second sort of new fanfic: Panic Attack
Here is the second of last year's fics.
This one was written for sfscarlet who asked for:
Fic hurt/comfort Justin thinks he has an STD but doesn't want to tell Brian as they are supposed to be monogamous
Other specifications: Do not want the couple breaking up
Had a little trouble with this one, to be honest. It’s similar to something I’d written before and I twisted myself in knots trying not to repeat myself. Hopefully it’s different enough to be interesting.
The fic is suitable for Adults Only and by clicking on the links provided you are signifying that you fall into that category.
Panic Attack
Brian sat in the Corvette, slowly sucking on his cigarette. If he were honest with himself, he’d admit that he was deliberately delaying the moment when he’d have to go into the house; delaying the moment he’d have to deal with Justin. Justin who was fucking about on him. Or something. There was something not fucking kosher about the way his partner was behaving these days and he didn’t know whether to just let it ride or to confront him over it and risk having his whole fucking world fall apart.
“Merry fucking Christmas!” he thought to himself.
Inside the house they’d moved into just six months ago, Justin had heard the car pull up and braced himself. He knew Brian was beginning to smell a rat, and he had no idea what to do about it.
It was less than six months ago, just after they’d moved in, that they’d reached an agreement to try ‘mononogamy’. There had been no pressure on either side, but after all their ups and downs, including Justin’s brief stint in New York, they’d both reached the conclusion that they were ready.
Justin felt tears welling up, choking him. As far as he knew, Brian had absolutely kept to the agreement. Brian would. Brian always did. It’s why he was always so reluctant to make promises, because once made he’d destroy himself rather than break them. And Justin hadn’t either. Not really. He’d been tempted. Just once.
Because Brian was out of town on business for nearly two weeks and during that time a couple of Justin’s paintings had been exhibited in Portland, Oregon, of all places and while most of the reviews had been favorable (where they’d mentioned Justin at all), one reviewer had simply torn him shreds. It was the first time Justin’s work had been subjected to that level of vitriol, and it hadn’t helped that the critic had insinuated that the only reason he’d got a slot in the exhibition at all was because he was gay, and had been bashed, and the gallery had taken political correctness to extremes at the expense of their patrons.
Brian had been on the phone within an hour of the review surfacing, cursing the critic and offering to fly home, or have Justin fly out to join him or whatever Justin needed. But Justin had told him he was fine, and he wasn’t going to fall apart over one bad review.
For two or three days he’d fought the anxiety and depression the review had caused. During that time, he’d hardly eaten and slept very poorly. Finally, tired of feeling so weak and pathetic, he’d gone out to Woody’s and got blind drunk and when a really hot guy had offered to give him a blow job, he’d headed with him to the restrooms without really a second thought. But as soon as the guy started kissing him, Justin had realized he was making a mistake and tried to pull back. By then the guy had one hand wrapped around Justin’s cock and was trying to force Justin’s hand into his own pants. Justin had briefly touched his cock, before stumbling away, ignoring the guys pleas and curses.
He’d somehow found a taxi to take him back to the house and before he’d passed out had resolved to tell Brian and to assure him that nothing had really happened.
That was before he’d woken up a sore throat and an ulcer in his mouth to find Brian sleeping in the bed beside him.
He’d stumbled out of bed to sit in the bathroom and frantically look up STD symptoms on his phone. He figured he could either have some kind of HPV or maybe even syphilis. Either from the kissing, or because he hadn’t stopped to wash his hands after touching the guy’s cock.
He’d hurriedly got dressed and left the house; calling a cab to take him back to pick up his car and leaving a note for Brian to say he had an early appointment and would see him later.
He’d spent the day wandering around Pittsburgh, had ignored Brian’s texts suggesting they have lunch and now he was sick with dread at the idea that Brian was never going to believe that nothing had happened when he’d caught some damned STI. But he couldn’t have sex with Brian, or even kiss him and expose him to the risk without letting him know.
He felt dreadful. His head ached and he felt a little feverish and Brian had cut his trip short just to comfort and support him and he was avoiding his lover. It was all horrible.
And they were supposed to be getting their Christmas tree in a few days. It was going to be their first Christmas in their new home and they’d decided to go all out on the decorations and invite everyone for drinks and nibbles on Christmas Eve and that was less than two weeks away and now they might not even be together and all because he’d been so fucking stupid! Justin was ready to weep.
But he straightened his spine and went to greet his lover, his partner, his husband in all but name.
Brian came in quietly, but Justin could tell that he knew something was wrong. He didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow and Justin found himself gabbling out an almost incomprehensible version of the story.
Brian stared at him as he stumbled to a halt. “You kissed him?”
Justin nodded. “And I touched his cock. Only just. For a moment. I mean … and then I … ran away. But this morning …”
“This was last night?”
Justin nodded again. “I’m so sorry. I’m so stupid.”
“Did you go to the doctor?”
Justin shook his head.
“Why the fuck not?”
“I just couldn’t. Not before I’d told you. I just … Brian … if you want me to move out … to give you some space …”
Brian gave a huff that in anyone else might have signaled exasperation.
“Why the fuck would I want you to move out? Over a fucking kiss?”
It was Justin’s turn to stare.
“You don’t care?”
“I fucking care that you’re sick. Have you looked in the mirror today? You look like death warmed up. And I fucking doubt any STI would have affected you that damned quickly. You need to see a doctor.”
Justin tried, he really did, not to burst into tears. But he couldn’t prevent them welling from his eyes and making tracks down his cheeks.
Then he was in Brian’s arms and they were tight around him. “Fucking twat!” Brian said lovingly.
Brian insisted on a visit to the nearest 24-hour clinic and the doctor there, having listened to the whole story, and peered down Justin’s throat, said that he thought that he had a mild case of tonsillitis. He took a couple of swabs to send off just in case; but he also prescribed an antibiotic and recommended using warm salted water as a mouthwash and gargle for a few days. He asked if Justin had been under stress and upon hearing (from Brian, not Justin) about the review, said “That’d do it. And would also explain the mouth ulcers. Stress, not sleeping and eating properly - you get run down and these opportunistic infections jump right on in there. Take the antibiotics, get plenty of rest, fluids and some decent meals. If you’re not much better by next week, come back and see me then. Or see your regular doctor. If your tonsils keep getting inflamed, then he might advise having them removed. But as you don’t have a history of this trouble, it’s my best judgement that you’ll be fine once the antibiotics kick in as long as you look after yourself.”
He’d also advised that they should call in two days to get the results of the tests, but told them he didn’t expect to find any sign of an STI.
As they walked out to their car, Justin was a jumble of emotions. On the one hand, he was of course relieved that he hadn’t contracted something nasty that he might have passed on to Brian. But he also felt terribly guilty for doing something that had put the idea of an STI in his head in the first place. Plus, he felt incredibly stupid for immediately leaping to that conclusion. Especially when, now that he thought about it, his throat had felt a little sore before he’d ever headed out to Woody’s, but he’d put that down to his general depression. And, quite irrationally, now that the worst of the drama seemed behind them, he felt inexplicably angry with Brian for not being angry with him.
Brian, after one long look at him through those ridiculous lashes, seemed to decide that this wasn’t the time for any form of chat, so the drive to the house was therefore completed in more or less complete silence. They’d stopped off at an all night pharmacy to get the prescription filled and after that Brian turned on some music and kept the volume high so that even if Justin had wanted to try to discuss their situation, he wouldn’t have been able to.
Only when the car finally came to a halt and the music died did Brian turn to him and say, “Look, Sunshine. Sometimes we’re going to fuck up. You, me, both of us. Let’s not get our fucking knickers in a twist over a minor fuck up when there are going to be so many bigger ones coming at us down the road. Let’s just relax, forget the whole fucking kiss thing and just concentrate on making sure that you’re back on your feet in time for this Christmas extravaganza. Okay?”
Justin felt his anger drain away, along with most of his energy. He nodded. “Okay,” he whispered past the pain in his throat.
Brian nodded decisively and got out the car. “Bed!” he ordered as Justin stumbled out after him. “Bed, hot fucking lemon drink and something to eat with the antibiotic. Tomorrow we’ll see how you feel and work out if we need to reschedule things.”
Justin opened his mouth to argue. There was no way he wanted to reschedule anything. But exhaustion overcame him. He decided to save his energy for arguing about that till tomorrow.
He was going to get back on his feet, and they were going to have the perfect Christmas in their new house. He was absolutely determined about that.
“I love you, Brian,” he whispered twenty minutes later as he slid towards sleep, safe and warm in their bed.
He heard a snort of laughter. “I know you do, twat!”
Somehow, all things considered, that sounded rather like an “I love you too”.
Relieved and comforted, Justin settled into sleep.
And at least he was right about one thing - they did have a fabulous Christmas.
This one was written for sfscarlet who asked for:
Fic hurt/comfort Justin thinks he has an STD but doesn't want to tell Brian as they are supposed to be monogamous
Other specifications: Do not want the couple breaking up
Had a little trouble with this one, to be honest. It’s similar to something I’d written before and I twisted myself in knots trying not to repeat myself. Hopefully it’s different enough to be interesting.
The fic is suitable for Adults Only and by clicking on the links provided you are signifying that you fall into that category.
Panic Attack
Brian sat in the Corvette, slowly sucking on his cigarette. If he were honest with himself, he’d admit that he was deliberately delaying the moment when he’d have to go into the house; delaying the moment he’d have to deal with Justin. Justin who was fucking about on him. Or something. There was something not fucking kosher about the way his partner was behaving these days and he didn’t know whether to just let it ride or to confront him over it and risk having his whole fucking world fall apart.
“Merry fucking Christmas!” he thought to himself.
Inside the house they’d moved into just six months ago, Justin had heard the car pull up and braced himself. He knew Brian was beginning to smell a rat, and he had no idea what to do about it.
It was less than six months ago, just after they’d moved in, that they’d reached an agreement to try ‘mononogamy’. There had been no pressure on either side, but after all their ups and downs, including Justin’s brief stint in New York, they’d both reached the conclusion that they were ready.
Justin felt tears welling up, choking him. As far as he knew, Brian had absolutely kept to the agreement. Brian would. Brian always did. It’s why he was always so reluctant to make promises, because once made he’d destroy himself rather than break them. And Justin hadn’t either. Not really. He’d been tempted. Just once.
Because Brian was out of town on business for nearly two weeks and during that time a couple of Justin’s paintings had been exhibited in Portland, Oregon, of all places and while most of the reviews had been favorable (where they’d mentioned Justin at all), one reviewer had simply torn him shreds. It was the first time Justin’s work had been subjected to that level of vitriol, and it hadn’t helped that the critic had insinuated that the only reason he’d got a slot in the exhibition at all was because he was gay, and had been bashed, and the gallery had taken political correctness to extremes at the expense of their patrons.
Brian had been on the phone within an hour of the review surfacing, cursing the critic and offering to fly home, or have Justin fly out to join him or whatever Justin needed. But Justin had told him he was fine, and he wasn’t going to fall apart over one bad review.
For two or three days he’d fought the anxiety and depression the review had caused. During that time, he’d hardly eaten and slept very poorly. Finally, tired of feeling so weak and pathetic, he’d gone out to Woody’s and got blind drunk and when a really hot guy had offered to give him a blow job, he’d headed with him to the restrooms without really a second thought. But as soon as the guy started kissing him, Justin had realized he was making a mistake and tried to pull back. By then the guy had one hand wrapped around Justin’s cock and was trying to force Justin’s hand into his own pants. Justin had briefly touched his cock, before stumbling away, ignoring the guys pleas and curses.
He’d somehow found a taxi to take him back to the house and before he’d passed out had resolved to tell Brian and to assure him that nothing had really happened.
That was before he’d woken up a sore throat and an ulcer in his mouth to find Brian sleeping in the bed beside him.
He’d stumbled out of bed to sit in the bathroom and frantically look up STD symptoms on his phone. He figured he could either have some kind of HPV or maybe even syphilis. Either from the kissing, or because he hadn’t stopped to wash his hands after touching the guy’s cock.
He’d hurriedly got dressed and left the house; calling a cab to take him back to pick up his car and leaving a note for Brian to say he had an early appointment and would see him later.
He’d spent the day wandering around Pittsburgh, had ignored Brian’s texts suggesting they have lunch and now he was sick with dread at the idea that Brian was never going to believe that nothing had happened when he’d caught some damned STI. But he couldn’t have sex with Brian, or even kiss him and expose him to the risk without letting him know.
He felt dreadful. His head ached and he felt a little feverish and Brian had cut his trip short just to comfort and support him and he was avoiding his lover. It was all horrible.
And they were supposed to be getting their Christmas tree in a few days. It was going to be their first Christmas in their new home and they’d decided to go all out on the decorations and invite everyone for drinks and nibbles on Christmas Eve and that was less than two weeks away and now they might not even be together and all because he’d been so fucking stupid! Justin was ready to weep.
But he straightened his spine and went to greet his lover, his partner, his husband in all but name.
Brian came in quietly, but Justin could tell that he knew something was wrong. He didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow and Justin found himself gabbling out an almost incomprehensible version of the story.
Brian stared at him as he stumbled to a halt. “You kissed him?”
Justin nodded. “And I touched his cock. Only just. For a moment. I mean … and then I … ran away. But this morning …”
“This was last night?”
Justin nodded again. “I’m so sorry. I’m so stupid.”
“Did you go to the doctor?”
Justin shook his head.
“Why the fuck not?”
“I just couldn’t. Not before I’d told you. I just … Brian … if you want me to move out … to give you some space …”
Brian gave a huff that in anyone else might have signaled exasperation.
“Why the fuck would I want you to move out? Over a fucking kiss?”
It was Justin’s turn to stare.
“You don’t care?”
“I fucking care that you’re sick. Have you looked in the mirror today? You look like death warmed up. And I fucking doubt any STI would have affected you that damned quickly. You need to see a doctor.”
Justin tried, he really did, not to burst into tears. But he couldn’t prevent them welling from his eyes and making tracks down his cheeks.
Then he was in Brian’s arms and they were tight around him. “Fucking twat!” Brian said lovingly.
Brian insisted on a visit to the nearest 24-hour clinic and the doctor there, having listened to the whole story, and peered down Justin’s throat, said that he thought that he had a mild case of tonsillitis. He took a couple of swabs to send off just in case; but he also prescribed an antibiotic and recommended using warm salted water as a mouthwash and gargle for a few days. He asked if Justin had been under stress and upon hearing (from Brian, not Justin) about the review, said “That’d do it. And would also explain the mouth ulcers. Stress, not sleeping and eating properly - you get run down and these opportunistic infections jump right on in there. Take the antibiotics, get plenty of rest, fluids and some decent meals. If you’re not much better by next week, come back and see me then. Or see your regular doctor. If your tonsils keep getting inflamed, then he might advise having them removed. But as you don’t have a history of this trouble, it’s my best judgement that you’ll be fine once the antibiotics kick in as long as you look after yourself.”
He’d also advised that they should call in two days to get the results of the tests, but told them he didn’t expect to find any sign of an STI.
As they walked out to their car, Justin was a jumble of emotions. On the one hand, he was of course relieved that he hadn’t contracted something nasty that he might have passed on to Brian. But he also felt terribly guilty for doing something that had put the idea of an STI in his head in the first place. Plus, he felt incredibly stupid for immediately leaping to that conclusion. Especially when, now that he thought about it, his throat had felt a little sore before he’d ever headed out to Woody’s, but he’d put that down to his general depression. And, quite irrationally, now that the worst of the drama seemed behind them, he felt inexplicably angry with Brian for not being angry with him.
Brian, after one long look at him through those ridiculous lashes, seemed to decide that this wasn’t the time for any form of chat, so the drive to the house was therefore completed in more or less complete silence. They’d stopped off at an all night pharmacy to get the prescription filled and after that Brian turned on some music and kept the volume high so that even if Justin had wanted to try to discuss their situation, he wouldn’t have been able to.
Only when the car finally came to a halt and the music died did Brian turn to him and say, “Look, Sunshine. Sometimes we’re going to fuck up. You, me, both of us. Let’s not get our fucking knickers in a twist over a minor fuck up when there are going to be so many bigger ones coming at us down the road. Let’s just relax, forget the whole fucking kiss thing and just concentrate on making sure that you’re back on your feet in time for this Christmas extravaganza. Okay?”
Justin felt his anger drain away, along with most of his energy. He nodded. “Okay,” he whispered past the pain in his throat.
Brian nodded decisively and got out the car. “Bed!” he ordered as Justin stumbled out after him. “Bed, hot fucking lemon drink and something to eat with the antibiotic. Tomorrow we’ll see how you feel and work out if we need to reschedule things.”
Justin opened his mouth to argue. There was no way he wanted to reschedule anything. But exhaustion overcame him. He decided to save his energy for arguing about that till tomorrow.
He was going to get back on his feet, and they were going to have the perfect Christmas in their new house. He was absolutely determined about that.
“I love you, Brian,” he whispered twenty minutes later as he slid towards sleep, safe and warm in their bed.
He heard a snort of laughter. “I know you do, twat!”
Somehow, all things considered, that sounded rather like an “I love you too”.
Relieved and comforted, Justin settled into sleep.
And at least he was right about one thing - they did have a fabulous Christmas.