Title: Auto-Exhaustive Asphyxiation
Author: De Orakle
Fandom: Law&Order: Special Victims Unit
Rating: R for kinks, I guess
Archive: You want it, you got it
Warnings: Fairly graphic description of auto-erotic asphyxiation. I don't particularly condone this, but then again, I've never tried it. I'm sure I don't need to mention that it is extremely dangerous, and should be fully researched before attempted.
Notes: As some know, English isn't my first language, so excuse any messed up grammar.
Feedback: My drug of choice, always welcome. Also, if anyone out there has any advice on Munch-characterization, I'd be much obliged if you could email me personally if there's anywhere in my story that I'm majorly deviating. Munch is an extremely interesting character, unstereotypical, and complex, which makes it very difficult to write *g*
Disclaimers: I don't own these characters. I'm not sure who. Dick Wolf, uhm, NBC, and other people who make more money than me. Considering all the crossovers that L&O does, I doubt they have major problems with other people playing with their toys. Geeze, my notes are longer than the actual story! Third list I've posted this on since I wrote it 2 days ago :)
"...No, Brian, it has absolutely nothing to do with car fumes," the wry tones rang out over the near-empty squadroom, causing Brian Cassidy to wince. Seeing the younger man sink further into his desk chair, John Munch softened the edge of his words slightly, from flesh-wound level, down to papercut. "From Latin, auto, meaning of itself."
"So, it's choking while..." a faint pink blush tinged the young detective's fair skin.
"...while choking the chicken," Munch finished, a half-smile playing on his lips, eyebrows waggling suggestively over the frames of his glasses.
"But that's, that's sick!" At his outburst, a few of the other overtime workers briefly lifted their heads from behind mountains of paperwork.
Embarrassed, Brian leaned over the desk, taking care not to stain his shirt with ink from the numerous newspapers that Munch kept strewn all over their workspace. He whispered harshly, "I mean, all this other...stuff you've been talking about, I mean, it's perverted. But I understand that it's not all about the sex, it's about the power trip. But why in the name of all things that are holy, would someone...do that to themselves?"
Sitting back arms crossed behind his head, Munch smirked. "To each his own. It's a trip alright..." Brian was sure his jaw dropped open. "...or so I hear," Munch continued. "Think about it."
Brian's brow scrunched in confusion, the gears in his head squeaking under the strain of a busy dayshift stretched four hours too long. Frustration ebbed in him; Munch knew so many things he'd never even heard of. Admittedly, they were seedy, twisted things that a good Catholic boy had no business knowing, but when his ignorance made him look like a dumb Mick in court...
Hot, coffee-stale breath tickled Brian's cheek, raising the short hairs of his five o'clock shadow. He jumped, not having noticed Munch leaning over to his side of the desk, the older detective's face, scant inches away from his own.
Brian fought the urge to pull back, an instilled instinct held over from challenging top dog all his life. Oblivious to his younger partner's inner machinations, Munch continued in a conspiratorial whisper.
"So you've got your slipknot around your neck, could be anything. Not rope, it chafes, but cord, silk, most common's a belt. Most prefer the leather, and that's called..." Munch prompted.
"A fetish," Brian supplied.
"So the belt's around your neck, heavy, the buckle's right in the hollow of your throat, hanging slack. You start pulling the belt tighter, inch...by...inch The soft suede underside is pressing against your neck. The cold metal of the buckle brushing the tiniest fraction of skin along your throat is turning you on like you can't believe."
Brian licked his suddenly dry lips, mentally chastising himself for the brief flash of...whatever...that had struck his mind, and southward. After all, he reminded himself, it was just Munch who was talking, no different than the daily rants about the government's latest conspiracy.
"You've got yourself going, the belt's getting tighter. The leather's warming up against your skin, the cold...hard, buckle is starting to push against your windpipe. Your hand's starting to shake, but you don't want to yank the belt too tight, or you might crush something vital in either hand. You start seeing spots, most likely from the lack of oxygen, but you never know..."
Another leer, and Brian swallowed hard. 'It's lack of sleep,' he told himself. 'And too much caffeine. You're not a pervert.' But he couldn't deny that the older man's words, whispered, hissed, breathlessly into his ear was having an effect on him.
"Barely breathing from your nose, you start to lose circulation in your hand until it's someone else holding the belt, someone else holding your....assets. All the blood has been forced downwards, so every nerve from neck down is ten times as sensitive."
As Munch drew out his hissing s's, a shiver slithered slowly down Cassidy's back, freezing hot, settling heavily at the base of his spine. He squirmed in his seat, causing the creaky plastic chair to squeal in a sympathetic whimper.
"Your arms, legs, are tingling from loss of circulation, and if you time it right, you let go of the belt the second you, as you would say, "reach your intended goal." The goal-reaching, mixed with the relief of being able to take a breath into your oxygen-starved lungs, increases your pleasure a thousand fold. An ultimate headrush in both senses of the word."
Munch sat impassively back in his chair, cool and collected in his mortician's suit. He was a crisp contrast to Brian's rolled-up sleeves, hair plastered to his forehead with sticky sweat, a red-hot blush only now subsiding down his brow, cheeks, ears, neck.
"Or so I've heard." Munch finished, his voice now returned to its usual nasal tone. "Well, that's today's lesson. As for my tutoring fee, you can finish the paperwork on the Stead case while I get a cup of the caffeine injected sludge that passes for coffee around here." With that, he stood to leave.
"Yrk," Brian cleared his throat. "Uh...could you get me some water?"
A raised eyebrow, and he was walking to the breakroom, muttering about, "John Munch, sex crimes detective and waterboy."
Brian let out a breath, ran a hand over his damp brow, and rubbed his burning eyelids with a thumb and forefinger. He shook his head, and returned his attention to the folder in front of him, its contents spilled and obscured amidst the newspaper and dissarrayed stack of files. His right hand slid down to his pocket, searching for a caramel amid lint and spare change, while he surveyed the desk for the arresting officer's report.
Still rummaging through his pocket, Brian's thumb brushed against his heavy, leather, belt, and he paused. He sat there for a few moments, running his thumb over its slightly roughened edge, trying to suppress the heated chill that coursed through him. Hearing the footsteps signifying his partner's return, he hurriedly lay his hand deliberately casual on the desk. He focused his sight on the illegible reports in front of him.
A cup of water was placed on a folder before him, teetering precariously on the bulky paper. Brian grabbed it, gulping the cool water down in one long pull, then crumpled the paper cup, tossing it into the trash can a few feet away.
"Thanks," Brian muttered absently, then looked up. Munch was shuffling through papers, his jacket hanging on the back of his chair, glasses sliding down the prominent nose. Brian simply stared, trying to reconcile the man before him with the whispers still echoing through his mind.
"Hey, thanks, partner," Brian said clearly, "I mean it."
Munch gave him a long, odd, look, then returned to his quest for the elusive eyewitness account.
Keeping his gaze on his partner a moment longer, Brian tried to work through the jumbling of his head, trying to verbalize his shifting perspective. It was too late though; he utterly exhausted. He extinguished all work-unrelated thoughts from his head and focused at the task at hand.
Still, in the back of his mind, a tiny, flickering, spark still persevered, merely awaiting the proper kindling to blossom into burning hot flame.