No Regrets, A Birthday Story for Vali
Written by Beth

When Munch woke up, his limbs were heavy, his stomach was upset, and his head was pounding. Wincing, he cautiously opened eyes just a fraction to test how much pain the light was going to give him. Jesus Christ. He was *way* too old for this.

A small glance at the world, and then all of a sudden a very large one, because even hungover, fuzzy-headed, and without glasses, it was obvious at once to John Munch that he most definitely was not at home.

"Oh my god," Munch said out loud and then, as panic began to suffuse him, "Oh my *god*!"

In a flash he was out of the bed. Boxer shorts? There--to the left of the bed. He picked them up and pulled them on, shivering a little in the cool morning air.

A sudden memory, intense and sensual, Griscom slowly working the boxers down over Munch's hips, murmuring something no doubt articulate and clever--Munch had been too stricken, too incredibly aroused to listen to anything other than the underlying desire in the voice. And then George had slowly leaned forward, a glint in his eyes, and moved his mouth . . .

"Stop it. *Stop* it!" Munch whispered to himself, then sat back down on the bed, pressing a fist against his mouth.

*Okay. Okay. So you got drunk and fucked the coroner,* he thought. *You've certainly done worse.*

That made him laugh out loud. The sound was hoarse, more breath than tone, the result of too much wine and too much talking. Jesus, but Griscom *could* talk, and he, of course, had been unable to resist the challenge to outtalk the talker.

They had closed down the Waterfront last night, in fact, then moved to Griscom's apartment to continue their discussion.

*I should have known then. As soon as that evil little troll suggested it, I should have figured out that he was on the make.*

"You know, I don't think I've been this . . . *interested* a conversation in quite some time," Griscom had said once they were settled on his couch, flashing his perpetual unreadable smile at John.

"You know, that's actually very disturbing," Munch had replied, raising his eyebrows. "I feel like condolences are in order--some expression of grief. Because if this is the best you've been getting, doc, well . . ."

"Such a clever man," Griscom had answered softly. "You always know just what to say, don't you? Always the wittiest one around."

"You obviously haven't talked to anyone who's--"

Actually spent time with me, John had been going to finish, but the words got sucked back inside with a powerful gasp, because with a grace and economy of movement Munch never would have predicted he possessed, George Griscom had slid an arm around Munch's waist and begun pressing kisses to his neck.

"Uh, doctor, doctor, . . . *doctor,*" Munch had said as panic rose in him, his voice growing louder.

"Oh come on," Griscom had chided, his breath fanning the side of Munch's face. "Surely you've done this before?"

"What?! Of course I've *done* it--I just haven't done it with *you*!" Munch had aggravatedly replied, and Griscom had laughed out loud, gnomish delight spread across his face.

"Well now you have the opportunity," Griscom had said, the arm around John's waist tightening just a fraction.

"Look. Look. Tonight has been a lot of fun. It really has. I like talking to you and I like arguing with you, but you've gotta understand-- that's where it stops for me," John had replied quickly but not unkindly. "I'm sorry, but I just don't feel-- Hey. *Hey*! Are you *listening* to me?!"

Griscom had resumed kissing Munch's neck, his mouth warm and wet. Munch had taken in a deep breath, then realized that he was shaking a little. The feeling was intolerable. It was intolerable and had to be stopped at once, and . . .

"Oh *god,*" he'd fervently whispered, shame spreading across him as he began to register the fact that he was getting aroused by this man, as he'd realized that his cock had begun to stiffen.

Stop. it. now.

"Okay, that's enough," he'd said sharply, and at that, George had slowly moved back, contemplated Munch with glittering eyes.

"Relax, John," Griscom had said gently, wearily.

Munch had responded with a harsh noise of incredulity, then: "*Relax*?!? You're telling me to *relax*??"

"Yes, I'm telling you to relax. Lean back," George had said, using his free hand to push Munch into the sofa cushions.

This was where he'd gone wrong--this was where he'd lost it.

Forcing himself *not* to think about what he was doing, Munch had let himself be pushed backward. He had not protested when Griscom had slowly moved forward, had not protested when Griscom had begun to brush Munch's lips with coaxing kisses, and had not fought when Griscom wriggled his tongue past Munch's lips and into his mouth.

And his reward for that had been one of the best kisses of his life, a kiss that had made him burn and ache. And so after *that* kiss, he certainly hadn't been about to protest a second, and then a third, and then . . .

Well, and *then* he'd ended up in the good doctor's bed.

"*Idiot,*" Munch chastised himself, and sat up very straight, began to look for his trousers.

He couldn't think. Not right not. This was definitely *not* a time for thinking. This was a time for firm, resolute action, a time to get dressed, go out into the kitchen (where he now heard George moving around), and then calmly renounce everything that he'd done last night.

*I didn't mean it. I got carried away. We're not even compatible--we can't talk for five minutes without arguing.*

Exactly. Exactly.

"Ah," George said, startling Munch. He was standing in the doorway. "Sleeping beauty awakes."

"That's not funny," Munch said, pointing at Griscom for emphasis, then slowly backing up a little as the man came toward him.

"Not feeling a little uncertain, are you?" Griscom teased. "No second thoughts, I hope?"

On his face was the most *annoying* look of self- satisfaction that Munch had ever seen.

"Of course not. Certainly not," Munch said with a heartiness he didn't quite feel. The important thing now was to disagree. "It's just that I should probably go now . . . oh *fuck,* George."

George had calmly, surely, moved in front of Munch, then neatly slid a hand deep into his boxer shorts and around his cock.


Munch whispered it almost plaintively. Like fucking clockwork he got hard for this man. Why was this *happening* to him?

"Why not stay a while?" Griscom asked, voice seductive.

"See . . . see, the thing *is,*" Munch began, trying to remember the speech he'd planned and then stiffening in shock as Griscom began to squeeze, to stroke him more firmly.

Griscom moved in as Munch got weaker, took advantage of his confusion to kiss him, to moan into his mouth.

Munch began to shake in anticipation. Shit. Why in the hell was he being so *responsive*?

"I'm going to fuck you, John," Griscom slowly said. "Just like last night."

Munch groaned in agony as Griscom's hand continued stroking his cock, and as it all came back to him with startling clarity. *He* on hands and knees, *George* behind . . . and the ecstasy. The shame, the thrill, the sheer strength of the feeling. It had been so good.

Not at all like him. Not at all--most particularly not like him to let a man as infuriating, as simply *weird* as George Griscom was, to have control, to orchestrate . . .

"Down on the bed now," Griscom prompted, and Munch sighed heavily, and then obeyed, all the more turned on because it was so unlike him to be doing so. This was just so deeply *fucked* . . . but he'd think about all that later.

Just like last night, Munch squirmed in pain when George moved slick fingers inside of him to prep, and just like last night, Griscom had calmed John down, had slowly, slowly massaged and caressed and whispered until he'd gotten deep inside.

And then the fucking. Being rocked back and forth, ridden, *taken,* for God's sake. It was the most deeply and gratifyingly humiliating thing John had done in a long time . . . and that estimate *included* the 1970s.

When Griscom came, he shouted once, a harsh, sharp cry. It was contained and forceful and utterly like him, in Munch's opinion.

The two men slowly disentangled, John moving gingerly and painfully, in part because of the fucking, in part because he was so very near orgasm himself.

Griscom smiled, then looked deep into John's eyes for a moment. Try as he might, Munch just couldn't *read* the man.

"Let me take care of you," Griscom murmured, and John nodded avidly. Griscom laughed, then slowly slid downward.

"You know, I've been thinking. Does this make me your bitch?" John asked later, voice deadpan. Griscom raised his arm to his eyes, then shook with silent laughter.

"Where the *hell* do you come up with--"

"Saw it in a cartoon," Munch said matter of factly.

"I see." Griscom wiped his eyes, laughed again for a minute. "Ummm, I'm not sure on that one. Can I get back to you?"

John snorted. "If you have to think that much about it, the answer has to be no."

"We'll have to revisit the question tonight," Griscom said.

"Oh no. This was--this was a one-time deal, Griscom," Munch said firmly. "Absolutely no repeats. None. We had our moment in the sun--now it's time to gracefully fade away. No, uh, no *regrets,* of course, but this is it."

Griscom looked fondly at Munch. "You really believe that, don't you?" he said incredulously.

Munch glared. "Of *course* I believe it. You think I'd *lie* about something like that?"