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spoofymcgee · 2 years ago

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finally got over my writer's block enough to drop 2.7k words of hurt/comfort uhura/t'pring talking about how pon farr is kind of messed up, actually. enjoy!

(warning: discussions of non consensual situations, specifically in that pon farr isn't something vulcans really get to consent to)

read on ao3

The sofa is soft. Nyota had requested it specifically from the quartermaster, had dragged T’Pring along–nominally to help her pick it out but really just to spend a couple of hours together as Nyota thoroughly vetted every single sofa option available and picked out the one she claimed was best for napping on. She had decided on a plush, low option covered in soft, velvety grey fabric.

T’Pring knows the sofa is soft. She has sat on it nearly every day for the past ten months, has smoothed out the swirls in the fabric more times than she can count.

Despite this, and despite the hand she’s had running over the cushion to her left for the past four minutes, she cannot feel it.

It is a curious sensation, this disconnect from her body. The first time it happened, she was eight and thoroughly overwhelmed by the sensation of having her mind tied to another’s, among the fury of not being allowed to choose her own bondmate and the dehydration borne of her refusal to drink in protest of being ferried out to the sacred sands for the ceremony.

It had seemed like she’d floated out of her body, left it curled up in her bed and gone… elsewhere. Her sister had found her hours later, on the verge of having to be hospitalized, and all she’d gotten for her trouble was a lecture about logic from their mother.

She’d told T’Maia the next time it happened, but her sister had been entirely unsuccessful in convincing their mother to get T’Pring examined by a medical professional, so the episodes had continued well into her adulthood.

Nowadays she has words like ‘dissociation’ and ‘derealization’. She has people who will help her if she asks for it and a therapist she can talk to after the fact.

She doesn’t talk to her mother much anymore.

Right now, though, T’Pring moves her head slowly to find that her other hand is still secured around her mug of tea. She thinks the sensation is uncomfortable. Logically, it should be: the mug is not heatproof and she has been holding it for several minutes. Under normal circumstances, she would have set it down when she got to the couch, but her limbs feel oddly stiff, and she can’t seem to get them to listen to her.

The doors to their quarters slide open and T’Pring jumps, slamming back into her body at startling speed. The tea sloshes over the rim and onto her hand. It burns, and she bites her bottom lip to keep the tears from spilling, which only serves to drive her closer to crying.

“Hey babe,” Nyota says blithely, shucking her jacket to hang it on the rack by the door. “Ugh, you won’t believe what the Lothian diplomats said to the captain today. It wasn’t even his fault this time! Everything he did was textbook perfect according to the packet they sent us. I swear, it’s like they think we won’t notice if–oh, sweetheart.”

Having hung her jacket and slipped off her shoes, Nyota’s come close enough to see the way T’Pring’s hand is reddening around the cup. She drops to her knees in front of the sofa and takes the mug out of her hand gently, setting it on the table and mopping off her hand with the edge of her undershirt sleeve.

“...Thank you,” T’Pring says, barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” Nyota says, getting back to her feet. “I–can you give me five minutes, or is this an immediate kind of situation? Because I literally ran into a yeoman on a coffee run for Sciences on my way back and he was getting Hadrian tea for somebody and–yeah. But if you need me now, I can definitely wait.”

T’Pring sniffs the air and–well, she was raised better than to wrinkle her nose, but the corners of her mouth tighten. Sue her, she’s having a bad day.

“Please go shower,” she says quietly, squeezing Nyota’s fingers. “It can wait a few minutes.”

Nyota squeezes back and nods wordlessly, lifting her hand and brushing a gentle kiss to her knuckles before going.

T’Pring considers staying on the sofa, but–she’s not supposed to sit still when she’s starting to disassociate, so she pulls herself up and carries her mug into the kitchen, spilling it down the drain and focusing on the splash. She should really save it, as it’s organically grown in Kha’lar back on T’Khasi, but she knows she won’t drink it anyway, and it will do no good to let it sit.

She washes the mug, dragging her fingertips over the roughness of the sponge, and then dries it, listening to the rasp of the towel on ceramic.

When she’s done, she goes back to the living room and puts on one of the trashy Earth pop punk songs that Spock has had playing through his head at all hours recently, courtesy of his bondmate. She lets a few strains float through the door between their minds and chases away the joy she feels at the flash of irritation it gets her.

She does simple stretches until Nyota comes back into the living room, wrapped in her softest sweater and fuzzy pajama pants and carrying T’Pring’s favorite blanket. She drops onto the sofa and frowns at T’Pring’s laptop, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“Spock has been bothering me with it recently,” T’Pring explains, reaching over to shut it off. “I wanted to return the favor, and besides, it is a good stimulant.”

“It’s one of Jim’s favorites when he’s particularly annoyed,” Nyota says absently. “I’ll have to talk to him about it.” She shakes herself lightly, turning her gaze back to T’Pring. “Not now, though. You wanna sit?”

T’Pring hesitates. “You have had a difficult day, and–”

Nyota rolls her eyes. “And I’m still going to be here to support you. If I needed a raincheck, I would tell you.”

T’Pring nods slowly and crosses the room, sitting next to her and wrapping the blanket around her shoulders when Nyota nudges it into her lap.

“It is about… next month,” she says after a long pause, her eyes trained on the coffee table. A swell of frustration rises in her sternum at the emotion leaking into her voice, and at the fact that she cannot manage to talk clearly about this subject, even with Nyota, who she intends to spend the rest of her life with. That is the problem with cultural taboos.

“With Pon Farr?” Nyota asks, and T’Pring nods. “Baby, I promise, I’m–” she cuts herself off, drawing back. “Nope. It’s not that, is it?”

Something warm blooms under T’Pring’s breastbone. No one before Nyota has ever trusted T’Pring to voice her insecurities, understood that she may not be entirely unshakable in her convictions but she asks for reassurance when she needs it.

“No,” T’Pring agrees, pulling the blanket a little tighter and reaching for Nyota’s hand. She takes it without a second thought, twining their fingers together in a way that steals T’Pring’s breath every time. “You have told me that you are fine with it. I trust you. It’s–” she breaks off, grimacing slightly and earning a gentle squeeze for her troubles.

“It’s okay,” Nyota says quietly.

T’Pring nods and takes a moment to center herself, draws a few deep breaths, and starts again. “Since I was too small to see the kitchen countertops I have been taught to control myself, to either process my emotions in the moment or store them away for later and to never allow them to dictate my actions. I have learnt to make control a second skin, to be aware of every expression and movement, and to keep my composure in all situations.”

“Okay,” Nyota says. “And that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

T’Pring shrugs. “I would not ascribe a moral value to it. It is necessary if I do not want to rip off someone’s head for taking the last apple in the fruit bowl.”

Nyota nods slowly. “Alright. So that’s not the problem.”

T’Pring sighs. “The issue is that I am not allowed the choice. Already, I am failing to maintain my usual level of restraint. Two of my staff have noticed and approached me out of concern. It will only get worse as the event approaches, and then I will have to lock myself in a room with one of the people I care about the most in the entire universe while the vestiges of my control are stolen from me and I devolve to my basest instincts.”

Nyota takes a minute to process that. “Ah. Just–if I’m getting this right; it’s scary that you’re having trouble controlling yourself, because you’ve been doing so your whole life, and you’re worried that the person you are without that is–”

“Not… good,” T’Pring finishes, curling further in on herself. “I do not think I will hurt you, Nyota. Even the most sordid places of my mind know that you are–you’re–”

“I’m not worried about that,” Nyota reassures her, rubbing circles with her thumb along the back of T’Pring’s hand. “I trust you. And I’m sorry that you’re having a difficult time. It can’t be fun, slowly losing your control like that. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“It is not,” T’Pring agrees, leaning onto Nyota’s shoulder. “You are helping. I imagine I will need to start meditating more. I. It is frustrating, is all.”

“Yeah, it definitely sounds like it,” Nyota says, pressing her cheek to the crown of T’Pring’s head. “Maybe I could pull the staff you work most closely with aside and have a quick chat with them? Nothing too in depth, just that you’re going through a difficult time and you might be a little more tetchy.”

T’Pring bites her lip, hesitating. Logically, it would be the correct thing to do. Her staff should be given advance warning if their superior is to be more touchy for a significant period of time–it is an accommodation, she thinks her therapist would say, just like any other she would make for her staff. Emotionally, shame sours roots of her teeth at the mere thought of anyone having to treat her delicately for fear she might snap.

“I suppose,” she says reluctantly.

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” Nyota tells her, squeezing her fingers. “You know, I think you’re so cool? I’ve felt what it feels like to be you,” T’Pring’s cheeks heat at the reminder of their first mind meld, which she’d messed up thoroughly enough to metaphorically dunk Nyota face-first into her maelstrom of emotions. “And it’s really fucking hard, babe. You’re so strong, all of the time. I don’t know anyone else who could do that and be a functional person.”

“Spock,” T’Pring points out, and Nyota snorts.

“He absolutely doesn’t count. He spent all of lunch gazing dreamily at Jim and then had to horf down his food in five minutes so that he wouldn’t pass out on shift,” she says.

That startles a laugh out of T’Pring, and she claps a hand over her mouth, pulling away in time to catch the warm glint in Nyota’s eye.

“Anyway,” she continues, clasping T’Pring’s hand between both of her own. “The next couple of weeks are going to suck for you. You’re allowed to ask people to be aware of that.”

T’Pring nods, breathing through the relief of weight sloughing off her shoulders, leaving behind stinging indentations. “As usual, you are correct.”

“Thank you,” Nyota says graciously. “I’ve got a shift off tomorrow morning; I’ll accompany you down and pull a couple of people out to talk. Other than that, is there anything else?”

T’Pring opens her mouth to say no, and then shuts it again, mulling over her emotions now that the most pressing of them is gone. “I’m not sure.”

“Why don’t we put on that new Mirian sitcom and you can think about it for a bit?” Nyota suggests. “I’ll get you a drink and pull out my knitting and you can let me know when you’re ready to talk about it.”

“That sounds nice,” T’Pring says. “Do we have mango juice left?”

“I think so, let me go check.”

She moves to get up, but T’Pring doesn’t let go of her hand, squeezing it when Nyota looks back at her. “Nyota? Thank you.”

They watch four and a half episodes before T’Pring reaches for the remote. The holographic screen freezes on an image of a heartfelt conversation between two people T’Pring thinks might be an estranged father and son, but she hasn’t been following the plot.

“Of course, babe,” she says, bending down to press a kiss to T’Pring’s forehead. “I’ll be back in a sec. I love you.”

***

Nyota finishes her row and sets down her knittings, turning expectantly to her. “You’ve got it.”

“I believe so,” T’Pring says, mulling it over. “I think I am–angry.”

“M’kay. At anything in particular?”

T’Pring taps her fingers on her glass, listening to her nails click. “I don’t get to choose,” she says. “Not just regarding losing my control, but. Due to some leftover, hundred year old instinct, in three weeks I have to either have intercourse, commit a murder or burn to death from the inside out. It is not… fair.”

“You don’t get to consent,” Nyota says, drawing back slightly. “Oh. Oh, honey.”

“No, it’s–” T’Pring’s words tangle together on her tongue, refusing to come out as she wants them. “It isn’t that I don’t want to, just–I am glad it is you. I just wish I had a choice.”

Nyota clicks her tongue. “No, yeah, that’s really distressing. I’m so sorry, T’Pring. I didn’t even think of that.”

T’Pring shrugs. “I cannot blame you. I didn’t, either.”

Nyota bites her lip. “Fuck, babe, what do I even–” she breaks off, squeezing T’Pring’s hand. “God. Okay. Let me think for a minute.”

They sit quietly for a while, Nyota gently pulling T’Pring’s head into her lap and combing her fingers through her hair until her eyes shut. The ship hums almost inaudibly around them, and the vents open up as the air starts to cycle.

“I think,” Nyota says finally, “And stop me if this isn’t helpful, because I don’t want to speak for you, but I think that something both of our cultures have in common is that they tend to place a pretty heavy emotional weight on sex.”

T’Pring hums, shifting to lie on her back and look up at Nyota.

“And that’s not necessarily… wrong,” Nyota continues. “But it doesn’t have to be right either. It took me a long time to learn that for me, personally, sex doesn’t have to be the most intense, significant thing ever. It can be something I do to make my partner feel good, or to help relieve stress, or just because I’ve had a bad day and want physical reassurance in that way. And obviously it’s still really distressing not to be able to choose, but. I guess my point is just that it can be a tool, whether to help with a headache or to satisfy ridiculous, ancient instincts.”

T’Pring tips her head back, rolling her shoulders as she mulls the words over. “That is… incredibly helpful. I’ve never considered it in that manner.”

Nyota shrugs. “Again, it’s just my perspective on it. I don’t want to discount your feelings, because it makes a lot of sense that you’re angry. This situation really sucks for you, and whatever emotions you have about it are entirely understandable. I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

T’Pring gazes up at her, love swelling under her lungs and cutting off her breath. “I–can I, please?” she asks, nudging at her bond with Nyota.

“Sure,” Nyota says, bemused, and T’Prings pulls aside the curtain between their minds and floods her with the pure adoration filling her chest.

Nyota just grins, leaning down to kiss her and whisper ‘I love you too’ against her lips, as though she hasn’t just spent hours showing it. T’Pring levers herself up so she can sit in Nyota’s lap, and get a better angle to grab Nyota’s bottom lip between her teeth, tugging gently.

Nyota hums, deep in her chest, and T’Pring thinks it’s the best sound she’s heard all day.

#t'pring x nyota #t'pring/nyota #t'pring #star trek #tos #star trek fanfiction #my writing #pon farr #gonna go to sleep good night babes #nyota uhura

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