Mike Faist X Reader - Tumblr Posts - Page 2

i made this and i know other people will love it too so enjoy 😊

he’s so baby

💇‍♂️i miss your crazy hair.

connor murphy x reader

"You should never cut your hair," you had whispered one lazy afternoon, fingers combing through the wild tangle of his long, unruly locks. The sun had filtered through the window, casting a golden glow over the two of you as you lay together, lost in a world that felt like it would last forever. "I love it too much. It's crazy and beautiful, just like you."

He had smiled that slow, easy smile of his, the one that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. "I’ll never cut it," he’d promised, voice soft, filled with a warmth that melted the edges of your heart. "Because I love you."

But promises, like relationships, fade. And now, standing in the hallway, you see him again after all these months, and it feels like the world is falling out from under you. His hair, once a wild, beautiful mess, is gone—cut short, disheveled, like a shadow of the man he used to be. Like a shadow of the love you thought you had.

It’s strange how something as simple as a haircut could feel like the final blow, the last shard of what you once shared being torn away. You’d always thought the breakup itself was the worst of it—the slow unraveling of something that had once seemed unbreakable. But this... this is different. This is seeing, in the starkest way possible, that the man you loved no longer exists in the same form. That he’s shed the last part of himself that still held traces of you.

You try to swallow the lump forming in your throat, but it stays there, heavy and unmoving, just like the hurt in your chest. You hadn’t expected to see him today. You hadn’t prepared yourself for the way his presence would still make your pulse quicken, or how the sight of him would stir up the grief you thought you’d buried long ago.

Your eyes follow him as he walks down the hall, oblivious to your gaze, to the silent devastation you’re cradling inside. His steps are hurried, distracted, and in that moment, it’s clear—he’s still hurting as well. But he’s trying desperately to move on.

And it hurts more than you ever thought it would. Because deep down, you’d held onto that promise—his hair, the little part of him that had once been tied to you. You’d imagined, in some naive part of your mind, that maybe, just maybe, he’d kept it because some part of him still cared, still remembered. But now, standing in this cold, empty hallway, you realize how foolish you’ve been.

He turns a corner, disappearing from sight, and you’re left standing there, your heart breaking all over again, this time in a quieter, more painful way. There are no more promises to cling to, no more pieces of him to hold onto.

It’s all gone now.

You lean against the wall, exhaling shakily, trying to remind yourself that this is what you wanted—to move on, to let go. But the truth is, you’ve been holding on to ghosts. And now, even the ghosts are slipping away.

It’s time to face it: the person you loved is no longer there, and maybe, neither are you.

acting exercises

mike faist x actress!reader

Another press day. Another round of cameras, microphones, and the same recycled questions. It had become routine by now—sit in the chair, smile, deflect, repeat. But this time, the stakes were different. This time, you were seated next to Mike Faist, pretending, as you had for months, that nothing more than co-star camaraderie tethered you together.

You settle into your seat, smoothing the folds of your tailored suit as the interviewer approaches. His handshake is firm, his smile polite but perfunctory. The room is bright with stage lights, the kind that make everything feel more exposed than it should. You glance at Mike out of the corner of your eye, watching as he exchanges a casual word with Josh O’Connor. The three of you have done this dance so many times now, it’s almost mechanical—the smiles, the laughter, the shared glances that don’t mean what they should.

But then, there’s the secret. The small, electric undercurrent that hums between you and Mike, pulsing just beneath the surface. No one in this room knows about it. Not the interviewer, not the crew bustling around with cameras, not even Josh, who’s become like a brother during filming. Only a few close friends and family know the truth—that when the cameras stop rolling, when the world stops watching, the way Mike looks at you is anything but platonic.

The thrill of it buzzes in your veins. It’s almost too easy, this charade. Like an acting exercise you both excel at, slipping into the roles of co-stars, friends, professionals. But there’s something exhilarating about keeping the truth just out of reach, like dangling a secret in front of the world, daring them to catch on. The fans had begun to notice, though. Some had dissected every shared glance, every tiny gesture. The theories were out there, swirling online in a frenzy, but nothing concrete. Not yet.

"Nice to finally meet all of you! The movie was brilliant," the interviewer says, pulling you back into the moment. He shakes each of your hands, his enthusiasm palpable, but it’s the same script you’ve heard all day.

"Let’s talk Challengers. Your performances were all incredible."

The conversation begins, questions flowing smoothly about the film, the dynamic between your characters. You and Josh riff off each other easily, your responses playful and full of light, the way seasoned actors do when they’re deep in promotion mode. And then there’s Mike—quiet, thoughtful, answering in his usual understated way, the way that makes fans lean in, dissecting every syllable for something deeper.

But then, just for a second, his gaze flickers to you. It’s brief, barely noticeable to anyone else, but you feel it like a spark catching in the air between you. His eyes are dark, steady, and in that glance, everything is there—everything you’ve hidden, everything you’ve left unsaid in public. The nights spent together, the whispered secrets, the laughter that only you two share. The press day facade is a mask you’ve worn well, but beneath it, your real life with him simmers, waiting for a chance to break through.

You answer another question, something about the intense dynamic between Tashi and her lovers, laughing as you describe how complex the relationships are. But there’s an edge to your voice now, something just a little too knowing. Mike shifts in his seat beside you, his posture casual, but you know him well enough to catch the slight tension in his jaw.

The interviewer moves on, asking about the emotional weight of the film’s final scenes, and as Mike answers, you catch Josh shooting a playful glance between the two of you, as if he senses something, a teasing smirk barely hidden behind his professionalism. You wonder how much he suspects, how much anyone here really knows.

The interview drags on, each question blurring into the next, but that flicker of tension remains. You and Mike continue your careful dance, weaving through the conversation, but the air between you feels charged, like something about to break. And you realize, with a strange sense of excitement, that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if the world found out. Maybe it wouldn’t matter if this secret, this thrilling game, was finally exposed.

Because in the quiet moments, when the cameras stop flashing and the lights fade, it’s not the act that excites you. It’s him.

late night rambles

art donaldson x reader

The alarm blinked, casting a soft red glow across the room: 3:00 AM. You and Art were wide awake, tangled in the kind of conversation that only comes at impossible hours of the night, when the world feels like it’s theirs alone. The air was thick with summer warmth, the windows cracked open just enough to let in the distant hum of crickets. They were sprawled out on the floor of Art’s bedroom, tennis rackets leaning haphazardly against the wall—relics of a day spent practicing under the sun.

“I’m not even tired,” Art mused, his voice low but clear, breaking the comfortable silence. “Hard to be in your company. You make me feel... I don’t know, energised.” He chuckled, nervously running his fingers through his messy curls. “Is that cringey? That’s cringey, right?”

You laughed softly, rolling onto their side to face him. “A little. But it’s okay. I’ll allow it.”

They’d been friends for seven years—since that first summer at tennis camp when they were just kids, bonded over their shared love for the game and a mutual disdain for the camp’s cafeteria food. Now, at 17, everything was the same, yet different. The conversations were still effortless, but beneath the surface was something heavier, unspoken. A shift they both felt but neither would dare mention.

Art glanced sideways, watching the way you absentmindedly fiddled with a thread on the hem of your shirt, your eyes focused somewhere between the floor and the stars you couldn’t see. “Remember when we’d stay up this late, just talking about which player we’d want to be? I always picked Federer. You were obsessed with Sharapova.” He grinned.

“I still am. She’s a queen,” You replied, your smile stretching wide, though your voice carried a teasing edge.

There was a pause, one that wasn’t uncomfortable, but loaded with memories. Art shifted his weight, propping himself up on one elbow. “You know,” he began, suddenly serious, “I don’t think I’ve ever said this, but... you’re my favorite person.”

You felt a warmth rise in your chest, like a balloon inflating slowly, filling the space between them. You wanted to say something back, something witty, or maybe something just as sentimental. But instead, you swallowed it down and rolled your eyes. “Okay, now that’s definitely cringey.”

Art laughed, but it was softer this time, a bit more vulnerable. “Maybe,” he admitted, “but it’s true.”

You could feel the weight of the moment settling around them, the unspoken confessions tucked away in the spaces between their words. For all the ease they had with each other, there was a new kind of tension, a nervous energy that felt both thrilling and terrifying. Like standing on the edge of something they weren’t quite ready to name.

“So... what happens when we grow up?” You asked, breaking the silence.

Art blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what happens when tennis isn’t the thing holding us together anymore? When life gets in the way? I don’t know, I guess I’m just wondering if this—” You gestured between each other, “—stays the same.”

Art hesitated, the question sinking in. He sat up fully now, legs crossed in front of him. “I think we’ll always have this,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’ll change, but I think it’ll be... better. Like, deeper or something. You know?”

You nodded slowly, your heart beating just a little faster. You weren’t sure if they believed him, but you wanted to. So, so badly.

“Besides,” Art added with a grin, trying to lighten the mood, “if nothing else, I’ll just stalk you at every tennis match. You’ll be winning Wimbledon and I’ll be in the crowd, holding a You Go Sharapova 2.0 sign.”

You laughed, the tension breaking for a moment. “Yeah, and I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”

“Rude,” Art teased, but there was a glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Something raw and real, a quiet hope that maybe things didn’t have to change as much as they feared.

The alarm blinked again: 3:15 AM. Time kept moving forward, but for them, it felt like they were suspended in something timeless. Neither was ready to say goodnight, not yet. Instead, they basked in their contentment.