Preoccupation

Spock's eyes snapped open for what felt like the fifteenth time that night. In a fit of supreme irritation he disengaged himself from his meditation position and began pacing about the room as he had been an hour ago. He had never felt the illogical compunction to swear come upon him as strongly as it did now. Of course, he reasoned, one should expect such compunction when besotted with James Tiberius Kirk.

A low growl, mixed with an unintelligible Vulcan curse, escaped Spock's lips at that point. Why, why, why couldn't he concentrate on something else for just one second?

Quaff

At this point, the only clue to how much of the bottle Jim had downed were the intensity of his hiccups. Not that it had done anything to alleviate his crushing sense of heartache, or for the continual progression of images cycling through his brain of Spock wearing nothing but uniform trousers. Fuck it, he thought, standing tipsily and making for his room's version of a wet bar. If I wanted that I could've looked for Vulcan porn.

The thought was enough to make him stop in his tracks. Well, he thought, it's the best idea I've had all night.

Histrionic

There was something about the feel of a physical book, versus the archives stored on the consoles aboard the Enterprise, that Spock preferred. There was something artful and warm about a book, bound in richly decorated cardboard, regardless of whether the book was seated neatly on a shelf or being tossed around by a histrionically infuriated Vulcan.

Transference, Spock knew, was used to demonstrate a character's mental state by projecting it onto the setting. If the mess on the floor before him was any indication, Spock was most definitely not thinking straight. Not quite a raging thunderstorm, but nonetheless effective.

Alveolate

There was only one thing that fit Jim's search results, so he clicked it and closed his eyes. His brain did all the footwork, conjuring up images of Spock, pale skin gleaming with sweat, passionately writhing against what could have been a shag rug for all Jim cared and calling his name. It only took a few minutes before Jim hit climax, panting out "Spock" in a fist-pumping frenzy and letting his release splash against his torso.

With a bitter sigh, Jim let his trembling body collapse back on the bed. He felt hollow, and he knew vaguely, precisely why.

Tempestuous

Spock did not have a restful night. Even after taking the appropriate dose of sleeping pills, he discovered that even after several hundred years, Terran medication still carried side effects. The dreams were the worst, he decided later. Every one of them seemed to center around the feeling of running from something that was always two steps ahead of him, something that eventually caught him, pushed him over, and sat on his chest until he awoke in reality, gasping for breath. It happened more than once, every time leaving Spock questioning whether he truly needed sleep for the next week.

Bonus Bollocks: Hallucination

Zachary Quinto wrinkled his slightly snub nose, eyes still glued to the computer screen. "Well," he mused, "that's interesting." Reaching for his phone, he automatically started tapping out a text to Chris Pine, J.K. Rowling and George Takei. "I'm not really sure if you'd want to see this," he muttered, "but here you go: KitchenWitch1994 on FanFiction."

It was at this point the author awoke in a terrified sweat, surrounded by tangled bed sheets and the darkness of 2:48 AM. "I feel a disturbance in the force," she reported to her overweight cat. After a pause, she added, "Wrong reference."

Author's Notes: Sorry these took so long. Orientation was the butt end of this week, and I managed to finish these around ten this morning only to wait, dutifully, for some of my beta's time when she's not frolicking about out of town. So I'm writing this essentially not knowing when it will be posted. Urm. Yay, I finished them?

Don't even start on the bonus drabble. I've no idea what came over me, except these were hard to write and I needed a break. Also, I'm pretty miffed (putting it nicely) for realizing seven hours after the fact that Zachary Quinto turned 35 this week and I didn't make something for it. Consider the mention a really bad consolation gift, ZQ. I know you deserve much better, but right now you'll have to suck it up until I finish something even crazier than a blatantly broken fourth wall.

As always, thanks to xladyjagsvolleyball16x for being an awesome beta, and to all my readers, favers, alerters, and reviewers. Much, much love to you all, no matter how irritated I may be!