Equilateral

Sixteen


Jon didn't understand what was happening. Or why.

Things had been strange since their stay on Ikaara Prime. Strained, even. T'Pol had been scarce, except for her duty shifts, citing a need to meditate and rest. She began missing meals. On occasion, her patience seemed to be lacking, and others appeared to notice increased tension in her demeanor, though no one ever said anything. Jon and Trip started to wonder if they'd pushed her too hard, damaged her somehow, during that last encounter. The joy that had been resonating through their bond at that time was unmistakable; it was hard for Jon to imagine such a seemingly positive thing unraveling T'Pol's emotional control to the point of being harmful, but then he wasn't a Vulcan. It also was clear to both Trip and Jon that she hadn't recovered from her emotional outburst, contrary to her assurances.

Tension. It existed between Jon and Trip now, too. Jon suspected they were alternately blaming themselves and each other for T'Pol's current state of mind. Jon hadn't seen hide nor hair of Trip for the last several days. This was probably a good thing, as they oscillated between near-violent agitation and equally near-violent sexual attraction whenever they were in the same room. By all accounts, the staff in Engineering were giving him a wide berth, leaving him to curse and clatter at his work bench.

T'Pol was avoiding Trip and Jon. Trip was avoiding T'Pol and Jon. And it all made for a cold and empty bed the last few nights.

And now, here Jonathan Archer was, again seeking solace in the isolation of his private head, adjacent to his ready room. It wasn't right. It wasn't normal. His thoughts would invariably turn to T'Pol, and he would become so overwhelmed by sexual tension and desire, even fuel consumption reports, thoughts of water polo scores, or mental images of what Tellarite pornography must look like would not be enough to drive down his erection, and there was only one way to soothe himself, albeit temporarily.

The first time, it was almost funny.

The second time, he was able to dismiss it, citing the awkwardness and loneliness since leaving the Ikaarans behind. All it told him was that he, Trip, and T'Pol needed to talk. Soon.

That there were subsequent times was a concern. Jon had painful flashbacks to puberty as he recalled the only other period in his life he had such issues with self-control.

That the frequency of his need was increasing had elevated it to alarming.

Jon wondered if Trip was going through anything similar, or if T'Pol had any insight into the situation. He even wondered if he was experiencing a “bond withdrawal” of sorts, in the absence of close contact with his lovers.

But Jon wasn't thinking about that right now, sitting alone on the lid of a stainless steel toilet as he tugged and stroked on his erection, pulled out through the open zipper of his uniform.

His mind took him back to Ikaara Prime, to all the ways T'Pol had violated him, and to the many more he secretly hoped she would next time. Initially he was loathe to admit it, but Jon was slowly becoming comfortable with the knowledge that she could make him do anything, and he would be more than happy to indulge her. He had looked upon the Ikaaran males with contempt; now, his mind was slowly changing. If the mistresses they served were even a fraction of the woman T'Pol was, he could almost see the appeal of such a lifestyle.

The current of his thoughts took him to the next morning, the way she willingly let Trip turn the tables on her and she submitted to her mates' every whim. Jon had always known T'Pol was a special woman, though he never tired of the surprising ways she found to remind him of that.

Jon slid his other hand into his Starfleet blues, squeezing and tugging on his balls as he continued to stroke. Though it had been so unlike T'Pol to the point of being chilling, Jon had to admit the most erotic thing he'd ever seen in his life was the smile that had spread over her gorgeous face as he touched her and Trip fucked her tethered body relentlessly. Though his sensibilities still struggled with the idea of one being holding complete dominion over another, he couldn't argue that he'd witnessed—experienced!—something of unparalleled beauty in that villa. That morning and the night before had been an exercise in trust, and through it the three of them had soared to a new plane of mutual pleasure and happiness.

Jon released his balls long enough to snag a towel from the nearby rack, barely wadding it up in his lap in time. Tremors rocked his body as he spilled into its blue fleecy softness, leaving him relieved though unfulfilled in the absence of T'Pol's warm curves.

Collecting himself, he tossed the towel into the recycler. It occurred to him that the steward who cleaned and stocked the room may be wondering where they were all going, but he pushed the thought away, citing “rank has its privileges” as he adjusted himself before zipping.

Jon ran some cold water over his face and made a vain attempt to smooth down his hair. He knew he looked like hell, but he simply couldn't find the strength or the motivation to change that right now.

Satisfied that his appearance was as good as it was going to get, Jon firmed his resolve, reminding himself that it was time to go and sit out on the bridge and be the captain. Whether or not T'Pol would be there was questionable, he had no idea how much time had passed.

The door slid open and Jon flinched, startled. He'd nearly walked right into Trip.

Hair mussed, eyes dark and puffy from non-sleep, he regarded Jon's equally bedraggled appearance. He bore the expression of a man who came for answers, but was only met with more questions. “You, too, huh?” he drawled when he finally spoke.

Jon grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him into the ready room. It was time to talk.

And possibly to seek medical assistance.

* * *

Jon walked purposefully into sickbay with Trip at his side. He was still the Captain of this ship and he had a right to find out what the hell was wrong with his first officer, wife or no wife.

T'Pol was in such deep conversation with with Phlox, she didn't appear to notice their arrival—another sign something was just plain wrong with her.

"So, you must do the egg retrieval before the fever is satisfied?" she asked the doctor.

“Everything okay?” Jon asked slowly, surprised to find T'Pol already there. His heart nearly stopped when he saw T'Pol exchange a hesitant glance with Phlox.

“I'll be in my office if you need me, Commander,” Phlox told her with a cryptic smile.

Jon glanced over at Trip, who was staring at T'Pol and obviously just as confused. “This can't be good...” the engineer drawled quietly.

Jon's brow creased with worry. Egg retrieval? He noted T'Pol's disheveled appearance. She was pale and drawn-looking, her bloodshot eyes wild and swollen. Truth be told, she looked like she was having a hard time holding it together.

"Baby," said Trip, "You don't eat eggs. . ." His voice trailed off as T'Pol glared at him.

"Phlox and I were speaking about a different kind of egg," she snapped.

Jon inhaled. He needed to find out what was wrong with her. This wasn't like her. She wasn't well. "T'Pol, what's going on?"

T'Pol looked Jon in the eye, and then she turned her gaze to Trip. She squared her shoulders and attempted, quite badly, to effect an emotionless mask. What she managed was a parody of her normal expression, and Jon found it chilling.

She inhaled a deep, slow breath and began to speak. Her mating cycle, this pon farr, was upon her. Before the fever was satisfied, Phlox was going to harvest her eggs and put them in stasis so he could work on combining them with human sperm. After that procedure, she would need her mates to satisfy the fever. This would merely entail sexual relations over the course of perhaps two days.

"I shall not require you to be much more rigorous in your attentions that usual," she breathed, "However, it will be necessary for you to relieve me of duty during the course of the fever."

Trip blinked. “Two days...”

T'Pol stared at Trip. "Having two mates provides an advantage in this situation. A Vulcan male would also experience the blood fever and have increased stamina. Even with the bond, neither of you will have the same biochemical reaction. So, it is fortunate I will have access to both of you."

Jon shifted his stunned gaze from Trip back to T'Pol. He'd barely heard a word she said. He was still fixated on the first of her two issues. Retrieving eggs meant creating embryos. Embryos meant babies. “We have to decide about having a family...now?”

T'Pol drew a shaky breath, wiping a hand across a fevered brow. “It will take Phlox some time to sequence the genes properly.” She paused, eyeing both men hungrily. “We can plan for the future once the blood fever is satisfied. However, we will not have another opportunity to harvest eggs for the next seven years.”

Jon nodded vacantly, still unsure he actually understood.

“We don't have much time,” T'Pol said, derailing Jon's thoughts. “I will brief you on the pon farr rituals as the doctor prepares me for the procedure.”

Jon's heart started to beat, and he inhaled deeply. The would be time to think about babies later. T'Pol started to describe the rituals associated with this pon farr business. . .she talked about baths, caves, torches. . .body jewelry. Obviously, they were going to have to adapt some of them to their situation. . .the ship's resources were limited. . .and she had two mates. Two mates she looked about ready to devour.


* * *

The fragrance of ritual incense was the first thing to permeate T'Pol's awareness as the room around her came back into focus. She shivered as she opened her eyes, in part from anticipation, and in part from the sensation of being at once hot and cold, symptomatic of the plak tow. The meditation candle burned brightly before her, though on this occasion it proved to be a rather ineffective tether for her thoughts. She looked down at the white gauzy ceremonial robe she wore, unsure at first how she came to be wearing it; she knew only she must fight the urge to tear it from her body for a little while longer.

Shards of memory returned, though in what order they belonged, T'Pol was unsure. She had no idea how much time had passed since Crewman Cutler had escorted her to Jonathan's quarters. Phlox had been insistent that T'Pol not remain unaccompanied as Trip and Jonathan made the necessary preparations for the rituals associated with pon farr. Though T'Pol was loathe to admit it, on Vulcan, her mother and closest female relatives would have been on hand to attend her, especially while in the throes of pon farr. Here, in the Expanse and lost in the past, she had no one. Shaky hands, a lack of emotional control, and an inability to stay focused made even the simplest tasks associated with getting dressed difficult. She had finally acquiesced, accepting Phlox's argument that as part of the medical staff, Liz Cutler would be sensitive and discrete, preserving T'Pol's dignity and privacy, as well as that of her mates.

T'Pol disliked these moments, when shreds of clarity would return long enough to remind her how vulnerable and dependent she was, and of how her lack of emotional control would necessitate apologies and explanations later. As she desperately longed for the safe, blissful oblivion of the fever to retake her, she realized that they did not have much time.

She was aware of movement around her, but she was unable to connect it with any specific task in any meaningful way. The mattress and pillows had been moved to the floor as she instructed, for the safety of everyone involved. Candles stood in for the torches that would have lined the caves of her family's ceremonial grounds; many aspects of thepon farr rituals would be improvised by necessity, cut off as they were from Vulcan, but her mates were rather clever and would not disappoint her. A smile spread over her face as she reaffirmed that she had chosen wisely.

T'Pol shuddered again as her attention began to meander. The indignity of her lack of control became eclipsed by the ache between her legs. Her shallow breathing quickened. If her mates did not come for her soon, the last vestiges of her rationality would not be enough to stop her from doing what was necessary to survive

It was the closest a Vulcan would ever come to Hell.

The fever burned so hot she was unable to focus. She did not at first recognize the two hands outstretched in front of her as such when she again opened her eyes, nor did she connect to the sound of her own name. Looking beyond the hands, her gaze traveled up the arms and ultimately came to rest upon the bodies her mates. Already having dispensed with their bathrobes, they stood naked before her, ready to help her to rise.

A ravenous smile spread across her face. It was time.

* * *

Jon's eyes narrowed in concern as he heard Trip turn on the shower. He barely recognized the creature before him as T'Pol. Gone was the cool rationality that had so often served as his compass, the woman who had helped him find his way in the dark more times than he cared to count. She'd been replaced by someone who'd oscillated between a feverish waif with a vacant stare, and a starving predator, ready to tear him apart until he was a pile of blood-soaked bones on the floor.

He was somewhat alarmed that he was increasingly okay with the latter.

Humans might not have kept themselves quite as bottled up as Vulcans, but they still had to work to keep their most primal instincts instincts in check, either through suppression or sublimation or fantasy. But seeing her this way awakened something dangerous within him.

Jon watched as Trip reached around and undid the binding on T'Pol's robe. Savagely, T'Pol clutched the fabric, nearly ripping it as she shrugged her shoulders free. Jon never ceased to be awed by the beauty of her bare flesh, but this time she was adorned with the ceremonial jewelry of her clan. Chains of gold and silver draped provocatively around her waist, stones of varying sizes resembling jade and amethyst dangling from them. Two other chains did not dangle but instead hung from jeweled clamps that were fastened to her nipples.

Jon thought back to his experience with such devices, remembering the pleasurable pain. Jon’s groin tightened and his dick got even harder than it had been. He knew he shouldn’t be looking forward to this, since it was a deadly business to her, but he wanted—needed—to satisfy her. He glanced over at Trip, whom he knew was thinking the same thing. The two men locked eyes in momentary gratitude, knowing in another time or place they very well might have had to fight each other to the death in order to have her.

T'Pol moved to grab for them, but Trip brushed her hands down, clasping one into his in the process. “First thing's first, darlin'.” With that, he guided her toward the tepid shower that awaited her.

Jon grabbed the basin that contained two sponges and the mixture for T'Pol's ceremonial bath. Of all aspects of the ritual, this was the one he and Trip had to improvise the most. In the absence of a bath tub, the shower would have to stand in for the prescribed underground hot spring. Most of the Vulcan botanicals required for the sacramental water had never been available aboard Enterprise; with help from Phlox they'd determined that they were probably used for their cooling and calming effects, so Jon and Trip had agreed to substitute lavender, as it was commonly used in human aromatherapy for the same reason.

Her sensitive nose seemed to appreciate fragrance, as she closed her her eyes and inhaled the lavender mixture as she stepped under the water. She didn’t move as Jon and Trip both sponged off every part of her body. When they were done, Trip turned off the water and Jon wrapped her in a towel and dried her carefully. Her breathing quickened as he did so, and he figured her patience was at an end. She remained in something like a trance, but Jon could feel her distress.

Together, he and Trip helped her to the floor. After that, there was little foreplay. Jon held her from behind as the chains around her waist pleasantly bit into his flesh, his arms around her as she eagerly spread her legs for Trip. Jon clutched at her as Trip penetrated her body and started moving. Trip's eyes were closed, but Jon watched his face twist up with intense passion. Trip was as caught up in this as Jon was, practically engulfed by her tumultuous emotions. Jon let himself be swept away as he watched them, and when she climaxed, Jon had to concentrate to keep control so he could take his turn. Trip had come along with her, shivering and moaning before collapsing on her.

Jon shifted and helped him roll off her so the two men could switch positions. T'Pol was still reeling from her orgasm when Jon knelt down and entered her. She gasped and smiled at him briefly before closing her eyes again, throwing her arms around him and scratching at his back, drawing blood. She was so tight and so aroused, Jon didn’t know how long he could last, but he pounded into her with little finesse, reveling in the feel of her jewelry cutting into his flesh until she climaxed around him. That pushed him over his edge and he spilled inside her.

There was nothing elegant about this orgasm. Jon just slumped on top of her, high from endorphins and reeling from the primal bond energy swirling in his head. He was vaguely aware of Trip helping him shift to a more comfortable position and the two of them pulling a blanket over T’Pol’s shivering, fevered form. She eventually fell into a fitful sleep, and soon both men slept as well, one on each side of her.

* * *

Even as he slept, Jon could feel there was too much room in their makeshift bed. As consciousness sliced into his sleep-induced fog, he became aware of ragged breathing coming from the corner of the room. Opening a cautious eye, he bolted upright, alarmed at what he saw.

T'Pol was before a lit candle, as though she had tried to meditate, but she was in a position far from her customary disciplined, stiff-backed pose. Fetal was more like it. She was on the floor, naked, hugging her knees to herself, shivering. Jon was unable to tell if her labored breathing was in fact stifled sobbing, or if she was simply unable to draw breath due to the uncontrolled quaking of her body.

“T'Pol...!” Jon hissed under his breath, scrambling across the floor. She didn't react as he pulled her up from the rug, drew her into his embrace as he wrapped himself around her like a human cloak. After a moment she moaned softly. She was burning up.

Straining to reach, Jon grabbed a half-empty glass of water from his desk, abandoned there earlier in the night. He felt bad for not getting her fresh, but he was too reluctant to let her go, and in her current condition she wasn't likely to protest, any way.

“Jonathan...” she said hoarsely after draining the glass.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Jon asked, concerned. “Should you be meditating at a time like this?”

“Lack of control...shameful...” T'Pol managed. “Must...regain...”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut. Trip was so much better at this kind of thing, knowing what to say when logic failed her—he'd had longer to practice. Pulling T'Pol closer, he pressed an affectionate kiss into her perspiration-matted hair. “From what I understand, that's not what this time is for,” he whispered.

“Ashamed...” she repeated.

Jon knew it wasn't the fever talking. His T'Pol had a tenuous grasp on reality, albeit temporarily. “It's okay to feel that way,” he soothed, all the while feeling inadequate and ineffective. “This is new for all three of us.“ He knew, partly from the bond and partly from just knowing her, that she was having difficulty coping with being so vulnerable and open, even in front of the mates who would love her and protect her whatever came—something Jon himself was only recently able to reconcile.

Inspired, he shifted, guiding T'Pol's chin so he could look her in the eye. She struggled to focus, but she was still with him. “Instead of fighting it, why not try to enjoy it?”

Even in her altered state, she answered him with a climbing eyebrow.

Jon smiled at that. “It only comes once every seven years,” He observed playfully, nodding toward Trip's sleeping form. “We're lucky to be part of this.”

The last shreds of T'Pol's rational being seemed to consider this, but Jon saw the now-familiar smoldering hunger slowly returning to her eyes. Reaching up to cup Jon's face, she kissed him deeply, never breaking contact as she shifted to straddle him.

Helpless, Jon moaned, his body reacting despite sheer exhaustion. His dick hardened as he ran his hands up and down her soft curves. He was grateful for the chemical help Dr. Phlox had given to him and Trip, though he had to wonder if it had been really necessary, with all the heat and light surging through the bond.

“What's all the racket over there?” Trip's sleepy voice drawled from their bed. “Everything all right?”

Jon smiled into T'Pol's lips. Despite his earlier assurances, it was still strange feeling T'Pol smile back. He broke the kiss long enough to say, “We're fine. We were just coming back to bed.”

The embers in T'Pol's eyes told him they were in for a long night.


* * *

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