Carpal Tunnel
John dropped his gear on his single-size bed with a groan, wincing at the ache of his wrists. He sighed and shook out his hands. Joanna had commented on the weakness of John's wrist during one of her hand to hand lessons. He'd flushed and coughed a bit, then spouted off some bullshit about "overdoing it during some independent training". She had seemed a bit skeptical at the time, but had refrained from commenting.
It had started less than two weeks ago, with no warning. John had been sitting in his room, reading a PADD file on the history of Federation battle tactics, when he'd been hit with a wave of lust. There was no lead up, no stray thoughts about the slope of a back or the bend of a knee. It was just... there.
They were not his thoughts, he was sure about that. But that didn't stop his body from reacting as if they were. He was hot, and bothered, and too guilty to touch himself. He and Leonard's bond... Well. It's not as if there was a way to leave a sock on the door in your mind.
So for two hours John lay on his bed, desperately trying to ignore his aching cock. And he succeeded.
At least for the first round.
After that, things started to go insane. The excitement died off for three hours, leaving him nervous and guilty. He'd paced around his tiny quarters, contemplating whether or not to talk to McCoy about the situation. Would it be intrusive? Should he tough it out?
And then, just when John had decided to send Leonard a message asking to talk, it hit him again. That cloud of pure, animalistic lasciviousness soaking into his very bones.
This time it had lasted three hours.
John hadn't been able to help it that time. His hand had drifted down of its own accord, pressing insistently against the source of all his worries. After palming it through the thick fabric of his fatigues, he'd huffed out an annoyed breath.
If you're gonna fuckin' touch yourself, at least do it right.
After that, there was no stopping him. The thirst for sensuality would come over him often and, when he could, he would furiously pump himself, jerking off with abandon. And even if he was too spent, his nerve endings still too sensitive for another round, whatever Leonard was feeling he felt, including orgasm.
John became an expert on dry cums.
Whoever McCoy's partner...Partners? Well, whoever they were, they were insane. And good. Really good.
But now, after all the lust had faded to little more than a memory and a pair of aching wrists, John had no idea how to approach Leonard. He had no training in mental gymnastics. He could not knit a sock and build a door with a knob on which to hang it in his mind. He wasn't a fucking psychic.
What could he do?
Running a hand down his weary face, John sat down on the floor of his quarters. He'd have to formulate a plan.
That could take time.
It had started less than two weeks ago, with no warning. John had been sitting in his room, reading a PADD file on the history of Federation battle tactics, when he'd been hit with a wave of lust. There was no lead up, no stray thoughts about the slope of a back or the bend of a knee. It was just... there.
They were not his thoughts, he was sure about that. But that didn't stop his body from reacting as if they were. He was hot, and bothered, and too guilty to touch himself. He and Leonard's bond... Well. It's not as if there was a way to leave a sock on the door in your mind.
So for two hours John lay on his bed, desperately trying to ignore his aching cock. And he succeeded.
At least for the first round.
After that, things started to go insane. The excitement died off for three hours, leaving him nervous and guilty. He'd paced around his tiny quarters, contemplating whether or not to talk to McCoy about the situation. Would it be intrusive? Should he tough it out?
And then, just when John had decided to send Leonard a message asking to talk, it hit him again. That cloud of pure, animalistic lasciviousness soaking into his very bones.
This time it had lasted three hours.
John hadn't been able to help it that time. His hand had drifted down of its own accord, pressing insistently against the source of all his worries. After palming it through the thick fabric of his fatigues, he'd huffed out an annoyed breath.
If you're gonna fuckin' touch yourself, at least do it right.
After that, there was no stopping him. The thirst for sensuality would come over him often and, when he could, he would furiously pump himself, jerking off with abandon. And even if he was too spent, his nerve endings still too sensitive for another round, whatever Leonard was feeling he felt, including orgasm.
John became an expert on dry cums.
Whoever McCoy's partner...Partners? Well, whoever they were, they were insane. And good. Really good.
But now, after all the lust had faded to little more than a memory and a pair of aching wrists, John had no idea how to approach Leonard. He had no training in mental gymnastics. He could not knit a sock and build a door with a knob on which to hang it in his mind. He wasn't a fucking psychic.
What could he do?
Running a hand down his weary face, John sat down on the floor of his quarters. He'd have to formulate a plan.
That could take time.