Be it his coworkers snarking at each other, a corpse, the barista that somehow says his name wrong as his coffee is pushed to the counter, John keeps his hands in his pockets, or tucks them into his arms as he silently judges whatever grotesque scene lies before him. Eyes are the windows to the soul, so he’s heard, but hands will betray your desires.
He fidgets when he’s left idle for too long. Not restlessly spinning a pen between his fingers, he’s playing chess against himself to give his hands something to do. He’s tossing a ball in the air, he’s crumpling paper and tossing it into the trash can across the room, he’s quietly tapping on his desk to the song playing in his head.
He waves them about when he speaks, though. He gestures animatedly at the air, his mouth moving just as quickly. Or, he calmly paints a picture with his hands out in front of him to show his thought process.
He runs a hand down his face when he’s frustrated. He points fingers when he’s pissed. He cards his fingers through his hair when he’s nervous, checking for at least one thing that’s still in place. He taps his lips when he’s deep in thought.
His hands carry two coffees, have ever since he memorized your drink order
His hands reach for you the minute you’re in his orbit, finding a way to hold onto you, keep you
His hands toy with your clothes on occasion. Sometimes it’s to fix your collar, smooth out a wrinkle, adjust an accessory, zip a zipper. However it’s always an excuse to touch you
His hands flirt with yours, teasing with the idea of holding them. He likes to torture himself like that. It’s you that has to lace them together
His hands, from the moment they touch you, begin a map of your skin. It’s not a conscious decision. He memorizes the tomb of every dip, every scar, every freckle, every mole, every tattoo
His hands can finally rest after every crappy day— on you. On your shoulder while you’re tucking into his side, stealing a peak at whatever he’s reading. On your leg as they stretch across his lap. On your hand, thumb dragging across your knuckles affectionately
His hands aim to annoy, too. He’ll poke your nose, cheeks, forehead, while proving a point and he’ll just laugh if you snap your teeth at him
His hands slide over your throat, fingers touching at the back of your neck, thumbs brushing under your jaw. Sometimes it’s to kiss you, maybe merge your foreheads together for an intimate moment… sometimes he just stares at you like that. Eyes scanning over, memorizing each tiny details of your face
His hands easily find the tension in your shoulders, that kink in your neck that’s been bothering you all day, the sore spot lingering in your lower back. He’ll mindlessly (or so it looks) massage the area, glancing at you occasionally to check for signs of discomfort
His hands roll blunts with expertise that he jokes Snoop Dogg wishes he had. He can twirl a lighter over and under his fingers, switching the flame on and off like magic. The end ignites, burning slowly, held between his fingers while he pulls a drag
His hands that push your thighs apart as his lips trail down your stomach, trading his voice for your moans
His hands encourage you closer to his mouth, pulling and guiding you to use him as you wish. Your pleasure is his, after all
His hands grab your hips, matching whatever rhythm they’ve set as he’s plunged deep inside so you that he sees stars
His hands tease between your legs, knowing featherlight touches will make you squirm for him
His hands cradle your face as he kisses you so passionately that you just know in your bones everything he wants to say. His words come out a broken mess and his grip tightens slightly as the closer he gets to his release
His hands that move idly over your skin as you both come down from a euphoric high. He’ll tug you closer if you try and clean up before he’s ready to let you go. He’ll bring a glass of water to your lips if you’re being stubborn about staying hydrated
His hand smooths a damp rag over and between your thighs, gently collecting the mess you both made together. His blush betrays the stoic expression he wears
His hands remain steady as he slips a ring onto your finger when he proposes, though his mouth moves anxiously. Deep in his bone marrow he knows.
You’re it.
His hands have touched, loved, and learned every inch of you, and he’ll have no other now.
hi!! could i request number 56 from the prompt list for munch?? maybe set sometime before the reader and him become an official couple?? thank you!!
hiii thank you for requesting a prompt! you are the first!
Fandom: Law and Order S.V.U.
Pairing: John Munch x female reader (in a flower shop AU i'm calling the 'Do You Believe In Love' 'verse)
Prompt/s: 56. Are you flirting with me?
Warnings: fluffy stuff; alternating perspective; NO Daddy kink
Prompt list: link. Requests open until midnight 24 January x
Munch had no reason to be at your shop. No professional, 'police work' reason, anyway. But just like the last day he had off, and the one before that, he found himself pushing open the door and stepping inside.
You looked up from the counter, where you were adding the finishing touches to a bouquet for a paying customer.
"Morning. Won't be long," you sung out.
John lifted a hand and nodded in silent greeting. You returned to your work and John casually sidestepped a display to discretely observe you. You made small talk with the customer as you tied a ribbon around the wrapped up bundle of flowers. John's gaze zeroed in on the practised movements of your hands.
Damn it, he felt himself staring.
xxx
The customer left and the shop was empty but for yourself, your merchandise, and that detective you met a few weeks' back, Munch. John—that was it.
You stifled a laugh as you walked up to him. The contrast between his dark grey layers and the multitude of colour that exploded around him was objectively funny.
"Detective," you greeted warmly. "What brings you by today?" Again.
Munch gestured vaguely to the street beyond your shop. "I was in the area."
Your brow rose. "Another case?"
"No, no." Munch waved off the idea. "Truth be told I need to find a gift. For a, friend. A woman." He dipped his chin and peered at you over his glasses. "Can you help me?"
You bit your cheek to cancel out the smile that almost broke across your face. He had a way with that look, which transported you back in time to a giggling schoolgirl with a crush.
But—the detective needed a gift for a lady friend? This knowledge landed like discordant musical notes in a horror movie. You were forced to reckon with the reality that this old man wasn't visiting because he felt the same connection you did. He simply found a new florist.
"Are you looking for something specific?"
xxx
Munch had no idea about flowers, and felt like he knew even less about women, but he was pretty sure red roses would come on too strong. "You know, it's not often I say this but I… don't really know. I don't know exactly what she likes."
You nodded and your gaze slid to the side in what Munch saw as a thoughtful way. You picked up some skinny stems that had loads of small, white flowers clustered together. "What's the occasion?"
Munch shifted his weight and slid his hands into his pockets. "I just want her to know I'm thinking of her."
You looked up at him. "That's very kind, detective," you said. "Most men rush in here and grab the first thing they see, panicked because they forgot it's their anniversary or their wife's birthday."
Munch offered a small, guilty smile. "I'm no stranger to that."
"No?" you quizzed, and Munch saw something momentarily flash in your eyes.
"...But not anymore," he said quietly, after a moment. "Not for a long time."
He saw your jaw tighten.
"You're a good husband now, then?"
"I'm no husband at all," Munch said.
You cocked your head to the side and considered him. "So who're the flowers for, detective?"
He couldn't bear you calling him that anymore, like you were keeping him at arm's length.
"John," he offered.
"John," you echoed. You turned and gestured to the various blossoms and blooms decorating the table display. "Red is the most romantic colour, obviously. Yellow for friendship, white for sympathy. Those are the basics. This woman you're thinking of," you turned your head and looked at him, "are you close?"
John swallowed before he answered. "We're… friends. Friendly," he said. "More like acquaintances."
"Do you want to get to know her better?" Your fingertips toyed with the petals on a pink flower—a rose, Munch ventured. "Flowers can tell her that, you know," you said.
You looked at him and John felt your gaze pierce him like one of Eros' arrows. Not that he was a sentimental, poetic sort of man. But the heat behind your eyes pinned him in place—that much was undeniable. His knee-jerk response kicked in.
"Really?" he scoffed, lifting a quizzical brow. "What else can flowers do, morse code?"
Your eyes narrowed at him and Munch felt his cynical smirk falter. Not because he feared he might have offended you, but because maybe he could get used to a look—a look like that—bringing him to heel.
A look that said: Kneel.
"...I'll take that as a yes," you said, seeing right through him.
xxx
You picked a small posey of flowers in mauve and burgundy hues. There were some rose varieties, and some dahlias and gerberas. It was a classic collection of elegant blooms and small, white buds full of promise. The little bouquet hinted at romance, making a soft, subtle suggestion instead of a loud and obnoxious proclamation.
You presented the finished bundle to John, holding the cluster of stems in one hand. "Now, you know her better than me," you said, gazing deeply into his eyes behind his specs, "will she like it, do you think?"
Munch looked at the flowers like they were something alien, almost grimacing. "I'm no judge of these things. I like it. I think it's very pretty. Do you, uh, like it?"
"Do you mean," you held up a hand and made air quotes with two fingers, "as a woman?"
Munch glanced between your face and the flowers. "Sure."
You almost rolled your eyes at him. But then, you took a moment. You held up the bundle in front of your face and looked at it. Really, truly looked at it. Not like you were completing a professional appraisal, like you were trained and experienced to do. But simpler. Like you were just that—a woman, on the receiving end of a bouquet of flowers. Flowers that said hope and love, beauty and dignity; admiration.
You looked up at the tall, old man, and found him already staring at you. In that moment you knew, he cared more what you thought of this bundle than his own opinion.
"They're beautiful, John," you said. "She's going to love them."
He allowed you a small, tight-lipped smile, and nodded.
You bid John follow you to the counter where you snipped off excess leaves and tied the bundle together. You wrapped everything up and settled on a deep mauve pink ribbon. John paid, and as you handed him the bouquet you said, "Will you finally tell me who these are for?"
John looked down at the flowers in his hands. "Well," he said. "Actually. These are," he extended his arm across the counter, "for you."
Your heart leapt in your chest. "You can't be serious. Do you mean that? These are for me?"
John didn't move. He stayed with his arm outstretched, bouquet in hand, gifting them to you. "I do," he vowed. "For you."
You took the flowers, your fingers lingering where you touched him. "John Munch," you said, smiling. "Are you flirting with me?"
John let loose a smile then, broad and toothsome. "Is it working?"
Ok imagine rage baiting munch, like getting him riled up on some topic (Prolly computers or jfk) just to see him hot and bothered react
And then smiling at him which only sets him off more lmao
We love a passionate man 🤭
It’s hilariously easy to get John up in arms about something. Sometimes you don’t even have to try!
“Looks like it’ll be a nice day today,” you chirp, guiding a steaming mug of coffee into John’s hand. “Nice and blue out.”
He’s immediately suspicious of your optimism. Or allergic to it. Or both. He raises a single brow and purses his lips as he looks out the window with you.
“It looks more gray than blue.”
You huff. It’s too fucking early to argue with him.
And yet. And yet!
“Same difference.”
Walking back towards the kitchen, you can practically see his face morphing. It starts with two blinks, then his brows pull together in silent confusion that never stays silent. A scoff of amusement that seems to be the sputter of his irritation-engine. John’s head follows you and he drops his chin to peer at you over his glasses.
“Blue and gray are not the same, my dear.”
“Yeah,” you shrug, glancing at him over your shoulder to hide your growing smile, “that’s why I said they’re different.”
“No, you said same difference.” John insists, gesturing with his hand.
He knows exactly what you’re talking about, and you know he’s not usually this literal. Which means this is one of those mornings that the newspaper isn’t stimulating enough for him. It helps that pissing him off is a fun pastime. Moving just so, you’re able to keep your back to him for a little longer.
“So you agree?”
“Do I—!?” He cuts himself off just as he was about to boil over. Then you look at him, smiling so big it almost hurts while he’s frowning to the same degree. “One of these days you’ll give me an aneurism. You won’t be laughing then.”
You turn your nose up at that, “I’m not even laughing.”
Out of the chair, making long strides towards you, laughing his damn self, John reached for your waist, “You are!”
And so it goes. As the earth needs to spin, that man needs to argue.
John vehemently hates this day. In case you’ve somehow forgotten, he’ll remind you a month in advance. Roses, hearts, pinks and reds begin to stock in the shelves around New Years— which is where his rage begins. “Why so early? So people feel pressured to jump head first into faux relationships to not feel lonely for a single day!? And another thing—!”
It’s not for show either. This and Christmas, two petty things he feels completely justified about in his loathing! He was forced to participate back in elementary school, when receiving and giving candy wasn’t tied to his self worth. Then he got wise and the damn day— amongst others— became an annual burden. He’d be just as happy to never deal with it again in his miserable life.
So. The repugnant, sham of a holiday might be shot in his mind. It’s your opinion on Valentine’s, however, that he puts value in. Whatever your wants are (and you best believe that he will find out your unbiased desires) is how he’ll proceed.
Do you want to downplay it? Act as if it’s another day? Regularly scheduled takeout night? Easily done.
Would you like roses, or some bouquet of flowers? He can do that too, and he’ll let you know that his order was in long before the day of. He’ll have them delivered if he can’t do it himself.
Did you want to be enchanted with wine and chocolates and a candlelit evening alone? Dinner and a movie? You have excellent taste, though it’s significantly harder to pull off with his work schedule.
Fear not! John does everything in his power to make sure you’re not too disappointed, though he’ll dread that you will be all day long. Valentine’s Day is sure to go to shit somehow where he’s involved. Please don’t forget that there’s still 364 days of the year for him to surprise, romance, or disappoint you at random. (Hopefully it’ll take some of the pressure off of him.)
But if you’re going to remember anything, let it be that he loves you so damn much that he’s willing to celebrate a commercialized holiday for you.
