Author's Notes:
Disclaimers and Story Description in Chapter One, "Promises and Choices".
T'Pol is caught in a spiraling emotional collapse after her marriage to Koss. There is trellium, and need that explodes in ways she can't control, and doesn't want to.
This story is Rated Mature for sexuality, alcohol and drug use, language, and adult themes. (NSFW!)
Update, June 13, 2016: I'm revising some rather glaring errors I've discovered and enacting an overall embetterment of this story. Since the current word count is over 5OK, and I'm also involved in several other projects, patience is greatly welcomed, as are reviews that point out any typos, glitches, or whathaveyou I haven't corrected yet.
My aim, as always, is to provide the very best stories I can write. I love feedback, even it's a less than stellar reviews, because there is so much to learn from them. Lay 'em on me! =D
"A Sweet Wild Dream"
"Are you well, wife?"
Koss stands at the entry to the room. With the trellium coursing icefire through her veins, T'Pol feels him in the unwanted and as-yet unconsummated bond. Uncertainty, and a desire to see to her needs, to make this arrangement as agreeable as it can be, given the circumstances.
There is also a note of fear that inflames her own emotions.
"No, Koss, I am not well." Not remotely well. How can she be? She turns to face him, and does nothing to hide the hypospray.
He regards the device, but they are both Vulcan. Koss respects her privacy, although she wishes that he won't, that he will give her reason to lash out - any reason will suffice. Illogically, she longs to hurt him, as he's hurt her with his insistence that she honor the terms of their Promising. He's taken what she wants most, needs most.
"I am bereft." Had she meant to say it, for the hollowness of her soul to be echoed in her voice?
"'Bereft'? Is it a human word? I'm unfamiliar with its meaning." Calm. He is so calm; the emotions flow beneath, not touching his behavior. Even before the trellium, before her unprecedented Awakening to a human man, T'Pol's calm was never so complete.
"Yes, it's a human word. Our species- we numb ourselves, but humans - humans embrace their emotions, Koss. To be bereft - it is to be alone when you crave the presence of another - to be adrift, without purpose or solace - yes, more human words, because there are none in Vulcan to express these feelings. I am bereft."
Jealousy twists through her abdomen - she knows it well; her human helped her to learn it - and what is he feeling, now? Thismarriage bond obscures her awareness of him, and she's made reckless with her need for him.
"Is there some way in which I may - alleviate your distress, my wife?"
"Yes," she snarls. "Cease calling my 'my wife', as though this is an honor. For me, it is nothing other than a prison sentence." Her hand is shaking, the hypospray tempting, cool and solid. An anchor. Like Trip. Something in her rises up, won't be stilled. She wants him to see her employ the device. She needs him to know what he's contracted to mate. She wants him to know how deeply she hates what she's done. "My name is T'Pol. Use that, if you must address me at all."
"T'Pol - I am at your service. If there is something that you require, or desire -"
"There is someone that I desire, husband, and it's not you!"
"I won't stand in your way. If your human friend can answer those desires -"
"I didn't seek permission. I'll do as I will, Koss. With him, and with this!" She arches her neck back. Trip loved to kiss and nibble the line of her arched neck, the pinnae of her ears, and her clavicle. Humans make an art and a science and a celebration of mating, and Trip delighted in lavishing her, learning her. T'Pol moans at the memory, at the remembered ecstasy of touch, and slams the hypospray against her jugular vein. She does nothing to repress the gasping shudder it brings, and she doesn't care that there will be a bruise at the injection site from the force of her assault upon what remains of her sanity.
"What does the hypospray contain, T'Pol? Is it a medication necessary to treat your illness?" Gentle. Calm.
"This medication is my illness - at least in part. It is a psychotropic toxin that is, at this moment, destroying my synaptic pathways. It's best you maintain your distance; it will affect you if you come any nearer."
Now, her voice is as flat as any Vulcan's. But the emotions - oh, the emotions! She hates him for his calm and his gentleness, for being unobjectionable and undeserving of her hatred. Illogical in the extreme. But no less true.
"Why, T'Pol?"
There's something in him that reminds her of the Captain. In other circumstances, perhaps, he could be a friend. But not now. Not ever.
"Because I need it! Because I want to feel! Because I can feel him, with the icefire in my veins. Because I am addicted." He moves as though to step nearer, and she hisses, "Come no closer; I'm not safe."
Koss stays where he is; though she herself warned him, T'Pol wishes he would dare come close enough that she could attack him, rend him. After a moment's consideration, he speaks.
"Can the condition be reversed?"
"No. Nor would I agree to the treatment if it could be." She can't live without the emotions; not anymore.
"That seems - illogical."
She stares at him. "Fuck logic," she screams. There are times when English is a most concise language. If she can't have Trip, then she will have this. She will fill herself with it. She might kill herself with it. Then there will be no pain.
"It wasn't my intention to cause you distress, T'Pol, only to honor the terms of our Promising."
"Terms imposed on us when we were children. Terms that suit neither of us." Yes. She remembers. There was someone else in the link; Koss had called the other t'hy'la. He wants her only because they were Promised. Like her, his soul has already been given, and accepted. She feels the resonance of other fingers, a mind lurking like an arachnid in its web, then forcing hers open to take the lifeblood of her most cherished memory.
"Such a shame," Tolaris had said, when he couldn't break her. This is a far greater shame. How many marry as ordered, when they long for another?
"Whether they suit us personally is not the reason for pairbonding, as you know." T'Pol wants to scream in his face, shake him until he taps into his own primal nature.
Tolaris, again, as though he whispers in her ear. "Our primal nature, T'Pol, is not as dangerous as you think." But it had been. It is, now.
"I also suffer from Pa'Naar Syndrome." She throws the information at him as though it's an attack. "Yes, Koss- I've engaged in a mind meld - "
She wants him to be shocked, to lose that complacency and control. But he only nods. "I am aware of that, and the circumstances surrounding it. There are treatments - my family physicians are currently engaged in research."
"I want no treatments!"
"Pa'Naar Syndrome is fatal, T'Pol." He tips his head, and a faint shading of feeling makes its way into his voice. She is exultant, and enraged, at once. The paradox bursts from her in a raw scream.
"Then let it kill me, if the trellium doesn't do it first! I want to die! That will release me from - from the hell of living as the wife of a man I don't want! Let me die, sooner rather than later."
"There is your human friend. Doesn't he desire you?"
She moans with the memory of how deeply he desires her, and how impossible what Koss suggests is. "I won't speak of him to you!" Had she intended to inject again? How many times, now - four, five, more?
What matter?
"Hod your silence, if you wish. Know only that I have no objection to anything you wish to do with him -"
Her pheromones release so powerfully that she cries out, hips thrusting forth as her back arches in an involuntary mating display- not meant for this man, or any man of this world. Meant for one ma, one human, alone. "I can't imagine he would refuse you, T'Pol, if he could see you in this moment, flaming with your desire for him."
"You will permit it?" Her breath is a sharp pant; her hands move restlessly over the dress she still wears - why is she clothed? What logic is there in that? And why does she ask, as though he has some right to deny her?
"Permit it? I'm aware of your combat skills. I'm not competent to stop you. I'll take you safely to your mother's home, if that's your wish."
"Why?" She suspects a trap; her hands tear at the neck of the dress; she can't breathe in it anymore; she's bathed in sweat, in need.
"Because I fear for you, and myself, if you stay here, with your needs untended. You are my wife, and I can't abdicate my responsibility to see that others remain unharmed while you are altered."
"Trip..." It's only a whisper, like a tiny cry. He doesn't hear her; she can't feel him. She raises the device again. She needs to feel him.
Please, T'Pol, do not -"
Se doesn't listen. She can't. The hypo hisses, but it's empty ; she snarls and throw it at him, and he narrowly manages to catch it before it strikes him. She wants more, needs more- there is more, at her mother's home.
That is where Trip is.
"Take me to him. Take me to him now. Now, now now...he is mine. Mine. Mine!"
"I'll take you. Come -"
The word has human connotations. Koss can't know them; T'Pol can't forget. She moans, her hand moving to her stavril, frantic, hungry, unstoppable. The man turns slightly away, but holds his focus on her face; he can' t rust he as she is. She gives herself to the seeking after orgasm - a human word, for something unnecessary for females in Vulcan reproduction.
But it won't come. She can't come. Not here, not with him. She snarls again, longing for the primal release, the spiraling pleasures Trip awoke in her - only him, only him, only him. She moans her need. "Trip..."
"I will take you to him. But you must come- I don't dare touch you, now."
Calm. Still.
He is so calm, and now she is grateful. She needs too much, feels too much; she can't think. She trusts herself to this man who is her husband, who says he will take her to her lover, her mate.
She trusts in him, because she must. She must have trellium. More. She must have Trip.
"Please - help me!" She doesn't know what she's asking him for.
"I vow always to do that. It can't undo what's done. But I will see you to your mate; support you in any way a husband can."
"Hurry. Hurry. Hurry!"
It's dark when he opens the door - when had it become night?
"This way, T'Pol."
She follows where he leads. He opens the door to a spacious aircar, and she nearly throws herself inside. He sits in the cockpit; she hungers, and shudders with need.
Hazy time of feeling. She loses track of everything but feeling, of seeking him in her mind, then finding him - "Trip!"
"Pepperpot? Aww, hell...I don't want to dream about you. Hurts. Hurts so bad..."
"So much pain...so much need -"
"Oh, damn. You're high, n' I'm drunk. What the hell kind of dream will this be?"
"Is it a dream, Trip? No - let it be real."
"Damn, I wish I could. Wish we could. Bu you married him, pepperpot."
"Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. It means nothing. Onlyyou. Only you. Onlyyou..."
"We have reached your destination, T'Pol. Do you need assistance?"
But she's clawing at the door. Prying it open. Falling out to land tangled on the ground. Rolling up. Running. Staggering. Falling. Tearing at the dress, shredding it. Leaving the bits scattered.
She's at the garden gate. She removes the obstacle, and keeps moving into the house -
And is stopped by the single candle, with its flame. It calls to her, as it did when she was a child. The flame, and the nectar. The trellium, and Trip.
She is drawn to the flame, to the power and the beauty. The scars of the first burning pulse with her need.
"Kroykah!"
The command means nothing. She didn't heed it as an infant She doesn't now. She thrusts paired fingers into the flame.
For the nectars, and the man who has Awakened her.
The pain is as she remembers. Beautiful, powerful.
Paired fingers join hers, twine with them. Minds and breath twine together, following their fingers. They share the beauty, the pain, the power. She arches and displays.
"Kroykah, daughter! Kroykah!"
It's beyond her to stop. Why should she, when he is her mate? When she is his? "T'hy'la!"
Trip groans and kisses her. He pulls her in. She is his. He is hers. This is theirs. Theirs tangle together, the flame forgotten. She presses him down. "Aww, hell. Let it be a dream, pepperpot. A sweet wild dream. Sexiest damned dream of my life." He whispers in her ear. She shivers into his cool breath.
"It's a dream, Trip." Is it? She doesn't know. She's willing to believe. To let him believe. Anything, to have him. To be penetrated. Inseminated by her mate. To become one. "Only a dream..."
"This is no dream. Daughter, you have no right to use this man. Kroykah. Go to your husband. Bring your need to him."
"Aww, hell, pepperpot - you're married, and not to me. You've got a husband -"
Husband? Was Trip not her mate? No one else could meet this need. Only him. Only her mate.
"Mine. Mine. Mine! Now, now, now -" She ground against him, tearing at his clothes, her own. Her nails raked flesh. Red blood, and green. Blending. Merging.
"Hope to hell it's a dream - can't stop, not now. Not when you're like this. Gotta be a dream,, cause - cause I can't stop. Don't want to -"
She presents herself. Her pheromones release, wrenching a cry from her. She opens to her mate. Body, mind, soul - she is his.
"Sorry, T'Les. Can't resist her. Not like this. She needs me - and dammit, I need her, too."
"You need me?"
"More than I need to breathe, pepperpot. Oh, damn...this is wrong. But so right."
"The cause is sufficient. Go in peace. Do what is needed. You won't be disturbed."
He lifts her, and she wraps her legs around him, desperate to feel him moving within her. She needs not only mating, but the climbing, soaring dance toward ecstasy. She needs to make love - with him. He carries her to her bed, and the door closes.
"A comfortable bed. A door that locks." She gives him the words he spoke, long ago, in that Suliban cell.
"Right - gotta lock the door."
They fall onto the bed, and then he's within her, stavril mated to stavrit, souls twining, dancing. She offers him her burned fingertips, as her other hand finds his face, his cherished rounded ear, his temple and the bioelectric pulses that are onlyhis, onlyhis, onlyhis...
He takes her fingers into his mouth, watching her until his panting breath catches. His eyes close. She can feel him nearing ejaculation. She's frantic, ready to come. He suckles her fingers, and they plunge together into oblivion, into oneness.
She shakes, after, still needing. He needs rest, but his hands travel her body. He stares into her eyes. "This isn't a dream, T'Pol."
"I know, Trip." It matters to him, that she understand. She feels it.
"We can't do this again - we shouldn't. Sorry - I should've resisted. Still drunk. My judgment's shot."
"I'll go." She doesn't know how she'll leave.
But he clutches at her, holds her back. "No, don't. Not yet. How much, T'Pol?"
She rests her head on his chest, where she can here the slowing music of his human heart, feel his breath passing through his human lungs, breathe the scent of her human t'hy'la. "How much?"
Trip strokes her hair, tips her head up. He looksdeeply into her eyes, and says, softly, "Trellium. How much? Never seen you like this, since they brought you back from the Seleya. How much?"
"More, more, more -" She has no answer to give him, only the need that must be filled.
"Where's yer scanner?" He is an engineer, even now. She shakes her head; she doesn't know; doesn't care. She quivers; she clings. His fingers shake as they trace her ear, the place where she injects...safe. She's safe with him. She can rest. He'll take care of her.
"You aren't keepin' score, anymore, pepperpot? 'N' I'm way the hell too drunk to know how much I've had...we're in trouble, deep trouble, T'Pol- cause I'm not gonna say no, and dammit, I should - you should - "
"I'll go. "She doesn't want to hurt him - or use him. She loves him. She starts to rise, not knowing how she manages. Is this love, then - denying them both, so her beloved won't be hurt more than he has been?
She is moving. She doesn't know where she'll go. Not back to Koss. No. He's not safer, where she is. Somewhere. She'll go somewhere.
The sobbing breaks from her. She tries to hold it, but can't. She's helpless. She needs him - and he catches hold of her hands, drawing her back onto the bed, into hos embrace. Trip kisses away her tears, moves over her, and his stavrit is erect, ready. She moans, and arches, but tries to pull away, to spare him the pain she brings.
But he kissed her, then whispered, "Please stay. It's wrong; I know it. Stay anyway...stay with me, pepperpot, let me make love with you, hold you till you come down, till you can face this."
And then he moves inside her, and there is only what they share together.