commentary running the whole way through—he criticizes the acting, the plot, the clichés. but when the credits roll, you catch the way his arm is snug around your shoulders and the way he presses a kiss into your temple. he mutters that it “wasn’t the worst thing he’s seen,” which is as close to a rave review as you’ll ever get. you grin against his chest, knowing he secretly enjoyed it just because it was with you.

imagine john sitting across from you at a diner, watching you laugh with the waitress, your energy lighting up the whole place. he pretends to be buried in his menu, but you notice the corner of his mouth twitching when your laugh rings out. when you slide into the booth beside him instead of across, leaning into his side, he doesn’t move away. he grumbles about personal space, but his arm comes around you instinctively, pulling you closer as he keeps his eyes on the menu.

imagine john pretending he doesn’t care about goodbyes, brushing off your kisses with a muttered “you’ll be late,” but the second you turn to leave for work, he pulls you back by the wrist. he kisses you slow and hard, lingering, his grumpy exterior cracking just long enough to let the softness slip through. when he lets you go, he mutters something about how you’d better come home safe, his voice low, almost a growl. you leave glowing, while he leans back in his chair, sighing like you’ve completely unravelled him.

NSFW

imagine john sitting back in his old armchair while you straddle him, your skirt riding up as you grind down on the hard bulge in his slacks. his hands grip your hips tightly, groaning when your pussy rubs along the length of him. he mutters about how insatiable you are, how you never give him a moment’s peace, but his cock twitches under you, betraying how badly he wants it. you rock against him, whining softly, and he finally growls low in his throat, unzipping just enough to free his thick cock. when you sink down on him, his head falls back, glasses slipping down his nose, a rough moan tearing from his chest as he mutters how sweet your sunshine cunt feels taking him so deep.

imagine john fingering you on the couch, his long fingers stretching you open while you cling to his shirt. every slow curl of his fingers has your hips jerking, wetness dripping down his palm as his thumb presses into your clit. he smirks at your whines, muttering that his girl is “always such a mess for him.” your pussy clenches hard around his fingers, soaking his hand, and when you cum with a shuddering cry, he slides his fingers out slow, holding them up to his lips to suck them clean while his eyes stay locked on yours.

imagine john bending you over the kitchen counter, still half dressed from work, his tie brushing your back as he slams into you from behind. the stretch makes you gasp, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter, your pussy clenching around his cock as he mutters in your ear about how impatient you are, how you couldn’t even wait until the bedroom. his thrusts are deep and rough, his hands bruising on your hips, his gravelly voice low and steady as he tells you to take every inch like a good girl.

imagine john taking his time in bed, slow and deliberate, pushing his cock into you until you’re shaking with overstimulation. he locks eyes with you, his rough voice teasing about how addicted you are, how you can’t go a day without him stretching you open. every thrust is deep and controlled, his chest pressed against yours, his lips brushing your ear as you beg for more. when you cum, he doesn’t stop—he fucks you through it, groaning when your pussy squeezes him so tight he almost loses control himself.

imagine john fucking you until tears streak your cheeks, his cock pounding into your sweet spot relentlessly. his hand covers your mouth to muffle your cries, his growl in your ear telling you not to wake the neighbours. you’re trembling, clenching around him, your juices slicking down his cock and onto the sheets. when you finally break and cum hard, sobbing his name, he fucks you harder, groaning that you feel like heaven when you’re gushing all over him.

imagine john pushing your head down onto his cock, his hand firm at the back of your head while you choke on his length. his low groans fill the room as your lips stretch around him, your tongue dragging along the underside of his shaft. he calls you his good girl in that raspy voice, keeping you steady as you swallow him down. when you gag, he eases up, thumb brushing your cheek, but the look in his eyes is dark and hungry, cock throbbing as he pushes back into your throat.

imagine john letting you ride him, arms folded behind his head, smirking up at you as if he isn’t being undone by your pussy milking his cock. you bounce on him, moaning loudly, your nails raking his chest, and he mutters about how desperate you look grinding down on him. but then his control snaps—his hands grab your hips, slamming you down harder, cock hitting so deep you scream. his grumpy mask cracks, and the groans he lets out are filthy and raw as he watches you fall apart on top of him.

imagine john cumming deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he empties hot spurts into your cunt. he groans roughly against your ear, holding you down tight against him so you can’t move, his hand gripping your ass while he fills you. when you squirm, overstimulated, he growls that you’re staying right there, cockwarming him until he’s good and ready to let you go. your pussy flutters around him, dripping with his cum, and he leans back with a satisfied smirk, muttering that you’re too good to ever let him quit you.

[munchingtime]

[papertowness]

i have an essay due

[sigurism]

John Munch | Richard Belzer Homicide: Life on the Street

[multifandom-exe]

‘Treat me like a foooooool’- J. Munch x Reader (3)

A/N: 2 posts back to back who am i? continuing my personal mission to fill up his tag,, dump all your requests in my inbox

W/C: 1.6k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

The 4 times John Munch made a fool of himself being hopelessly in love, and the 1 time he redeemed himself.

3. Break in! 

It’s late, past midnight by now, the silence he often finds comforting seems endlessly empty without you there. The soft lamp casts a glow across his face, illuminating the book lay out on his lap. A cup of bitter black coffee, something you've made an insane number of comments about, sits abandoned on the table.  in the background, a record hums quietly, creating the perfect ambiance for John to rest his eyes, just for a minute. 

As soon as his eyes close, thoughts and images of you splay out behind his eyelids. In these quiet moments he has, he can't help but think of you, your history, every moment of joy you've brought to his life. He thinks of your first day years ago, rushing in looking exhausted already, having gone to 3 different floors to try and find the right place. He thinks of your first case together, you somehow making the atrocities he sees every day, just that bit more bearable. He thinks of the time you brought him soup when he was sick or took him home when his car broke down. He thinks of all the endless hours of conspiracy talk, you two could fill up a whole book, just from your lunch breaks. 

It was stupid really, how he had been so blind to his feelings for so long, even back then, he was sick for you. But alas, 3 marriages teach you not to follow your heart. He couldn't sentence you to a life with an old man with a tinfoil hat. 

Just then, as if the world was giving him endless chances, his phone chimed, it chimed that specific ringtone he had set for you. Which was something you yourself had taught him to do, and my, was he blown away at how these phone thingys worked. He had told you your ring tone was different because you were his partner and he needed to answer your texts immediately, but that was only a partial truth. The real reason was that he wanted to know as soon as you texted him, like he couldn't bear the thought of you waiting on him, couldn't bear the thought of not being there when you need him. If this government sanctioned electronic listening device allowed him to talk to you whenever, maybe they weren't all bad. 

His eyes opened with a start as he reached for his phone, desperate to have another fix of you, like an addict with their favourite drug. But he wasn't met with his usual sweet little conversation starter, or weird conspiracy notes from a conversation you'd had the day before. No, all that flashed on his screen was the word ‘SOS’. 

He felt his heart in his throat. As nonchalant as John Munch pretended to be, he was anything but. When it came to you, he was the most chalant, bothered, caring little stalker anyone had ever seen. The thought of you being in trouble sent bile straight into his throat and sent a wave of panic like he’d never experienced before. 

He moved faster than a man of his age should probably be able to. He grabbed his coat and his keys, not even bothering to change his slippers, and flung his door open. He was met with a big, cold drop of rain running down his back. He couldn't find it in himself to care, not when you were in danger. 

- 

Steam fills the small bathroom, curling around the mirror and softening the light. Hot water drums against your shoulders, tracing slow paths down your skin. The sound is steady and almost hypnotic; it drowns out your thoughts from the previous day. All those violent images that flash behind your eyes when you close them. For a few minutes, it’s just the warmth, the water, and the calm.

Your eyes shoot open as a horrible crack reverberates through your living room, and you hear glass hit the floor. Someone's breaking into your fucking house. Fuck.  

You leave the shower running as to not arouse suspicion. You slide the towel across your body and put your ear against the wall that's facing the living room. The sound of glass hitting the floor makes a frown break out on your face. You try to cool your racing heart. You're more likely to be prepared for this than the criminal. What a good day to be a cop. 

Watching every step you take, you slowly move towards the drawers lining your bathroom vanity. You wait with bated breath as you try to slide it open without making any noise. Of course, it makes the loudest scraping noise you've literally ever heard. 

 You bite your lip and strain to hear if there's any more noise coming from the living room. Once it's quiet, you pull your gun from the drawer and put it against your side. You weighed the pros and cons of going to put some clothes on, but if you were leaving this world today, you were doing it the same way you came in (+ the towel). 

With a quick breath in and out, you twisted the door handle and rushed out into the living room. “I have a weapon!” You screeched, aiming at the huge window in your living room. 

There you saw John Munch, one leg through your window, slippers on, hand bleeding from the glass, with his eyes squeezed shut. 

“Munch?” You said wearily. “Christ, I almost shot you!” 

He looked up and thought he might die right there. Not because you were pointing a Sig Sauer at him (although that did make him feel a certain way he would address later), no, it was because you stood in front of him, like an angel. 

 A halo of light coming from the bathroom behind you, your hair dripping onto the carpet, framing your face as a stray drop travelled down your cheek, wrapped in a towel, showing that supple skin he had thought about more than was professionally appropriate. 

He gave you a goofy grin and tried to play off the fact he was halfway through your window. “Little help?” He waved his hand for you to grab. 

“Right, I forgot you were 100 years old, y’know it's really not advised for the elderly to do extreme sports?” You tugged him through the window, landing on his feet. He gave you a haughty fake laugh and looked down at the mess on the floor. 

“Yeah, I really screwed that up, didn't I?” He cringed slightly at the glass scattered on the floor. He tried to give you an apologetic smile but found your eyes trained on his hand, blood pathetically dribbling down the side of it. 

“John, your bleeding! And you just climbed through my window! God, I feel like my head is about to explode. Come here.” You placed your sig on the table and pulled him over to sit on the couch.  

You rushed to rifle through the drawers to find the first aid kit whilst John looked around your living room. It wasn't often he came here; you said you preferred his apartment, said it had ‘character’, although he was starting to believe that was just code for old. 

You rounded the island and sat back on the couch with him, taking his hand in your lap to look closer. “So, what on earth possessed you to smash my window, and climb through it?” His cut wasn't deep, probably just needed a bandage. 

“You texted me SOS!” He defended, feeling a bit like an idiot. 

“Yes, SOS like, call me it's really important, not break into my house! You couldn't knock?” You were trying to hold back a laugh at his wild overreaction. 

“Okay, I did knock, you didn't answer.” He turned on his faux serious face now, waving his finger, like it was somehow your fault he broke into your house.  

“Well, you didn't call me when I texted SOS so I assumed you were asleep, so I took a shower to calm down.” He winced slightly as you cleaned and wrapped his bandage.  

Almost like that sentence reminded him why he was here, he looked at you with concern and used his free hand to wipe a stray waterdrop from your face. 

“I can see that.” You could feel the heat running up your neck as his eyes raked over your poorly covered form. “What happened?” 

“My cat got out when I was coming home, I wanted you to stay on the phone whilst I looked around outside because it was dark.” You pouted as you retold the story, still not having found your cat. 

“Youve got a Sig in the bathroom but your scared to go out in the dark.” He smiled incredulously. “At least now that I'm here I can help you look, right?” He poked you in the side and a smile split onto your face. 

“Yeah, I guess so, she has a tracker on but it's quite far. Maybe I should put one on you since you're out here committing crimes.” He scoffed and gave you the worst fake laugh you'd ever heard. 

God, the world would need to give him a break soon enough, at this rate, you'll soon figure out he was such an old fool. He was embarrassing himself in front of you at every turn. Honestly, if he got to see you laugh every time he messed up, he would do it again and again, forever maybe. He was a fool, but he was a fool for you.