This is a collection of short fics that I've done on the fly in the comments of posts on the LJ community ST_Respect, which is putting on Ship Wars. (A very friendly competition between teams representing different pairings in Star Trek Fandom. ) The main events are the fanfiction and fanart posted by teams to fill prompts in competition. But the real fun happens in the Battle Posts (which is actually more of an EPIC LOVE-FEST than any kind of battle) where we all unwind with macros, sparkle text and comment fics. :D

These are some of the fics I've written in comments. The ones that only need a brief explanation to be understood and enjoyed by those not involved in Ship Wars. These fics are mostly humor with more than a little crack. Blue Shirts are BAMFs is one of these fics (you might have read it) but was made it's own separate story because it was so long.

You'll notice that tribbles are mentioned quite often. This is because we have a Team Tribble, who exist purely to SQUEE and smother everyone else with affection. We love them dearly and feed them often. :)

Rating: T for things implied

Characters: Kirk.... and others

Summary: Hangovers, they mess with your head.

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek or anything associated with it. I'm doing this for fun, not profit.

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Hangover

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Consciousness hits Jim like a bottle of Romulan Ale to the head.

He takes a moment to go through a mental inventory, makes sure all arms and legs are accounted for while his head pounds to the beat of his heart.

Two legs – check. They're spread wide, one hanging off the edge of his bed.

Two arms – check. One is resting against his abs and the other, which he has no feeling in, is curled up under his chin.

Feet and hands attached?

Probably.

He wiggles his toes and fingers, just in case. 'Capt'n, we've got a wee problem,' Jim's periphery nerves signal. One hand isn't moving. The one on his face.

Huh.

Jim tries again and gets nothing. More force is exerted, causing his other hand and his feet to bounce around.

'This result is unsatisfactory,' Jim's inner Spock voice says.

'We're giving 'er all we've got, Capt'n!,' Jim's nerves call back.

Jim splits the difference and bites one of his stubbornly stationary fingers. Hard.

"Ow, fuck!" His hand says. Then it smacks him upside the head.

"Uhh-Bwah?" Jim asks, bewildered.

"Dammit, Jim! If you wanted me off your arm, all you had to do was ask." That's Bones' voice. Jim would know it anywhere. Still, he's confused by its presence in his quarters.

"Whaaa?" He inquires.

"Why are we talking?" Comes from between Jim's legs. His privates seem to have obtained the use of Sulu's vocal chords. Weird. "It's too early for this crap."

"Jim bit me." The sound of shifting covers follows this and then an arm hits Jim in the face. Again. It seems to be his own this time. Yep, tingly needle pain. Definitely his.

"Well, bite him back." His desk responds, pithily.

"Such an action would be highly inappropriate, Yeoman." Says Jim's floor.

"Shhhhhhhh!" Whispers the door to the bathroom. "Inside voices, please."

"You ate three bars of chocolate last night," The couch chirps, completely disregarding the door's wishes. "I remember, it was just before I pegged you. No big words for you!"

Jim is worried. The furniture is talking and his balls have started to snore. He's pretty sure he didn't drink anything that unusual last night. And the ship's in orbit around Zaran II, a perfectly respectable Federation planet, so strange Nebulae and space anomalies are unlikely to be causing problems.

"I cannae move my legs," Another section of the floor interjects. "Should I be worried?"

"You can't move them because I'm on top of them, so stop wiggling." The floor answers itself, sounding like Uhura this time.

'Multiple personalities,' Jim thinks, 'I'm too young for my floor to need therapy.'

"You're all useless," Bones' voice says, floating a couple of feet above Jim's head and to the left. "Where's Chekov? Anyone seen the kid?"

"He's under the coffee table." The couch answers affectionately. "He's so cute, all curled up and-"

Jim hears his console ping, announcing an incoming communication. Here's his chance to contact the outside world, to call for help. Jim tries to turn toward the sound and peel his eyes open but they're gummy and his limbs are uncooperative.

'Oh, fuck! Beam me outta here, Scotty!' Jim tries to yell. What comes out is: "Uhhhk, hmmm yeaaah, Shcooufflle muuuh..."

"Jim! I didn't think you'd be up this-" Pike cuts himself off. "Um... those are some lovely legs, there. Is this a bad time?"

"Shhhhhhh!" The bathroom door hisses. The desk groans and something flops down onto the floor.

"Dr. McCoy..." Pike says, pausing significantly. "You appear to be naked. And covered in... um?"

"Let me see that!" Number One calls from the background, sounding more than a little interested.

"It's mayonnaise." Bones grumbles. "Don't. Ask."

"So... I'll be expecting a cleverly worded report sometime in the next few days, then?"

"It was Scotty's moonshine." Bones answers. "... and tribbles."

"Tribbles."

"It's complicated."

"It would have to be."

"It's the way they purr at you and they sort of vibrate-"

"I'll call back later."

"Don't disconnect! I want to-"

The line goes dead, which is when Jim notices that his hair is purring.

Huh.

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End

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