Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction

 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


 


JUSTIN


 


“For fuck’s sake, Justin, lie still!”  Brian’s voice rises hysterically.  “You’re driving me fucking nuts!”


 


“How do you think I feel?” I snap back.  “I’m the one with the itch that won’t go away!”


 


He must be really pissed, because he lets that go without comment.


 


Over the last few days, my ribs have begun to feel a lot better.  Unfortunately, the relief I should have gained at their starting to heal has been totally wiped out by the excruciating itch that has developed on my leg beneath the cast, and I can’t do anything about it except squirm helplessly.  At first, Brian found my constant writhing and moaning highly amusing, and I had to endure a stream of lame comments and innuendoes before I exhausted even his originality; a couple of sleepless nights exhausted his patience.


 


“Christ, I’ve got a meeting with Remson in the morning!”  He sits up and glares at me, his face haggard, his hair sticking up every which way.  “I’m going to look like shit and it’s all your fault!”


 


“Well fuck off and sleep on the couch, then!”  I’m too agitated to be sympathetic or fair.


 


The look on his face is priceless, but I really can’t appreciate it as much as I should.  “Fine,” he says tightly.   “That’s exactly what I’ll do, then.”


 


He jumps out of bed, flings open the closet and pulls a blanket down from the top shelf.  Then he stomps across the bedroom, casting me a dirty look as he does so, and stamps down the steps.  I listen to him muttering darkly to himself as he hurls cushions around, eventually throwing himself on the couch in high dudgeon.


 


I can’t even laugh.


 


 


*************************************************************


 


 


I wake after a couple of hours of restless sleep with the early morning light coming in through the blinds.  I crane my neck to see the time: 06.18.  No Brian; he must still be on the couch.


 


I flop back, hoping to go straight back to sleep … but immediately I become aware of the cast on my leg.  And as soon as I’ve mentally registered that fact … my thigh starts itching.


 


I squeeze my eyes shut and desperately try to think about something else, but it’s too late.  Within minutes I’m wriggling, trying to twitch the muscle in my thigh in a futile attempt to rub the skin against the plaster encasing it.


 


As always, it fails.


 


Fuck, fuck, fuck!   I twist my head from side to side in frustration.  And suddenly my frantic gaze falls on the open closet … with rows … and rows … of clothes on … hangers!


 


Hope leaps within me.  I cast a quick glance towards the steps, but there’s no sound from Brian.  I know the alarm’s set for seven, but that gives me plenty of time.


 


I reach out for my crutches and pull them onto the bed.  Then I shuffle quickly to other side of the mattress and carefully lift my cast to the ground.  I’m pretty good now at getting up and down … it’s keeping quiet that’s bothering me.


 


I stand up, steadying myself with my right hand against the wall, pick up my crutches and … slowly … quietly … I cross to the closet.


 


Brian’s hangers are of course useless.  They’re moulded, and padded, and expensive … and strong.  Nope, what I’m after is one of the cheap wire things from the Big Q that I use.


 


I grab one of my shirts and toss it aside.  Yes!  Soft, bendy wire – crap for hanging anything except light shirts, but brilliant for scratching itches!


 


I carry my prize back to the bed and sit down.  Then I start work.


 


I try to prise free the end of wire where it’s twisted round the neck of the hanger, but I can’t get a good grip; so I dig out Brian’s knife from the drawer in his nightstand and carefully use the tip for leverage.  Once I’ve got the wire lifted, it’s easy to unwind … and then I’m left with one long, pliable itch-stick with a big hook on one end and a cork-screw on the other.


 


Gleefully, I straighten out the hook-end and carefully start to feed it between my thigh and the cast, aiming for the area of skin that seems to be worst affected.  Oh God! Oh God!  Fucking bliss!  Yes!  Yes!  Just a little bit further … Yes!  Right there!  I work the wire up and down vigorously.


 


JUSTIN!” 


 


The shock’s so great I think my heart might have stopped.


 


Brian strides across the bedroom and stands naked and scowling before me.  I look back at him guiltily.


 


“What the fuck is that?”  He indicates the length of hanger-wire sticking out of the top of my cast.


 


“Um …” I honestly can’t come up with anything.


 


He holds out his hand imperiously.  “Give it to me.”


 


I sigh.  Regretfully I start to slowly withdraw the wire, trying to surreptitiously jiggle it a little on the way for one more tiny, exquisite scratch.


 


“Stop that!” he snaps, slapping my hand away.  “I’ll do it.”  He pulls the rest of the wire out carefully; then the harangue starts.


 


“Didn’t the doctor tell you at your last check up, you must not try to stick things down the cast to alleviate itching in case you damage your skin and start an infection?” 


 


I study my feet rebelliously. 


 


“Well, didn’t he?   Did he not specifically mention things like fucking wire coat hangers?  Which part of those instructions did you not understand?”


 


“Well, at the moment the idea of getting gangrene in it and having the fucking thing chopped off sounds pretty good, actually!”  I’m aware I’m sounding ridiculous now.


 


His eyes widen.  “That is so not fucking funny!  You’re collecting an awful lot of demerits, Sunshine, and I promise you that punishment will be administered just as soon as your ribs can stand being bent over my knee!”


 


“Well, at least then I wouldn’t be thinking about my fucking leg!”


 


We glare at each other.   Brian’s sweaty and dishevelled.  His chest is heaving.  


 


Wow.


 


“You know you look fucking hot, standing there buck-naked scolding me?”


 


He continues to regard me steadily.  Then the corner of his mouth twitches upwards.  “I thought you were jerking off, you little twat … until I saw what you were really up to.”


 


“Oh, did you?”  I lift my left foot and twiddle my toes against his pubes, waggling my eyebrows suggestively.  “So you were planning on watching?”


 


“No, brat.  I was coming to help.”


 


“Well, I’d hate to disappoint you … especially as I’m sure you can take my mind off my itch better than any damn coat-hanger.”  I smile sweetly and stroke the ball of my foot against his rapidly burgeoning erection.


 


“Mmh,” he croaks.  “Just give me second to think of something.”


 


 


****************************************************


 


 


Which is how I’ve ended up on the floor, lying on my back on a pile of cushions, with my cast propped up on one end of the coffee table.


 


Let me explain.


 


We’ve been having sex regularly, but the only position we’ve been able to manage is with Brian spooning behind me … which can be wonderfully intense, but never vigorous because neither of us can get any leverage.


 


Lying face down is out because my ribs won’t take it yet, which also means I can’t bend over anything.  We even tried it with Brian sitting on a dining chair and me straddling his lap, but the effort required to ride him whilst doing all the work with only one functioning leg kinda took the fun out of it.


 


Lying on my back with Brian on top is out too, because although Brian can easily support himself on his arms so as not to pressure my ribs, I simply can’t angle my hips high enough with my leg weighed down by the fucking cast. 


 


Believe me, I’ve tried.


 


So now, fuelled by lust and desperation, Brian has come up with a plan.  Namely that if he props the offending cast up in the air, i.e. on the coffee table, then my hips will be elevated enough for him to get the required angle.


 


I’ve reached that foggy state of pre-coital anticipation where anything sounds like a good idea, and as Brian kneels between my legs, his eyes and hands hot upon me, it seems positively brilliant.  I smile as he leans in, caging me with his arms, and his hard, urgent mouth finds mine.  But as he presses his body closer against me and my legs spread further apart, my cast starts to slip on the glass top of the coffee table and before I can do anything sensible it slides over the edge, and I end up with my legs split apart at ninety degrees.


 


Ow, fuck, that hurts!”  I squeak, breathless with pain.  I’m mortified to find I can’t free myself because the table leg is pressed against my thigh, preventing me from moving it, and Brian’s body is pinning the rest of me.  “Fuck it, Brian, help!”


 


He sits back on his knees and his eyes widen as he sees my predicament: he immediately shoves the coffee table out of the way, freeing my leg.  “Jesus fucking Christ, Justin!”  His voice sounds concerned, but his lips are twitching. .  “I knew you were flexible, but isn’t that taking things to extremes?  Are you okay?”


 


“Of course I’m not okay!” I gasp, torn between pain, embarrassment and giggles; because really, I can see how funny it is even though it fucking hurts.  I grab my cast and try to haul my leg back into its normal position relative to my body.  “I think I’ve dislocated my fucking hip!”


 


“In which case, you’d hardly be laughing,” he points out, trying unsuccessfully not to snicker, and I glare at him.  “Come on, let me take a look.” 


 


I smack his hands away.  “No thanks, you’ve already done enough damage,” I retort, “you and your clever ideas!”


 


He raises both eyebrows.  “I seem to remember very clearly that you were the one begging me to distract you.  I was only trying to be creative.”


 


“I didn’t expect you to distract me by ripping my leg out of its socket!”  I half laugh, half cry.


 


“Ah, but you see, that’s your fault because of what you said earlier.  Don’t forget, Sunshine; be careful of what you wish for, in case you get it.”  He reaches down and places his hand on the inside of my right thigh, his long fingers gently massaging the tendon.  “Better?”


 


“Mmh.  Maybe.”  I’m trying to be pissed, but the look in his eyes and the careful ministrations of his fingers are making me forget what I’m trying to be pissed about.


 


 Brian shifts so that he’s lying on my left side, leaning over me.  His hand has crept up to my groin.


 


“I guess we’ll just have to leave the energetic stuff until you get a leg brace,” he whispers, his breath warm against my face, “and I hope you know that on that happy occasion I’m gonna fuck you on every surface I can find … but for now …” he lips fasten on my throat just above my collar bone and suck a little; “I guess I’ll just have to do this instead.”


 


I twist my fingers in his hair as his lips begin to trail south.


 


 


 


 


TBC


 

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