#milkywaywriting

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What if I… leave a sneak peek of the last chapter of my souyo hanahaki fic here, knowing no one who reads it follows me

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Hey I wanna write kisses this week. Tell me who you want to smooch and which prompt and maybe I’ll do the thing

kiss me with your eyes closed - kiss prompts

prompt list by @novelbear

pulling away and their faces are all flushed and they hear nothing but the sound of eachother trying to catch their own breaths

grabbing them by their waist and tugging them closer to deepen the kiss

^ maybe it catches the other off guard and they let out a little noise of surprise (much to the amusement of their partner)

cupping their cheeks and giving them a peck on the nose or lips

smiling into the kiss (it's gonna do it for me every time)

or if they smirk a little whilst doing it oh my god

they're lying on the bed, one on top of the other just planting kisses alllllll over their face. all over.

just going at it and suddenly they're being picked up and placed on the counter (or whatever surface is near)

laughing out loud when one of them makes any noises accidentally

one is shorter and they just plant a soft kiss (or kisses) along the taller's jawline

gentle. forehead. kisses.

a first kiss: one just goes for it so fast that the other doesn't realize what's happening at first. then they're like "oh shit"

^ but they slowly melt into it, let their eyes close, and kiss back

back hugging and the one in front just turns around to press their lips against the other's

those kisses that start off short and sweet, but things just naturally escalate

whispering words of admiration and love between a kiss

one is on the other's lap, holding their face between their hands, kissing them and instantly forgetting everything else in the room with them

those kisses that are just passionate from the start, they wrap their arms around their partner's neck or waist, being dipped back slightly.

after a heated session, they admire their flushed partner and softly place a peck on the cheek.

when they're holding hands and one just brings them up to their lips and places a kiss on their fingers.

[howdywrites]

I am!!

I'm MilkywayWrites!

hello ladies theydies and himbos! if youre participating in nano and you’d like to share, please either reblog or comment your username! i’m looking to add some buddies before nano actually starts and i get lost in the sauce of writing (i’m sunlightbyhozier!)

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It's done!!! Ch3 and surprise epilogue have been uploaded and I can lay this hanahaki fic to rest

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I need to learn how to shut up during prompts but here. Prompt was flower and yall are welcome

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Paranoia

540 words, General

———

There are so many emotions the human body is capable of feeling. So many feelings, positive and negative and a whole gradient in between. An array of different words to choose from to help others understand the intricacies of what one is feeling so expressions of empathy can occur.

The main thing Jonathan Sims is experiencing, though, doesn’t need a fancy name or a word full of subtle meanings to explain. He can sum it all up by saying he feels immensely unsafe in his life.

This level of paranoia is new to him but he is, thankfully, a rather quick learner. Even the general unease that at any point in time he could find himself confronted with something akin to a worm monster or, even worse, someone he knows pointing a gun at him, is new. He’s felt unsafe in the past before, sure: when he watched a childhood bully disappear through a door, spindly legs surrounding him as he was swallowed by darkness; when he witnessed a mugging in London; a few times when holding what he suspects were more books from that cursed library. But never this much, and never has it pervaded every aspect of his life.

Work bears the brunt of it, of course. This is where he was attacked and the remains of his predecessor were found in secret tunnels underneath the institute. Even that would be manageable, he thinks, if not for the fact that he knows deep in his bones that he can’t trust anyone. Not Elias, not Martin, not even Tim or Sasha, two people he would have, at one point, said he trusted more than anyone else in his life.

That’s what gets him the most. He has no one to lean on in his hour of need, not a single damn soul he can talk to or bounce ideas off of or, god forbid, complain to. Martin’s lying to him about something, Tim’s reasons for working here are unclear, and Sasha is…

Sasha is… Well. He’s not sure what she is, but he’s suspicious of her, too.

They talk about him when he’s not around to hear it. He’s sure of this fact, even if he hasn’t caught them yet. No doubt planning how to kill him or usurp his office or get him fired or whatever other bloody nonsense they come up with. Of course they do, that’s all they’re good for.

This could be the paranoia talking, naturally, but he ignores that whisper in the back of his mind. It’s more logical and certainly safer for him to suspect their motives. His chances of survival are higher if he doesn’t place his trust in the wrong hands.

Also there’s a significantly less chance of him being hurt emotionally if he doesn’t let himself believe they care for him, or that they’re his friends. For as unfeeling as he may pretend to be, Jon certainly does possess the bane of emotions and they deign it proper to be hurt quite often. He can’t afford that, not right now.

So he watches and waits. He doesn’t engage more than he has to, suspicious of every movement and murmur.

What else is there for him to do, after all?

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The pain is worse some days. This is normal, Jon knows, but the knowledge doesn’t make him feel any better in the moment.

It’s made worse by the fact that it can be such a bone-deep ache that medicine barely takes the edge off. At first, Martin had insisted they go to the doctor on the bad days, but Jon had waved him off. He’s had enough experiences with doctors to know how utterly useless they are for this kind of thing.

Chronic pain has always been his life; this is simply another addition to it.

They’ve carved out a fairly decent life for themselves in their somewhere else. The flat is nothing special but it’s home to them and their two cats. Martin works full-time at the uni library and Jon’s only recently started to dip his toes back into a job. Waiting for a major chest wound to heal took far longer than he expected, and it’s on days like today that he wonders if he shall ever be free of it.

Of the very physical memory that reminds him of the way he betrayed Martin.

It’s only a part-time position in the local library, the public one - he’s quite done with academia, thank you. The pain comes on about an hour into his four-hour shift, an ache at first that has him rubbing absentmindedly at his chest. Then it spreads, crawling like rot to infect each of the marks on his skin - a less-than-subtle reminder of his mistakes. There’s no discernible reason for the worm scars or the slash across his throat to throb as they do, but unfortunately that doesn’t change the sensations themselves. He tenses, muscles taut, which only sets off the muscle spasms in his low back.

He really should go home, he knows this. But it’s only a four hour shift, one he’d agreed to pick up after calling out for a week due to a flare-up of whatever autoimmune disorder his body has chosen to plague him with (he had been in the process of getting tested before Elias beat Leitner and left him bleeding all over Jon’s office). So it’s guilt that keeps him there - the guilt of leaving after so recently agreeing to work, and the guilt of not bringing in any money.

Naturally, he pays dearly for this choice. Every nerve edge is on fire by the time he stumbles through the door of their flat, the noise of a quiet ‘mew’ as grating as that of the din of the bus he’d taken home. Martin waves at him, preparing to stand but Jon simply kicks off his shoes with a shake of his head and staggers to the bedroom. After ensuring both cats are sufficiently locked out he collapses heavily onto the mattress, eyes wet with tears bred by the pain of pushing himself too hard. Everything hurts and his brain is screaming at him in overstimulation. He sends a simple text to Martin (Everything is fine. I am simply in need of some time alone; if you need to come into the room, please make sure the cats remain outside.)

He lays there unmoving for hours feeling nothing but his misery.

Eventually Martin comes to bed, tiptoeing around the room so as not to disturb him. Unnecessary, as Jon is awake, but he appreciates the sentiment. The very way Martin gets in bed is as gentle as possible, and he gives Jon a wide berth. While it hasn’t been this bad before, Jon assumes Martin picked up the true depth of the situation by one simple fact: Jon never forbids the cats from entering the bedroom.

Some indeterminate amount of time passes, Jon getting more restless by the minute. Surely he doesn’t want physical contact, right? The very thought of Martin touching him sets him on edge, and yet the need is there, sparking under his skin. Eventually he finally rolls over and headbutts Martin’s elbow, pressing against it. Martin inhales but doesn’t move, letting Jon worm his way around until forehead is against forearm firmly.

Finally, Jon feels at peace. The pain is still there but his mind quiets, blissfully calming down from a state akin to walking through fire. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, and Martin gives an encouraging hum. Jon presses into him further and eventually falls asleep.

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cupping their cheeks and giving them a peck on the nose or lips - graveyard watch

It’s still a relatively new thing, whatever it is that is happening between them. Jon’s not stupid; he knows what’s going on, even if he doesn’t know if he’s ready to label it quite yet. The thing is…

It seems too convenient. Too good to be true. Jon doesn’t get nice things. No, Jon gets Leitners and burns, scars and worms and promotions that don’t make sense. Jon gets accused of murder, of manipulation, of having power that he doesn’t understand. Jon gets talked over and ignored and treated like garbage.

So how is he to believe that this man - this handsome, patient, laid-back man - has an actual interest in him?

“You’re thinking too much.” The voice is a baritone, speaking slowly but firmly as Oliver finishes his rounds with the plants decorating his flat. Jon furrows his brows and opens his mouth to protest, only to have Oliver raise an eyebrow and smirk at him. “You’re making the face again.”

“I- wha,” Jon sputters, scrubbing a hand over his face as Oliver chuckles and heads into the kitchen where the coffee is brewing. “I do not make a face.”

“You do. It looks something like this.” Oliver leans his hip against the counter and rests an elbow lazily on the old top as looks at Jon. He wrinkles his nose slightly and purses his lips, almost tilting them down, and scrunching his eyebrows just so to get a small crease between them. “It’s cute. I’d like it, if it didn’t usually mean you’re talking yourself out of something.”

“I, you - I’m not cute!” Another thing Jon doesn’t know quite how to accept is how casual Oliver is with compliments. They appear to be sincere ones, too, without any strings or expectations attached. Wrong, because Jon is hardly the cute type, but sincere nonetheless. 

“Yes, you are.” Oliver reaches into a cupboard to pull down two old mugs from the top shelf with an ease Jon envies. “But that’s not the point right now. What’re you thinking about?”

Jon immediately looks away. How does one admit they’re stuck struggling to believe that they’re worthy of someone’s attention? That the affection bestowed upon them makes them fearful that they’re somehow tricking someone into loving a version of them that doesn’t exist? He knows that it’s easy to tell he has poor self-esteem and even worse self-worth; Oliver had said as much when they’d first met in person. That should, in theory, make it easier to bring this up, shouldn’t it? 

But if he admits that he’s struggling, then he admits that he’s failing. Failing to be what Oliver needs him to be, failing to be a halfway decent partner in this relationship. And Oliver deserves so much more.

Warm hands cup Jon’s face suddenly, bringing him out of his mind to find Oliver crouching in front of him. “Hey,” Oliver says, nearly a whisper with how close they are. Concern is etched among the wrinkles of his face, affection laced in the words he speaks. “What’s wrong?”

Jon swallows. “What if…” he starts and god, he wants to duck his face to avoid seeing how Oliver reacts to him. He won’t. Oliver’s grasp is loose to allow him the freedom to do so, but he won’t. Even if he’s failing at every other aspect of this relationship, he will at least give Oliver this. “What if I’m not… good enough?”

Oliver’s eyes search his face for a long moment. “Good enough for?” he prompts after a second, even though Jon’s fairly certain he knows what Jon’s referring to.

Jon sighs, long and sad. “You.”

“Mmm.” Oliver rocks forward and places a soft kiss on Jon’s forehead, lingering long enough to ensure the skin continues to tingle after he pulls away. “It’s that kind of day, huh. Let me get the coffee and then why don’t we curl up under a blanket. Are there any documentaries you’d like to watch, or should I put on whatever catches my attention?”

Jon can’t explain it, can’t put into words why this reaction calms him more than if Oliver were to attempt to reassure him that he is good enough. He can’t put a lot of things into words, actually, about his turbulent emotions and how Oliver somehow manages to be a steady anchor through it. It doesn’t need to be verbalized, he supposes; that’s no what matters. Oliver reaches behind Jon to tug down the blanket he owns that is sinfully soft (one that Jon became obsessed with the first time he touched it) and drapes it over Jon’s shoulders. 

Clearing his throat, Jon pulls it tighter around himself. “A, uh. A documentary would be lovely.”

Oliver nods and hands him the remote. “Here. I’ll be right back out with drinks. Stay out of that head for me for a few minutes, okay?”

Jon chuckles. “Yeah. I’ll try.”

———

Prompt list

[dancingacrossthemilkyway]

i have no idea what kind of drabble prompts you prefer tbh but here: jmart but in space. like sci-fi, maybe star trek-y

“Ow!” Jon flinches as a thick gel is applied to his reddened arm, freshly scraped free of the spores that had attempted to embed themselves in his skin. The gel itself feels relatively good against his skin, a soothing cool against uncomfortable heat, but the gloved hand rubbing it on is anything but gentle. “Are you trying to cause me more pain, Dr. Blackwood?”

The doctor in question grunts from behind the full-body suit he’s wearing as he treats Jon, but Jon doesn’t need to see his face to picture the severe expression residing there. Pinched brows, wrinkled nose, pursed lips: the trademark disapproving scowl Martin likes to fix Jon with whenever he comes back from an explorative mission that has gone somewhat sideways. 

It’s probably far more displeased than normal, considering the personal protectice equipment he’s donned and the fact that every member of the on-world team has been quarantined in their own separate rooms until Martin’s convinced they’re safe to be around.

“Will it keep you from doing something like this again?” Yeah, Martin’s definitely grumpy. His voice is pitched slightly higher than usual and filled with a mixture of sassy irritation that he only gets when particularly peeved with whatever stupid decision Jon’s made. “Christ, I thought having Sasha as your second-in-command would make you less likely to get into trouble, but she’s as bloody impulsive as you!” 

Sasha was promoted recently from Communications Officer when Manuela had finally had enough of Jon’s brand of spontaneous decision making and requested a transfer to a different ship. It wasn’t necessarily much of a surprise that they didn’t get on, even without Jon being the way he is; disciples of the Dark rarely worked well in close quarters with those of the Eye. It was one of the risks of having a crew contain an officer from each of the Fears: there were always going to be inherent disagreements that weren’t easily resolved due to a difference in beliefs. 

Jon hasn’t had much contact with Manuela’s replacement, Basira Hussein, but this mission proved that she can definitely hold her own. It shouldn’t be a surprise, given her high recommendation from Daisy.

Slowly they’re settling into a team Jon thinks he likes. Even if he doesn’t get along with all of them on a personal level, they’re good members of the crew and they work well with each other. That’s what matters - that’s what he remembers being emphasized at the academy. 

“Yes, well,” Jon replies, giving Martin a blank look as he speaks in his typical deadpan. “If I were less impulsive, we wouldn’t have as many successful missions under our belt already.”

Martin scoffs. “I’d take less successful missions if it meant you stayed safe. Or do you think I enjoy having to dig worms from your skin, or, or, make sure you don’t end up sprouting fungus, or stitching you up when you decide to piss off something with knife hands-”

Jon waves a hand between them, relieved when Martin finally stops aggressively rubbing the gel across his arm and steps back to survey him. “Yes, yes. That’s why I was chosen to be Captain, not you.”

Another scoff. “No, I chose to go to medical school, not the academy. Honestly, I don’t know why Space Marshall Bouchard chose you over all of the other far more qualified options-”

“Love you too, Martin,” Jon interjects with a soft laugh, having heard this spiel a million times before. And perhaps, if not for knowing it comes from a place of affection and concern, he’d take offense to it. But Martin worries; that’s part of who he is. He worries, and even if Jon were the most qualified individual for the job, he’d worry. 

“-I swear the man is just out to give me a heart attack when you go charging off into the dens of literal space lions. What did I ever do to deserve this?” Throwing his arms up in the air in an exaggerated gesture - which loses most of its effectiveness given the way the suit squeaks against itself as he moves - Martin moves to put away the supplies he used. “Christ. You know, it’s a good thing I love you, or I’d be done.”

“Done… with me, or on the ship?” Jon prompts, despite the fact that they’ve had this discussion before. Sometimes it’s fun to egg Martin on a little - god knows the favor is returned. 

“Both!” Martin groans, dropping the disposable tools into the hole that leads to the medical waste fires. “You’d better not grow anything and miss our date tonight.”

“I’ll do my best to not grow anything on this arm.”

“Anywhere, Jon! You’d better not grow anything anywhere!”

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For all you who voted foggy graveyard watch smut, here’s how we’re starting:

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Safehouse era :) Jmart, one of them burned their finger tips on a too hot cup of tea; when they’re holding hands and one just brings them up to their lips and places a kiss on their fingers

Jon really should’ve known better. It’s not that he’s helpless or anything, and he’s certainly made his own tea in the past - but he hasn’t ever dealt with a full metal teapot. 

He’s not stupid. He is, in fact, really rather intelligent - even without the random, usually useless tidbits Beholding likes to drop in his mind. Which is why he is so ashamed that he did this. The teapot is old; he half believes it came with the house when Daisy purchased it so long ago. It’s old, and it’s full metal. 

The stove is also old, and more temperamental. It gets hotter than it should (he only knows this because Martin’s complained frequently). He didn’t account for that, or the fact that the teapot is all metal. Of course it was hot when he picked it up. Metal conducts heat very well, and it didn’t even cross his mind that Martin keeps a potholder nearby for a reason.

Just once - this one time - he thought he’d make tea for them in the morning. To be sweet. Martin’s done so much for them since they came to Scotland, and Jon’s been feeling lately like he’s doing more taking than giving. So. Tea. A good place to start, right?

The moment his fingers grasp the scalding metal handle he yelps, yanking his hand away and staring at the angry blisters beginning to form. Because it’s his luck, they’re on his previously unburnt hand, so he can feel the burn in all of its glorious agony. 

“Jon?” Martin calls out sleepily, wandering into the kitchen with a yawn. “What’s going o- Jon!” All drowsiness vanishes as he sees Jon hovering by the stove guiltily, holding the wrist of his hand with his face screwed up in pain. “Oh my god - what, I, how-”

“I thought… I’d… make… tea?” Jon says, his attempt at a smile turning more into a wince when Martin crosses the space between them. “I, erm…”

Martin sighs, then reaches over to turn off the stove as the kettle continues to whistle angrily. “Oh, Jon.” It really shouldn’t sound so fond when Martin’s clearly exasperated too, and yet. “Just - under the water, please.” 

Naturally. Jon turns on the cold tap and slips his fingers under it, chewing on his lip. Martin disappears for a moment, returning with a first aid kit and pulling out a small packet of burn cream. “You forgot about how hot it gets, didn’t you.” It isn’t a question nor an accusation, and thankfully doesn’t trigger any guilt in Jon. “You’re sweet.”

“I’m not certain ‘sweet’ is the best word to describe me at the moment,” Jon replies wryly, staring at his cooling fingers as the water rushes over them. “I can certainly think of many more fitting descriptors.”

Martin moves to stand beside him. “I think I’ll stick with ‘sweet’ for now.” Shutting off the tap, he gently grasps Jon’s wrist and brings his hand up to his mouth, placing a soft kiss on the back of each burned finger. “At least this burn was from trying to make tea instead of, you know, shaking the hand of a Desolation avatar.”

Jon scoffs and rolls his eyes, but ends up giving Martin the ghost of a smile anyway. “Yes, yes, point made.”

Raising an eyebrow, Martin places one final kiss on the back of Jon’s hand. “Is it?” he asks in amusement, then points to the table. “Go put the cream on. I’ll finish the tea.”

———

Prompt list

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Tag Game: last line

Rules: Make a new post and post your latest/most recent line from your WIP and tag as many people as there are words (or don’t. I’m not your mom)

Thanks for the tag @milkteamoon ! This, uh, makes me happy I stopped where I did yesterday lmao

Martin presses into the kiss more, drinking up the way Jon melts into him as he slips his own hand under Jon’s hair to the base of his neck.

Yeah def not tagging that many people but I will tag @scleyera @icannotescape @murderkitten666 @rixsig-writes @morning-softness

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I do always enjoy collecting the tears of my readers after posting a chapter. Helps keep my skin young, you know

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Send me prompts or something. I want to try to write small drabbles and get this brain working again.

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Peek of ch 5 if vast! Martin. He big mad

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This is gonna be a fun fic :) so have a preview