Author: De Orakle
Archive: You want it, you got it
Series/Sequel: 5th in the "Kinks" series (I've yet to think of a better
Web Page: The rest of the series can be found at
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Dick Wolf, but he never lets them
have any fun
Feedback: Spare a junkie a hit. Thanks out to everyone who've written me
regarding the first 4 stories. Your encouragement is super-appreciated :)
Notes: Peodeiktophilia - Sexual arousal from exhibitionism/being watched
while engaging in sexual activities
In his mind, he sounded ever so casual and nonchalant. Of course, when
Brian actually faced Munch, the other man's jacket draped over his arm, his
larynx and tonsils double-teamed his tongue to trip him up like an
It was bustling for a Sunday morning, and the sound of bleating phones being
snatched up by the harried-sounding weekend-workers had greeted Brian when
he had entered the squadroom. This had heartened the man, reassuring him
that New York's finest was hard at work protecting his fellow citizens. As
his line of sight fell upon his partner's desk, he saw that Munch was, of
course, sitting idle, feet propped up, reading one of his obscure conspiracy
rags. Brian's stomach had fluttered, and then next thing he knew, he was
standing in front of the other man, his fingers fumbling nervously with the
garment he carried, willing himself to play it cool.
"Uhm...you...left it at...here."
He thrust the jacket forward; his hand twitched as Munch's fingers brushed
his own, recovering it.
Munch, with the collected and nonplussed air that Brian had been striving
for, inspected the jacket, then quirked and inquisitive eyebrow.
"You washed it?" For a moment, Munch regretted asking, not wanting to have
to explain how he knew what his partner's detergent smelled like. All
doubts were cast aside though, as an intriguing, telling blush rose over
"Yeah, I thought it could use a wash." *Best to leave out that a washing
only became necessary because you creamed all over the lapel*
Brian's gaze burned on that very spot, his paranoia trying to convince him
that a darker blot remained on the material.
Munch, oblivious to his partner's guilty conscience, did what he always did
when uncertain what to say, and let his bravado take over.
"Well thank you, my erstwhile colleague, for the safe return of this
integral faction of wardrobe à la Munch, this particular jacket being my
personal favourite..." He left the sentence open, then realized that Brian
was still staring dumbly at the jacket.
He continued, "This is your cue to make a crack about how all my suits look
the same, give me a little competition here."
Brian's brain snapped back from LaLaLand, and he slipped on an easy grin,
happy to have been given some direction as to how to play this.
"Oh, to tell the truth, I thought that might be the only suit you owned.
Detective's pay not being what it used to."
"I've learned to stick with what works. Unlike your trendy Armani-wannabe
suits whose popularity will wax and wane among the gullible yuppie masses,
this here is a genuine Marco Giancola."
Brian pulled up a chair and straddled it, facing Munch with the solid
comfort of the desk between them. "I can't picture you in anything else."
Brian clapped a hand over his mouth, and he felt the blood drain out of his
"Tell me I didn't say that out loud," he said in a very tiny voice.
John Munch was swiftly becoming used to his partner's strange behaviour,
which entailed everything from the amazing ability to come off as an
ignorant racist anytime they questioned any black youth with a chip on his
shoulder, to getting drunk and dry-humping him, was still impressed by the
remarkable impersonation his young partner was doing as a ghost. Seizing an
opportunity for some amusement, he put on his best no-nonsense face. He
raised his eyebrows and said, "Yes, you did, and frankly Brian, I'm
Brian's eyes widened impossibly large, then he leaned closer, whispering
sarcastically, "Well geeze, I'm sorry, but it can't be that much of a
surprise. Can you honestly tell me that after Friday night, you're shocked
that I've been picturing you -" He paused, scanning his partner's face for
disgust, regret, pity, God forbid encouragement. What he found...
"You...Bastard," he breathed. Brian recognized that knowing look from
dozens of interrogations, the look that could convince smug suspects that
their air-tight alibi had sprung a leak, the
"I-know-something-you-don't-know," sing-song stare that bull-shitted the
best of them. He'd been duped.
"I can't believe you...so I didn't say...?"
Munch smirked, eyebrows waggling, stomach churning nervously. "How *do* you
picture me, Brian?" he asked innocently.
Brian ducked his head. Munch dropped his gaze to lock eyes with his
partner, drawing him up with a look. Brian glared at him, temper thrashing,
making to get up. A hand suddenly wrapped tight around his wrist jerked him
down hard back into his seat with a loud thump. They both froze at the
sound, linked across the desk by hand to wrist, gaze to gaze. Munch's stare
intensified, eyes narrowing as Brian's tongue darted out nervously to lick
suddenly dry lips.
Brian was dimly aware of the rest of the squadroom happening, but he
couldn't seem to blink back to now. His lips parted, to say what, he didn't
know. Had this been a Hollywood movie, the hopeful, dramatically inspiring,
title-track-of-the-soundtrack music would have been cued, leading up to a
slow-motion tender kiss. Had this been a...slightly less respectable film,
the cheesy 70's tune with pumping bass would have commenced, leading up to a
lightning-quick shedding of clothes for an unbelievably long session of
ill-lit Kama Sutra-style circus sex.
This, however, being disappointingly real life, the sound that cut through
the mounting emotional tension like a chainsaw was the bark of their
esteemed lieutenant. "What is it with you two holding hands...no, wait, I
don't want to know. Just get yourselves down to the Tyson tenement on
125th. We've got a female rape vic, her pimp's looking good for it."
Two hours later, Brian was feeling pretty damned good. They'd hauled in
"Eezy-Squeeze Jackson," aka Horace Nigel Uglovski, for questioning. The guy
was a straight-up jackass, only showing a twinge of remorse when he realized
that one of his prime sources of income would be out of commission for a
while. Munch had paced and ranted and railed, reminding Brian of a
psychology lecture he'd attended once with his ex-girlfriend. He'd thrown in
obscure references to Thoreau, Faust, Marlowe, a veritable dissertation,
expertly assembled. In the early days of their partnership, Brian had been
intimidated by this cornucopia of knowledge that so easily flowed from his
partner, but he was now beginning to appreciate the true purpose of these
tirades. They confused the hell out of suspects while Brian swooped down
for the kill, wearing the best, "I know what you did last summer,"
exasperated glare that he had learned from Munch.
Horace had cracked, had more than cracked, was nearly crying for his mommy
by the time Brian had brought down the signed and sealed confession down to
the boys in booking.
Of course, when he returned, Munch had disappeared, but had thoughtfully
left all the materials needed to make a report conveniently by the word
Half an hour later, Brian was on his 4th draft of the report, and his pinky
was aching from the stupid "home row" typing position that Munch had tried
to teach him. He wasn't even sure he was on the right row, considering he
hadn't actually been *listening*. Having Munch standing behind him while he
tried to type, arms coming around to place his fingers on the right
keys...let's just say that it was suitably distracting.
In fact, even the memory was distracting enough that it wasn't until he
heard a tell-tale rustling behind him, signalling his partner's return, that
he stopped staring of into space dreamily. He refused to dwell on the fact
that he recognized his partner's presence easily enough not to be startled.
'See, that's just a sign of being a good partner, we're in tune with each
other.' *Suuure, Brian-boy, just not as "in tune" as you'd like to be*
"That is the most appalling spelling of 'obnoxious' that I've ever seen in
my life," Munch commented as he sipped his newly acquired cup of coffee.
"How do you spell it then, oh Grand Pumba."
"That's 'Poobah', unless you actually intended to call me a flatulent Disney
character. And obnoxious contains nary an 'a' and only one 'u'."
Brian craned his neck back and stared blankly.
Munch sighed, and leaned forward, slipping his arms over the seated man's
shoulders, long fingers displacing Brian's own on the keyboard. He leaned
closer, pressing his chest closer to his partner's back, his chin resting
lightly on the top of Brian's hair. He typed very deliberately, the taps
ringing out with distinct "clacks." He spelled out, "O-B-N-O-X," drawing
out the consonant, "I-O-U-Sssss." He hit the period key sharply, then
stopped, his fingers still poised over the keyboard. He couldn't help but
notice that Brian was leaning his head to the side slightly, leaning against
John's right arm.
Munch blinked, and from his position, his lowered vision was settled on his
Brian, Brian, Brian...
Ripping the report from the typewriter, Munch spun around, rummaging over
his desk for a pen, newspaper sections hitting the floor as he yanked open
drawer after drawer before pulling a bic from his shirt pocket. Brian had
twirled around on the chair, red-faced, grabbing Munch's jacket from the
desk, draping it over his lap to hide his erection. Too late, he realized
that his cock had decided to form a relationship with the jacket without
consulting his brain. 'Sally Struthers naked on a cold winter's day, Sally
Struthers naked on a cold winter's day.'
Munch scrawled furiously on the back of the report, then, grabbing a role of
scotch tape in one hand, and Brian's shoulder in the other, he hauled them
across the squadroom, up the hall. All the while, Brian adjusted,
readjusted the jacket in front of him, wishing he still had the huge copy of
"Johnny Tremaine" that he'd strategically carried around throughout junior
Brian decided quite firmly that he was going insane when Munch stopped in
front of the men's room, broke off four small pieces of tape, and tacked up
his makeshift sign reading, "Out of Order." 'Y'know, severing ties with
reality is a lot more relaxing than people make it out to be.' That was his
last coherent thought before he was pushed through the bathroom door, and
roughly shoved against the wall as Munch's mouth covered his.
The roll of scotch tape fell to the floor as Munch's hands became otherwise
occupied, running up and down Brian's sides. Their mouths pushed closer
together, teeth solid and gnashing beneath soft lips. Nips and short licks
were rained over Brian's face, framed by his partner's hands. Dazed, his
mouth kept moving on its own accord, while his hands were still clutching
the jacket to his crotch.
"Munch...*gasp*...what the hell are we doing?"
Munch made a frustrated groan of protest in his throat, before reluctantly
pulling away a fraction of an inch. When he spoke, his annoyance was clear.
"Brian, if you don't know *that*, then I hate to break it to you, but you
don't have that much future in sex crimes." He gave his partner that,
"Brian, Brian, Brian," look and pushed up his glasses.
"But I mean, we're at *work*! And partners aren't supposed to... And we're
at *work*! If someone found out, they'd take our badges away, because
*we're* *at* *work*!"
"Brian, you have a hard-on splitting through your pants, as do I. We've got
some privacy," his hand began tracing a path down, under the spare jacket,
circling, circling. "Do you think we're the first partners to ever grab a
quickie on office time?" his voice was softer now, very matter-of-fact.
"Besides, if someone were to find us, who would believe it?"
This sounded amazingly reasonable to Brian, especially considering the fact
that Munch's gently squeezing hand was transferring his power of attorney
straight to his dick.
Munch smiled his so-close-to-genuine smile that Brian had to grin. His grin
then grew decidedly more wicked as he backed Munch up against the row of
sinks. Hips ground into hips, and Brian's cock leaped, poking through the
elastic band of his boxers as he felt Munch's erection filling, pressing
warm into his hipbone. His head was growing more and more fizzy, like cream
soda was floating through his bloodstream. He felt himself being pushed
back and back, him and John turning, trying not to trip over shoes and
trailing jacket, mouths attached to whatever skin they could reach, they
turned, turned. Finally, Brian regained his balance, and pushed Munch
backwards, his hips thrusting, searching out more solid weight to push
against. He thrust, thrust -
*THWACK* They both went flying through the flimsy bathroom stall door,
Munch bruising his tailbone as he landed hard on the toilet seat cover.
Brian dropped to his knees before him, wincing at the contact with the hard
tiled floor, jacket dropping from his hand as he wrapped his arms around his
partner. He desperately pressed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over the length
of Munch's neck, ear, breathing in deeply, just trying to *taste.*
Munch's long fingers threaded through Brian's hair, softening his styling
gel, hardening everything else. Brian's own hands were currently fumbling
with Munch's tie, trying to loosen it, succeeding only in choking his
partner. Finally, he gave up, instead kissing the older man's chest and
shoulders through his shirt, letting the soft material grow heavier, hot
then cold with saliva.
He shivered again as Brian's shaking hands made short work of his belt then
drew down his zipper achingly slow. Hesitant hands traced the outline of
Munch's cock through his boxer, trailing one finger, two, the palms of his
hands, tighter, tighter. Then, a rush of cool recirculated air as his
underwear was pulled down. After lifting his hips to aid in this, he closed
his eyes and leaned back, the tank pushing uncomfortably into his back.
Brian's touch was unbearably soft, his hands too cool, but warming quickly
on John's heated flesh. Both palms ran up the sides of his penis, thumbs
dragging lightly along the underside. It was unsure, and unintentionally
ruinous, and Munch fought the urge to slam his head against the wall. Up,
A trail of pure heat, then rapid cooling, flared molten-glacier along the
head of his cock. He forced his eyes open, looked down just in time to see
Brian's tongue reappearing to take another lick.
And another, until Munch was sure his heart was going to explode. 'What a
way to go out.'
The all-encompassing heat of Brian's mouth instantly wiped out all
intelligent thought from John's mind as it lowered, lowered, hot and wet
with suction that rivalled a Hoover. All that was left was the
all-important instinctual motor skills, grasp, thrust, bite, flex, clutch,
with maybe a little hyperventilating thrown in for good measure.
Echoing whispers, affirmations, moans, prayers no god would hear, all
spliced with the wet, steady, slurping noises that filled the empty
restroom. Brian's tongue swirled, tasting, teasing, just relishing the
iron-hard, solid heat in his mouth. It had seemed forever since he'd last
done this, but he fell easily back into a remembered rhythm, hand and mouth
working in tandem.
Throwing himself into any trick he could to prolong this melting feeling,
Munch found some unwanted thought niggling the edges of his mind. 'Alpha,
Beta, Kappa, wait...Zeta...condom...no...Eta...no condom...and he hadn't
been tested since-'
"Fuck, Brian, I'm gonna, huh, take your mouth off...now."
Brian paused for a moment, then continued, his lower lip doing something
"Brian," more urgently this time, "Brian, I mean it!"
The young man stopped, surprised, disconnecting his mouth from Munch's body
with a wet *smack.* The look on his face... His eyes were slightly reddened
from opening them suddenly in the track-lit room, his lips were puffy,
kiss-bruised and gleaming with spit, his mouth was open, chest heaving from
panting, and his eyes...his eyes were begging for direction, willing to do
anything, *anything* to please...
Munch couldn't help it, with that thought, he came, a thick rope of white
semen pulsing out from his twitching cock, hitting Brian on the right cheek,
the corner of his mouth... the sight before him could make him come all over
again. Brian licked his lips, catching just a pearl of liquid on his
tongue, and John came undone...
Slipping his arms under his partner's armpits, he dragged him off the floor
to straddle his lap. He pulled the tense body closer, closer until they
were pressed chest to chest, Brian's heartbeat hammering strong into both
his shoulder, and against his abdomen. Fingers twining through the soft
hair, Munch very deliberately licked the drying, sticky semen from his
partner's face with broad laps, feeling the young man wiggle against him,
groaning helplessly with each hitched breath.
Detective Eliot Stabler cursed, quite loudly. Then he cursed again, quieter
this time, but much more explicitly. He glared at his hands, and the
notepad in front of him. He glared harder, until the vein in his forehead
began pulsing tensely. Nothing. The blotting puddle of ink that had soaked
him when his pen spontaneously combusted, remained. Holding his arms
awkwardly in front of him, he made his way to the men's room.
"oooh yeah...ah...wow..." The mindless litany of one-syllable words,
silenced only by intermediate kisses, flowed endlessly from Brian's lips.
He'd really tried to make himself care that anyone walking by could hear how
loud he was being, but Munch's hand was down in his pants, doing something
positively inspired that was most likely illegal in 48 states. He could
feel Munch's tongue on his, thrusting in time with his hand, swirling in
that same maddening pattern, could smell that heady scent, feel the thin
body beneath him. He was afraid to open his eyes, afraid to find out that
this was just another wet dream, *Oh sure, like you've ever dreamed
something this weird.* He rested his forehead on John's shoulder, and
burrowed his nose closer to the juncture of arm and torso, waiting for
orgasm to overtake him.
'Out of order, my ass.' The bathroom had been fine this morning, and if
course, since this was just his day, it had to need repairs the moment he
needed the sink. Screw it, he wasn't going all the way upstairs just
because a couple of idiots hadn't mastered the concept of flushing. He
tried pushing the door open with his elbow, only to have the heavy door
Brian froze. "Somebody's at the door!" he whispered fiercely, struggling
the arm around him tightened.
"So?" Munch asked, his arm...and hand, not relaxing.
Brian stared at him wild-eyed and desperate, and not in the good way.
"Fine," and his long legs swung forward, kicking the stall door closed,
locking his legs to keep it closed. Brian winced as the shifting of Munch's
thighs underneath him had excited him further, and not even the creak of the
door opening could diminish his cock's insistence at being dealt with.
Munch looked down and grinned.
Eliot took a perfunctory inspection of the bathroom as he entered: no
obvious flooding, didn't smell like the septic tank was backed up. The
first stall was occupied, jacket discarded on the floor, and feet
visible...Eliot decided that he really didn't need to know why they were
backwards, facing the wall. Unless...nope, there was movement. He shook
his head ruefully at the fact after all this time on the force, his first
question when sizing up a situation was, "where's the body?" He worked the
taps on using his wrists, trying to avoid getting ink on even more of his
Under the cover of the sound of rushing water, Munch resumed pressing kisses
onto Brian's arched neck, even as the younger man tried to pull away, eyes
wide, face contorting in a fantastical conveyance of anxiety. He stiffened
as Munch whispered softly in his ear, "What are you going to do Brian, run
out of the bathroom while whoever's in here is in here. Like that won't
Brian relaxed slightly, then bit his lip hard as his partner's hand
enunciated his point with a squeeze.
The moist whispering continued, somewhat hypnotically. Brian tightened his
thighs around John's, trying with all his will not to thrust into his
partner's stilled hand, lest he cry out. "Come on Brian, think about it."
Damn, it was that coaxing voice again. The voice that had evolved from,
"Come on Brian, we can follow up this lead without checking in with the
lieutenant," to the, "Come on Brian, have sex with me in the washroom of our
workplace while one of our co-workers washes his hands." It sounded
ridiculous when put like that, but he resigned himself to listening.
"Whoever's out there can't hear us. He's just standing there, completely
oblivious to the fact that the golden boy of sex crimes is fucking John
Munch not three feet away." A steady, sure stroke punctuated this, driving
Brian forward, tightening his hands on John's hips, and biting down on his
shoulder, attempting to muffle the helpless whimper escaping his throat.
"Or maybe," Munch changed tactics, his mind exploring a thousand
possibilities, now that blood flow had returned to his brain, "maybe, he
*can* hear us, maybe he's picturing you right now. Of course, whatever he's
imagining can't live up to this." He softly brushed his thumb over the
underside of Brian's cock, then moved up, up, smearing the precum leaking
steadily out of the head, as Brian went granite-still.
Breathing in, breathing in, drawing the scent into his body, Brian shut his
eyes so tightly he saw stars. Out of the corner of his mind, over the sound
of running water, he heard the distinct sound of toilet paper ripping, but
was too far gone to wonder. Munch's merciful movements were speeding up,
bringing him closer, closer-
"Brian...Brian, do you think he's hard?"
With those heated, choked words, Brian climaxed, shooting a small amount of
come into the rough bathroom tissue Munch held waiting.
His right leg twitched, trembled, beat a steady staccato against the floor,
while outside, Eliot scrubbed the remaining indigo ink from under his nails,
determined to ignore the grotesque groan and foot-stamping he heard emerging
from the bathroom stall.
Of course, the hand-dryer didn't turn on. Eliot briefly considered grabbing
some toilet paper to dry his hands on, but decided to the negative, casting
a leery glance at the busy backward-facing occupant of the first stall.
Kicking the roll of scotch tape on the floor out of the way, 'Not going to
ask,' he exited the restroom.
"Uhm, yeah." Fighting off his usual post-coital sleepiness, Brian slumped
bonelessly onto his partner as his breathing regulated. Munch's legs had
dropped with an audible pop, allowing the stall door to swing back open.
"mmmm," was Munch's uncharacteristically unopinionated response. Then he
breathed in sharply and stirred, lifting Brian to his feet.
Unsteadily, Brian shook off his headrush, and bent, however far he could in
such a cramped space, to refasten his pants, as Munch did the same. Munch
flushed the wad of toilet paper while the younger man awkwardly brushed the
dirt off the knees of his pants, keeping his eyes averted shyly.
"You should leave first, avoid Big Brother's watchful stare and all that. I
need to clean up a bit. Besides, you have a report to write; spelling
counts." He gave Brian's hip a squeeze, and with much bumping and sidling,
they managed to exit the stall.
Brian followed scant inched behind his partner, bouncing slightly on the
balls of his feet. He was infused with a new sort of giddy energy now that
he had cast off his sleepiness, and was loathe to step out of that personal
space of radiating heat. He inspected himself in the streaked mirror while
Munch was splashing cold water on his face. He didn't look any different to
himself, a little flushed, but he felt a little lighter inside, uncoiled,
with that "first-time with someone new" high. He bit his tongue to stop
himself from asking Munch how he was feeling. He'd jinxed enough
relationships by coming off as too needy...but what if John didn't feel the
*I'm not obsessing*
*I'm not obsessing*
Munch looked over at him, seemingly unsurprised by his partner's closeness,
and raised both eyebrows.
"Uhm," *say something non-obsessive, say something non-obsessive* "no one
would believe it right?" He flashed his best endearing smile.
Munch smirked, "The day somebody guesses there's something going on with us
is the day that the Canadians are publicly exposed as the nuke-carrying
puppeteers they really are."
Brian decided to take that as a good sign, and gathering all his courage,
grabbed Munch by the back of the head, and gently mouthed the older man's
lower lip. He drew back, gently wiping his mouth with his knuckle, and gave
a little backwards skip out of the restroom.
As the door closed, Munch snorted, loosening his tie, swiftly unbuttoning
his shirt and pushing his jacket off one shoulder. He peered closer into
the mirror examining the darkening bite mark on his collar bone. It was
developing into a nasty bruise, but there was no blood. He ran a finger
over it and smiled, then, realizing he looked like a psychopath, rebuttoned
He cleaned his glasses, still fogged up from Brian's heavy breathing, and
buttoned up his jacket to hide the remaining damp stains on his chest.
He slipped back into the stall, grabbed his newly-returned jacket from off
the floor, shaking it to dispel the little clouds of dust on it. Draping it
over his arm, he stepped into the hallway, wearing his usual expression of
sarcastic amusement, but with a slight spring in his step.
"Next time, clear it with the arresting officer, or else it might be
Standing here in the hallway with the toast-for-brains rookie he'd been
tracking down all morning, Eliot had seen Brian Cassidy saunter out of the
restroom. While he remembered being the new kid on the block, he'd been
suitably unnerved to see the kid's grin considering what he'd heard while he
was in there. And the way the kid kept rubbing his cheek and checking his
Now, not five minutes later, John Munch came out too, and there was no way
that he could have missed someone else going into the bathroom. Eliot
motioned for the officer to keep talking, but watched out of the corner of
his eye as John surreptitiously took down the piece of paper from the
Was that scotch tape he was carrying? And an extra jacket?
No one could say that Eliot Stabler was a stupid man. As John strutted by,
slapping Eliot's arm with a muttered hello, an idea began to form in the
younger man's head.
Somewhere north of there, the Canadian government braced for impact.