Aug 28, 2024
naomi osaka's US open r1 outfit!
seen from France
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seen from United States
naomi osaka's US open r1 outfit!
thinking about mature era michael w/insomnia and you, who has no problem staying up with him—all night!!
2am
⋆˙⟡ “This is what you call cookies?” He questions, you two stood still for a while staring at the burnt attempted sugar cookies, your hand rested on your hip—and you could only manage out a huff. “Don’t blame it all on me michael.” You cross your arms and he stifles a laugh, “Yeah baby well, you put them in there, preheated it and all.”
Instead of throwing the cookies out—you fling open the cabinet and grab a glass plate, You place a napkin over it and the cookies follow up. “We’re eating these—if you love me you’ll eat these.” You tease, and he huffs, pulling you by the waist and pressing small kisses into your neck. “Throw ‘em out sweetheart, I’ll have someone go grab us some cookies from the store.”
“What’s the love in that?” You pout. He kisses your lips. “Won’t have you eating your burnt cookies—that’s love.”
3:50am
⋆˙⟡ “A pillow fight?” He retorts, and you nod. “May the best man win!” You pick up a silky pillow from the bed, the bed bouncing beneath you as you jump. “Get up here!” You usher him, and he does, grabbing another silk pillow. Your pillow hits his arm, and your pillow ends up hitting his face. He tackles you and a perfect idea floods through your mind.
“Ow, Michael—seriously.” You murmur, feigning fake hurt. He immediately gets up. “Oh I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t know I was being so rough I—“ you take this chance quickly standing up and whacking his hip. “Cheater!” He lets out a squeal and tackles you once again, this time he’s kissing your lips. “I love pillow fighting.” He says. “I’d like to pillow fight again.”
“AGAIN?” You squeak.
5am
⋆˙⟡ “It was the worst you know,” You two were now currently deep into the real talk—talk of life. He nods, the blue pool in front of you, stars in the sky. “I hear you.” You shake the tears from your eyes. “But enough about me Mike, you know how I get.” He watches your expression and his expression is filled with—wanting to know you more than he already does.
He leans in and swifts a small piece of hair from your face, hand resting on your thigh. “I love you y/n.” He murmurs. “So much—you’re my reason, my reason of life, my every—you’re why I do the things I do now.”
“Because I love you.” He finishes off, and you stifle a laugh. “You’re such a freaking loser!” You tease him, leaning in to kiss him. “This is because I stay up with you all night, hm?” He shrugs. “Partially.”
“You ass.” You playfully nudge him.
⋆˙⟡ And you two accidentally fall asleep on the pool chairs, your head tucked underneath his chin, legs curled up on his stomach, and his hot breath fanning your scalp.
I have such terrible writers block forgive me!! Enjoy this short blurb whilst I try to get the gears in my brain to start moving again, I love writing 😭 also feel free to leave reqs!!
📸 Indira Varma
🥰
GUYS im so sorry💔 but mocks in two weeks and hilariously interesting new friend have take up my time. Part 1 Part 2 pt 4
The arrangement worked, somehow.
Simon came and went like a shadow, and you; perpetually studying, writing, muttering anatomy under your breath, barely noticed half the time. But then the other half? Those little overlaps between your worlds? They started stacking up.
The first week was… polite. Awkwardly so.
Simon would come home late, boots heavy, mask already off but hood still up. You’d be at the counter with a mug of tea and a highlighter between your teeth, staring down at medical diagrams like they personally offended you.
“Long day?” you’d ask.
He’d grunt, hang up his jacket. “You?”
“Always,” you’d sigh.
And that was that. Simple. Respectful.
Like two ghosts passing each other in the corridor.
Then came the small things. Subtle. Barely-there moments that wouldn’t mean much alone, but together… they hummed with something unnamed.
You started leaving a plate out for him when you cooked. Not because you meant to. Just… habit.
And sometimes, when you’d wake up early, you’d find the plate rinsed, left neatly beside the sink. A quiet thank-you.
He fixed the loose hinge on your bathroom door. You didn’t even notice until you realised it didn’t squeak anymore.
One morning, when you were cramming before an exam, bleary-eyed and running purely on caffeine, he wordlessly dropped a granola bar on your notebook.
Didn’t even look at you, just muttered, “Eat somethin’.
You blinked. “That an order, Lieutenant?”
He paused mid-step, glanced over his shoulder. “It’s a suggestion.”
The apartment started to sound different.
Instead of silence, there was… life.
The kettle boiling twice because one of you always forgot you’d already made tea.
The soft sound of Simon’s boots by the door, next to your sneakers.
Your laughter drifting from the living room when he got cornered by Soap on a video call.
“Aye, Lt! Tell yer roomate I said hi! oh wait, are ye blushing?”
“Johnny, I will end you.”
He pretended it was annoying. But he didn’t mute the call.
You noticed he started coming home earlier. Sometimes sitting on the armchair while you worked, scrolling through his phone or polishing his gear. You never asked why. He never offered a reason.
You’d just say, “You hungry?”
And he’d answer, “Could eat.”
And that was that.
By then, you both had a rhythm.
He’d pour you a cup of coffee if you were still asleep by the time he left for training. You’d leave sticky notes on the fridge that said things like “Remember to eat something that isn’t beer.”
When you had a breakdown over exams, you found a chocolate bar on your desk and a note in blocky handwriting:
“You’ve survived worse. You’ll survive this.”
When he came home one night with his hand bandaged, you scolded him like he was one of your patients.
He didn’t say much, just sat there letting you fuss. You caught him staring, though, quiet, observant. Like he was memorising your face.
You told him to stop looking at you like that.
He smirked. “Like what?”
You blushed. “Like I’m dying.”
He huffed a laugh. “Med student humour’s bloody grim.”
It got so normal that you forgot to be awkward about it.
You’d argue over whose turn it was to buy milk. You’d steal his hoodie when yours was in the wash. He’d roll his eyes but never ask for it back.
Sometimes he’d walk into the living room to find you asleep on the couch, textbooks open, pencil in hand. He’d sigh, switch off the lamp, and throw a blanket over you before heading to bed.
He told himself it was just good manners.
He knew it wasn’t.
It wasn’t a love story yet, not quite.
It was the almosts that made it beautiful.
The quiet rhythm of two people learning how to exist in the same orbit without crashing.
The kettle clicked on again.
You were laughing softly at something on your laptop, and Simon leaned against the doorframe, unseen, half-smiling.
The ghost had found a home without meaning to.
i find it so hot when a man submits and allows you to tickle them. and it's even cuter when they try to hold in the giggles and act like it doesn't tickle, before losing it and bursting into giggles 🤭
Handsome??? or cute???? 🥺
Click for batter quality
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