chrisgotitall

[chrisgotitall]

if you could hear me right now, i sound ill and crazy

god please

[chrisgotitall]

no literally

new mike faist content? yeah the rumors are true, i licked my screen.

[chrisgotitall]

HE'S SO... UGH

I HAVE THOUGHTS I CANNOT SHARE.

[chrisgotitall]

!!!!MIKE GOT OUT OF THE HOUSE!!!!

[chrisgotitall]

I'm going crazy hereeeeee

questionable necklace but he still looks sexy idc <3

[chrisgotitall]

i froze looking at his picture for 5 hours

this is my new religion

[chrisgotitall]

i want to know your craziest mike faist (or mike faist character) fantasies!!! right them down and let's see if i can make them come true!!

[chrisgotitall]

just look at them!!!

[chrisgotitall]

MY BABY IS SO BEAUTIFULLLLLL

he looks so slutty here

[chrisgotitall]

You stood in front of the mirror, jaw slack, fingers frozen halfway through pulling the hood of your sweatshirt up again.

It was bad. Not just a little uneven or “oops, the bangs are shorter than expected” bad. No, this was “what in the name of kitchen scissors and trust issues happened here?” bad.

The hairdresser had been sweet. New, but sweet. You hadn’t had the heart to say anything when she spun you around to the mirror, beaming with pride. You’d just nodded. Tipped, even. And now here you were, back home, spiraling.

You heard the knock on your apartment door and flinched.

Oh no.

Mike.

You had completely forgotten he was stopping by.

“Just a sec!” you called, wildly yanking the hood up over your head again. You gave yourself one last wide-eyed look in the mirror—how could something be this crooked?—and cracked open the door.

Mike raised an eyebrow, holding up a paper bag. “I brought takeout. You okay?”

“Fine,” you lied, letting him in.

He kicked off his shoes, gave you a once-over. “Why do you look like you’re in hiding?”

“I’m cold.”

“It’s June.”

You crossed your arms. “I run cold.”

Mike blinked at you, then slowly grinned. “Wait. Did something happen? What are you hiding?”

“Nothing.”

He set the takeout down on the counter and took a deliberate step closer. “You’re absolutely hiding something. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“That don’t ask me about the thing look.”

You turned your back on him and tried to make yourself busy with napkins. That lasted three seconds before you felt him gently tug the hood of your sweatshirt back.

“No, Mike, don’t-”

Too late.

The hood fell. Silence followed.

You didn’t turn around. The silence stretched.

“…Wow,” Mike said finally, and you felt your stomach plummet.

You turned, arms defensively crossing. “I know. It’s bad. I look like a lawn mower had an identity crisis.”

He blinked again, mouth twitching, clearly trying very hard not to laugh. “Okay. It’s… not that bad.”

You glared.

“Okay,” he amended, chuckling, “it’s kind of bad. But like, in a character-building way.”

“Character-building?”

“Yeah. You look like someone who just got out of a villain origin story.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands.

Mike stepped closer and gently pulled your hands away. His voice softened. “Hey. I’m joking. But seriously, you’re still you. You could be bald and I’d still think you’re unfairly cute.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not. And look, bad haircuts grow out. But you? You’re stuck with me saying nice things whether you like it or not.”

You gave a small, reluctant smile. “You really think it’s not the worst thing ever?”

“I think it’s the worst today,” he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and guiding you toward the couch. “But tomorrow, it’ll be a meme. And next week? You’ll own it. You’ll make people think it was a deliberate choice. That’s power.”

You snorted, collapsing into the cushions beside him. “If I become a trendsetter, it’ll be by accident.”

Mike passed you a carton of noodles. “All the best trends are.”

[chrisgotitall]

the morning after the first time with mike😛😛 just cuteness and fluff ensuing

The sunlight filtered in through the slats of the blinds, casting pale golden stripes across the crumpled sheets. Mike stirred beside you, one arm draped across your waist, his face half-buried in the pillow. For a long moment, you didn’t move. You just let yourself feel it, the warmth of his skin against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the slight shift of his fingers as they twitched in his sleep.

The night had been quiet. Not rushed or chaotic, but full of hesitant touches and murmured words, more about closeness than perfection. You had both laughed when you bumped foreheads, blushed when you fumbled with each other’s clothes, and whispered things you weren’t sure you were ready to say in the daylight.

And now… here you were. Morning. Real.

You turned your head slightly to look at him. His curls were a mess, splayed wildly over the pillow, and his brow was furrowed in sleep like he was deep in some kind of dream. You reached up slowly, brushing one of the curls back behind his ear. He stirred.

“Mmph.” His voice was gravelly, sleep-warm. “You’re staring at me.”

You smiled, unashamed. “You make it easy.”

His lips curved into a lazy grin without opening his eyes. “That so?”

You hummed in response, pulling the sheet a little higher on both of you. His fingers found yours beneath it, curling around your hand instinctively. There was a beat of silence before he opened one eye to glance at you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. “After last night?”

You looked at him for a moment. The way he asked, so gentle, so careful, it made your chest ache. You nodded. “Yeah. I’m really okay.”

His face softened, the last hints of sleep clearing away. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Good. Me too.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. The world beyond the room started to wake, birds calling outside, the distant hum of a car engine, but inside, everything stayed still. Safe.

Eventually, Mike shifted to lie on his back, staring at the ceiling. “So…” he said slowly, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Are we gonna do that awkward morning-after thing where we pretend we didn’t just sleep together?”

You let out a soft laugh and rolled onto your side, propping your head on your hand. “No. But we are going to do the thing where I make you breakfast in your shirt because I don’t know where my pants went.”

“God, I love that shirt,” he groaned dramatically, tugging you back into his arms. “You’re never getting out of my bed again, are you?”

You pretended to think for a moment, then smiled. “Depends. Do you have coffee?”

He grinned against your neck. “For you? I’ll make two pots.”

And just like that, it didn’t feel like a morning after anymore. It felt like the beginning of something.

[chrisgotitall]

in my ‘missing mike faist as riff lorton’ era

(i’m in that era everyday)

[chrisgotitall]

some good ol’ domestic fluff with mike😔😔 like in bed together or spending a morning together looking at his pretty puffy angel face as he’s sleeping UGH I MISS HIM SO MUCH

Rain tapped gently against the windows, a rhythmic hum that made the whole apartment feel smaller and safer somehow. The couch was a mess of unfolded laundry, half-dry shirts draped over cushions, and a warm basket tucked at your feet. You sat cross-legged, a pair of Mike’s socks in your lap, lazily matching them while he hummed along to a playlist playing low on his phone.

He was wearing a sweatshirt that definitely used to be yours, sleeves too long, neckline stretched out. His hair was a little messy, like he’d towel-dried it halfheartedly after his shower and then forgot to finish the job. He looked like a soft daydream.

“You’re folding everything wrong,” you teased, holding up one of his shirts—a wrinkled attempt at neatness.

He turned to you from where he was half-lounging, one leg tucked under him. “Excuse me, I’m folding with character. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” You held up a very lopsided hoodie and raised your eyebrows.

Mike leaned over and snatched it from your hands. “You just don’t understand my artistic vision.”

“You’re folding laundry, not directing a film.”

He leaned in, nose almost brushing yours. “Laundry is cinema,” he whispered dramatically, before pecking your lips and flopping back onto the couch with a grin.

You rolled your eyes but laughed anyway, letting the moment stretch and soften between you.

Eventually, the pile of laundry dwindled. The music played on. A lazy love song came on—something old and a little cheesy—and Mike reached out his hand toward you.

“Dance with me.”

“Right now?”

“Why not?”

So you did—right there in the middle of the living room, surrounded by socks and half-folded towels, the world outside washed out in gray. His hands were warm on your waist, your cheek resting against his shoulder. Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to.

In that moment, the slow sway of your bodies and the smell of fabric softener and the sound of rain—that was everything.

[chrisgotitall]

pregnancy x art

sure :))

I've never written for Art so I'm new to this, hope you like it.

Rain tapped gently against the windowpanes, a steady rhythm that matched the thrum of your aching feet. You were halfway through your eighth month, and your body felt like it was made of stone and fog—heavy and half-asleep. You sat curled on the couch, your legs propped on a pillow, one hand absently stroking the crest of your belly.

Art padded into the room wearing soft grey joggers and a threadbare MIT hoodie, hair damp from his shower. When he saw you, a small frown creased his brows.

“You didn’t even make it to the kitchen, did you?” he asked gently.

You shook your head. “Felt like walking on knives today. She’s sitting right on my spine.”

Without a word, Art crossed the room and kneeled in front of you, his large hands warm as they eased your slippers off. He began rubbing your feet with practiced tenderness, using the shea butter lotion you liked, the one that smelled like almonds and clouds.

You exhaled a shaky breath. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said softly, looking up at you. “I’ve never wanted anything more than to take care of you.”

The words stuck in your throat. You had never imagined you’d end up with someone like him—charming, world-famous, all fire and ambition—and yet, here he was: kneeling in front of you like you were something precious.

“You okay?” he asked, voice gentling.

You nodded, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “Just… overwhelmed.”

Art stood and gently lifted you into his arms before you could protest. “We’re doing a bed day,” he declared, already carrying you down the hallway. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor,” you mumbled into his chest.

“No, but I’m very convincing when I wear glasses.”

He tucked you into bed with lavender tea and your favorite fuzzy socks, then climbed in beside you, wrapping his arms around you like a shield. The rain kept falling, the world outside muted and slow.

“You don’t mind slowing down?” you asked after a moment.

He kissed the crown of your head. “With you? Slowing down feels like winning.”

And just like that, with the steady rhythm of the rain and the warmth of his hand on your belly, you believed him.

[chrisgotitall]

hi girlies, if you have any requests, the box is open!!!!

[chrisgotitall]

Mike Faist and his fucking cocky smirk - frown ish - furrowed brows - parted lips - half closed eyes - little wrinkles - sassy bitch expression

[chrisgotitall]

can’t believe some ppl only know mike faist from challengers. they don’t even know that max’s mom brought cookie cake for everyone :/