#coinin

bluestaric

(Public okay!)

this one's very much a character study + porn so I'll just let y'all read the beginning and find out lmao

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Jamie Kirk’s short brown curls splay across the hospital pillows in a wild abandon that matches the preferred state of their owner. Today, though, she lies perfectly still, with no drumming fingers or bouncing knee to mark her as Jamie Kirk, unstoppable object. Stillness is an anathema to Kirk, and the sight of her laying in drug-induced placidity drives needles into McCoy’s heart. 

Kirk doesn’t have any needles left in her, of course; the IV cocktail of drugs necessary to keep her body from tearing itself apart while Khan’s blood integrates itself with her system feeds neatly into a cannula in her arm. The IV system itself is fairly medieval technology, but Kirk is, of course, allergic to anything trying to keep her alive. 

McCoy settles into her chair, watching Kirk’s vitals scroll across the screen connected to the biobed, a serene seismograph of calm and continuous activity. At last, she sees the mountain range of her heart rate rise from a sedate 52 to 56, 61, 65, with Kirk’s breathing rate and body temperature following similar slow inclines. McCoy moves closer to the bed, reaching out two fingers to seek, unerringly, the beat of Kirk’s heart in her wrist. It’s an old habit from southern Georgia, where the old guard still have a distrust of the infallibility of technology carved into their bones.

well now. 😇😇😇 this is a loaded question. what does “unfinished idea/story” mean, and what does “working on” mean?

I have 78 unpublished documents each with three or less stories in them in varying stages of abandonment. I have one folder with 30 docs that are all for the same fic. I have 8 files filled with lists of ideas, totaling 240 prompts which i wanted to remember to write at some point, and combing through my notes app netted me five more. (the ideas start in the notes and then graduate to the list files, and occasionally I take one out and start it its own draft). So, yes, there’s lots of unfinished ideas churning around at all times.

“At one time” needs to be defined too, I’m thinking. In one day, I usually only end up working on one thing, maaaaybe two. At the beginning of the day I give myself (or outsource to a friend lol) about 3 options to pick from. Over the course of a workweek, I’ll poke at 7-10 wips. probably. So what I actively work on is I guess average 3 fics at a time, but I need a pool of about a 10-12 semi-active wips to cycle in and out of that lineup.

…It’s a fine art, procrastinating each fic against several others so something ends up done eventually. 😔😂😔

I am also thinking about/composing things that I’m not writing words down for, so there’s not really a way to measure that I’m working on those ones too.

Sometimes, very occasionally, I am blessed with being able to sit down and write a fic from start to finish and get it off my chest. Not often. In those cases I usually let myself have the tunnel vision and only work on the one thing until it is Done. Danger to the Body was like this

Finally done with the last piece! The beautifully described Kitsune robe from @coinin’s Rooster in the House of the Rising Sun fic! If anyone’s curious, the moth motif is a Moon Moth (Actias Luna).

I went with exhaustion, since that song isn’t by The Mountain Goats ;p (though I did listen to it and I absolutely see where you’re coming from. You now have musical homework, and it’s my go to young jesse TMG song)

Jesse clenches his right hand, but it’s no balm for the finetremors. He can barely keep his fingers steady enough to work his lighter. Hetries to flick the wheel again, but his clumsy fingers betray him and it dropsto the ground with a small clatter. He stares at it, the weak sunlight glintingoff the battered silver surface, and sighs. His joints pop as he bends down toretrieve it from the faded pavement.

He could lay down right here. Might even get to sleep a fewminutes before someone tripped over him. With a thunderous sigh, he straightenshimself back up. No sense in dramatics.

The dregs of the military grade stims have alreadymetabolized out of his system, but he’s still left with a miserable, jitteryfeeling, like someone put his skin on wrong. Despite being back at theWatchpoint, his hindbrain is still screaming dangerdangerdanger. And for the last forty-eight hours, it wasright. Now, though, he’s as close to safe as he can get.

And yet.

He’s trying to get the lighter to cooperate when someonetouches his arm. He jumps, spinning around with his left hand pulled back, butit’s only Hanzo. Hanzo’s got both his hands up and is standing with all hisweight on his back foot, like he just hopped back. Between one blink and thenext his expression goes from startled to worried—his lips slightly parted, hisbrows knitted low, dark eyes assessing. Jesse lets his arms drop and dangle byhis sides, cigar still unlit.

“You don’t look well,” Hanzo says.

Jesse huffs. Can’t think of anything clever to say. Hanzo’slips thin and he steps back into Jesse’s space, slowly reaching out and takinghis hand. He pulls the lighter free of Jesse’s fingers and slips it in his ownpocket, takes the cigar and tucks it behind his ear, and then tugs gently onJesse’s hand.

Jesse lets Hanzo lead him, barely even watches where he’sgoing. His footfalls sound like gunshots to his own ears—loud, damningly loud,someone’s gonna find him—but he can’t find the strength to step more carefully.He bumps into Hanzo when he stops, and only then realizes that Hanzo lead himto his own room.

Hanzo pulls him inside. It’s the same as he left it, but themess he’d been ignoring now grates. Hanzo pulls him to his bed, and Jesse dropsonto the mattress. He slumps forward, his face pressing into Hanzo’s middle.His shirt is soft and smells faintly of the industrial detergent they all use.

“Jus’. Jus’ gimme a minute.”

Hanzo hums softly in assent, lifts his hat away, and startscarding his fingers through Jesse’s hair, careful of tangles. He has so much hestill needs to do—sit for the debriefing, write the report, clean his gear—butit seems insurmountable. He doesn’t even think he could get back to his feetunder his own power.  

“Let’s get you undressed so you can sleep,” Hanzo murmurs.

“Still gotta—” but Hanzo pulls back and silences him with athumb pressed lightly against his lips.

“When was the last time you’ve slept?”

Jesse shrugs. Two days ago he’d been caught and there’d beenno time, and he’d been little more than catnapping before. Fieldwork alwaysthrows his sleep schedule out of whack.

“Everything else willwait for you to rest,” Hanzo says in a tone that declares the discussion over. Hanzokneels down, pulls his boots off, one at a time, then goes to work on his beltsand his armor. Before long, he’s down to just his undershirt and his boxers. Heslumps backwards like his strings were cut.

Jesse lays there bonelessly as Hanzo slips into the bedbehind him and tugs him into a more comfortable position. Hanzo pulls the thinblanket over him and then presses himself against Jesse’s back. He feels theresidual panic start to ease, dissipating a little more with every breath Hanzoexhales against him.