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T'Pol ep.4
🕑 Added 2025-03-05 17:41:12 +0000 UTCWe continue with the holo-program T'Pol's Pon Farr.
After running the antibacterial gel across her body, a futile attempt to quell the strange, simmering heat spreading through her, T'Pol's mind races. The sudden wave of intensity cannot be an infection contracted during her last mission—no, this is something far more primal. She knows what it could be. Pon'Farr. But how? It hasn't been seven years since her last cycle. Her logic, wounded, leads her to only one conclusion, some temporal distortion or an anomaly from the recent subspace rift has disrupted the precise cadence of her Vulcan physiology.
Had she foreseen this, she would have returned to Vulcan, secluded herself within the ancient rituals designed to tame this feral storm... or looking for a suitable partner. But now, stranded aboard a human starship, surrounded by crewmates oblivious to the inferno smoldering beneath her controlled exterior, shame coils in her chest.
Her body burns hotter, a feverish sheen of sweat slicking her skin, making the thin fabric of her Starfleet tank top cling indecently—transparent where the antibacterial gel mixes with her sweat. Each ragged breath escapes her lips, heavier now, a rhythm matched by the increasingly erratic pounding of her heart. The familiar hum of the ship's warp core in the distance becomes a low, hypnotic thrum, vibrating through the very metal of the vessel—and through her.
The logical part of her mind, the part forged through years of relentless discipline, fights to maintain control. But the primal urge—rooted in ancient Vulcan instincts older than logic—scratches at her restraint, a hunger both physical and mental. Every molecule of her being seems attuned to the presence of others onboard, their psychic traces pulsing like distant beacons through the haze of her heightened senses.
She grips the edge of the decontamination chamber’s bench, the cool material a stark contrast to the fire coursing through her veins. She must remain here, in this sterile, silent cocoon, willing herself to outlast the storm. To step outside would be to surrender—to seek out a crewmate, to pull them into the blaze of her need, to abandon reason for raw, unrelenting desire.
She closes her eyes, a single thought echoing through her turbulent mind: she must endure, she must resist.
TO BE CONTINUED...
As I already announced it is a very long set and I prefer to divide it into several folders. Up to this point (ep.4) I am going to compile all the photos published so far in the first folder, and I will send them to you today through a link that you will receive in your private messages inbox.
Comments
Crawford King
Beautiful work
