Jun 21, 2025
some director: okay, we need a kid to play a repressed gay boy who has a crush on his male best friend and maybe daddy issues? man, i don't know who—
finn:
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seen from Slovakia
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seen from Malaysia
seen from Malta
seen from Malaysia
seen from Azerbaijan
seen from Malta
seen from Croatia
seen from France
seen from United States
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seen from Netherlands
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some director: okay, we need a kid to play a repressed gay boy who has a crush on his male best friend and maybe daddy issues? man, i don't know who—
finn:
out of all the gay characters in the fwgcu (finn wolfhard gay cinematic universe) I refuse to believe that Michael “it’s not my fault you don’t like girls” Wheeler is the straight one.
psa: when i say that mike has long hair in my fanfic, i do not mean it in a s4 mike wheeler way but rather a ziggy katz/trevor spengler way
are we picking up what i’m putting down
skirt - mike wheeler x cheerleader!reader (hate sex)
mike wheeler had been watching you all day. I mean, it was impossible not to notice you.
that cheerleading skirt had crept up a few inches past what was allowed, and every time you passed him in school’s hallway, your eyes would meet his with this mix of hatred and something way hotter. you were teasing him. you knew you were teasing him. your eyes practically said you hated him, but they were begging him to fuck you like he’d been doing in secret for the past few weeks. mike spent the whole day restless, hard, unable to focus on anything. all he wanted was finally get a chance to eat your pussy.
now the day was over. the second-floor hallway was empty, the dim lights barely illuminating anything. and there you were, leaning over to get your books out of your locker. your skirt rode up way too high. you didn’t even bother pulling it down, because you knew he was coming up behind you. “are you insane?” his voice came low, right against the back of your neck. mike spun you around, pressing you up against the lockers. “you spent the whole day fucking teasing me” “I have no idea what you’re talking about, freak” “you don’t?” his hand went to your hip, gripping the flesh there hard enough to leave a mark. “this skirt. you wanted me thinking about it all class. or better yet, you wanted me to fuck you in front of everyone, huh?” his hand slid up slowly, slipping under the hem of your top. his cold fingers touched your skin and you arched without meaning to. mike tilted his head, his face way too close. “take your hand off me, wheeler” “why? isn’t this what you wanted?” you didn’t answer, just bit your lip. he pressed his body against yours, his thigh slotting between your legs, and you could feel how hard he was against your stomach. “so stuck-up all day, and now you’ve got nothing to say?” “fuck you” he grinned. his hand moved up to your neck, fingers wrapping around the back of it, and he tugged your hair back in a motion that made you gasp. “that’s it” he pulled again, harder. “make some noise for me” “mike—” he grabbed you by the arm, dragging you down the hallway. your little shoes scraped against the floor as you tried to keep up, your bag slipping from your fingers and scattering papers everywhere. “my homework—” “fuck your homework” he shoved you into the first empty classroom he found. “what the hell are you doing, michael?” he didn’t even answer.
he pushed you against the desk and pressed his body up behind you. “you want attention so bad” his hand ran down your back roughly, gripping your nape to bend you over the desk. “then you’re gonna get it” his other hand hiked up your skirt in one swift motion. you arched instinctively, your hips pushing back against him in a way that was practically begging. “so wet already” his long fingers slid over the thin fabric of your panties. “if they only knew that behind that princess face there’s a slut who cries on my dick” “shut up, mike—” he answered by yanking your panties down roughly. “shut up? you spent hours teasing me. now you’re gonna deal with the consequences.” his long fingers pushed inside hard. you bit your lip to stop yourself from screaming, and he laughed against your neck. “mikeee” you moaned “mike what?” he pulled his fingers out abruptly, and you let out a frustrated whimper. he unzipped his pants with torturous slowness. “you gonna ask nicely?” you tried to turn your head to look at him, but his hand pressed firmly against your nape, keeping your face pinned to the cold desk. his body lined up behind you, and you felt the head of him pressing against your entrance. but he didn’t push in. just kept pressing. “say it. say what you want” “fuck you, michael” he laughed. he was probably loving this, seeing you all pathetic like this, giving in for his dick.
mike thrust in with one rough, deep stroke, and you let out a cry that he muffled with his hand over your mouth. his fingers pressed into your lips while his hips slammed into yours hard enough to shove you into the desk. “can’t you stay quiet, fuck” his hand slipped from your mouth into your hair, pulling, forcing your head back until your whole spine arched into an impossible curve. “look” he nodded toward the dark window, your reflections staring back at you. “you see that? look at you” you saw yourself: messy hair, mouth open, face flushed and wet with tears. so humiliating, and it just turned you on more.
you moaned, your hands gripping the edge of the desk. “what? gonna cum, princess?” his hand slid around to the front, fingers finding your clit, and it was too much. your legs shook and you almost screamed when you came, feeling him come with you.
by the time you managed to turn around, he was already fixing his pants, hair falling into his eyes, face calm like nothing had happened. “wear that skirt again tomorrow.”
Finn Wolfhard try not to play a queer teen challenge (please don’t actually stop I love his queer characters)
Credit to @d_delandr0 on Pinterest for the image
⤷゛f. wolfhard smut ˎˊ˗
.ᐟ.ᐟ display⋮ ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა
you look perfect underneath finn. knees to your chest, pussy taking him with ease, fucked out of your mind, and gasping incoherent moans.
“look at you, a complete mess for me. you like being used, dont you?”
finn thrusts arent shallow, they never were. he always forces you to take him whole, rolling his hips with purpose. displease you is the last thing he wants to do.
finn never allows himself to get sloppy. he always finds a way to keep his stamina going by abusing his bottled up stress to fuel his drive.
finns consistent, never slowing down nor getting lazy with it. his hands busy, always roam your body, squeezing the cute fat of your tummy and breasts, and holding your thighs down when you cant do it yourself no more.
youre perfect underneath finn. perfect when displaying your aching pussy. perfect when your knees are pressed to your chest. absolutely breath taking when your fucked out of your mind.
“yeah, you like it.”
im not going to admit how long I had this one in the drafts for…
♬⋆.˚ the mixtape confession
mike wheeler makes a valentine’s mixtape for his best friend and absolutely does not plan on confessing anything. unfortunately, feelings are harder to organize than cassette tracks.
wc:4,1k ‧₊ ♪˚⊹
contents: mike x reader, no use of y/n, valentine’s day timingg!, mike is an idiot who just wants to make you happy, dustin is a MENACE that’s my evil baby, mutual emotional pinning but mike and reader are both idiots🚬, mike trying to be a dj/playlist master but we all know he sucks, eventual kissing, FLUFF!
the tape looks harmless.
that’s the first thought mike has, which is stupid, because it’s a tape. it’s a rectangle of plastic with two visible reels and a cheap paper label. it’s not capable of harm. it cannot ruin his emotional stability or permanently alter the trajectory of his friendships or make him feel like he swallowed a live wire.
and yet.
he’s been staring at it for ten minutes.
the desk lamp throws a yellow circle across his room. everything outside that circle feels far away and unreal. the house is quiet in the heavy late night way where every sound feels like it’s being personally judged. the heater clicks. the pipes answer. somewhere a board creaks.
he presses eject. the tape pops up. he presses it back down again.
“you’re being dramatic,” he tells himself under his breath.
he presses eject again.
he doesn’t even like valentine’s day. that’s the thing. it’s corporate and weird and full of pink cardboard and public humiliation. last year someone sent lucas a singing balloon and it followed him through the cafeteria like a curse.
this has nothing to do with valentine’s day.
this is unrelated.
completely separate.
unfortunately, his brain does not agree.
because three days ago you were in his basement, flat on your stomach, feet kicking lazily in the air while you flipped through his cassette case like it was a record store bargain bin. you weren’t even looking at him when you said it.
“mixtapes are the most romantic thing ever, by the way.”
he had laughed. casual. normal. safe.
“yeah, okay.”
“no, seriously,” you said. “if someone actually made me one, like picked songs and recorded it and everything, i’d fall in love a little.”
you said it like trivia.
like weather.
like it didn’t matter.
he hasn’t known peace since.
he drops his forehead to the desk now with a soft thunk.
“great,” he whispers. “awesome. fantastic. emotional sabotage.”
he sits back up and shoves a tape into the deck before he can lose his nerve again.
play.
music spills out low and fuzzy through his headphones. warm analog hiss. soft guitar.
he makes it twelve seconds.
stop.
“too much,” he mutters. “that’s like… immediate confession energy. that’s track five, minimum. maybe side b.”
he rewinds. ejects. tries another.
this one gets further. thirty seconds. forty.
it reminds him of last summer when you both biked too far past where you meant to go and pretended it was intentional. you sat on the curb drinking warm vending machine soda and inventing fake histories for random houses. you said the blue one belonged to a retired spy who only trusted raccoons.
he smiles without meaning to.
“okay,” he says quietly. “you stay.”
he presses record.
immediately becomes aware of his breathing.
he jerks backward.
“why am i like this,” he whispers, rubbing his face between his two palms.
second attempt. quieter. the red light holds. the reels begin to turn.
his stomach flips.
there it is. commitment. irreversible action. documented evidence.
“this is fine,” he tells himself. “this is a normal thing best friends do. extremely normal romantic audio gestures between platonic individuals.”
he pauses.
“…that sounded fake even inside my own head.”
an hour later his floor is covered in open cases and rejected options.
he’s built and rebuilt the track order four times because the emotional arc feels wrong, which is not a sentence he ever thought he’d think about music. but it matters. it has to build. it has to say something without saying it.
every song is dangerous now.
this one is the one that was on the radio the night you fell asleep against his shoulder in the car and he didn’t move for twenty minutes because waking you felt like a crime.
this one is the one you sang completely off key just to make dustin mad.
this one is the one that was playing quietly during a late night campaign session when you leaned over his map and your hair brushed his wrist and he forgot what he was explaining mid sentence.
he records that one and has to swallow twice.
he nearly ruins side a when he forgets the mic is live and mutters, “that lyric is basically a confession,” directly into the recording.
he stares at the deck in horror.
rewind. record over. bury the evidence.
if anyone ever hears the outtakes, he’d have to move states.
the walkie on his nightstand crackles and he nearly launches out of his chair.
he grabs it.
“hello?”
“important,” you say immediately, voice soft with static. “urgent scientific question.”
he laughs under his breath. tension drains out of his shoulders.
“go ahead.”
“if a dragon hoarded vinyl records instead of gold, is that cooler or worse?”
“cooler,” he says. “obviously cooler.”
“correct. okay. you pass. continue your late night nerd ritual.”
he hesitates. “how do you know i’m doing a nerd ritual?”
“because it’s midnight and you’re awake on a school night, mike.”
click.
he keeps holding the walkie anyway.
“night,” he says quietly to the empty hiss.
he sets it down slowly and looks back at the tape deck.
“yeah,” he murmurs. “this is happening.”
mike wakes up late because he fell asleep with his headphones still on and the tape deck still armed with a blank side b.
the first thing he feels is the cord against his neck and the second thing he feels is panic. smaller, more embarrassing, panic. the kind that lives behind the ribs and taps.
today is the drop day.
he sits up too fast, knocks a cassette case onto the floor, and spends a full ten seconds staring at it like gravity personally wronged him.
“okay,” he says hoarsely. “you’re fine. you’re normal. you’re a person who does normal things like secretly produce emotionally revealing music compilations.”
he drags a hand through his hair.
“wow. that sounded worse out loud.”
the tape is still in the deck. side b empty.
he checks the clock and swears, then lunges out of bed and hits record before he can talk himself out of finishing it. he doesn’t even reevaluate the track list this time. if he does, he’ll start cutting songs and then there won’t be a tape and then none of this will have happened and that somehow feels worse.
side b is riskier. he knows it is.
side a is safe memories and soft signals. side b is where the lyrics start getting a little too specific. a little too honest. a little too close to things he’s never said out loud without disguising them as jokes.
the first track rolls. he sits very still so he doesn’t ruin the sound with movement.
he thinks about your laugh without permission.
about the way you look at him when you’re trying to decide if he’s being serious or not. about how you always sit on the arm of the couch instead of the cushion like you’re ready to spring up at any moment.
he wonders if you do that at other houses.
he hates that thought immediately.
“jealousy is stupid,” he tells the tape under his breath. “we’re not doing that.”
he nearly talks over the intro and clamps his mouth shut just in time.
the reels turn. the song records. something in his chest tightens and stays that way. when it finishes, he doesn’t rewind to check it. that feels like tempting fate.
he ejects the tape with ceremonial care and holds it in his hands like it’s fragile, which is ridiculous, because it’s plastic. but it doesn’t feel like plastic. it feels like a message in a bottle that could come back with consequences.
he prints your initial on the label. small. neat. tries not to make it look like he practiced.
he did practice.
twice.
he shoves the tape into his backpack before he can rethink the handwriting.
commitment achieved through panic. again.
the bike ride to school is colder than expected. his gloves are too thin and the wind sneaks through the cuffs of his jacket and up his sleeves. the chain clicks in a rhythm that usually calms him. today it just sounds like a countdown.
he keeps mentally replaying possible outcomes.
you laugh and think it’s sweet. you get uncomfortable and things get weird forever. you never mention it. you figure it out instantly and he dissolves into dust.
“stop,” he tells himself out loud at a red light. “you’re spiraling.”
a car full of seniors looks at him like he’s nuts.
“mind your business,” he mutters.
he pedals harder when the light changes.
first period he hears nothing the teacher says.
second period he writes the same word three times in his notes and doesn’t remember writing it once.
third period he checks his bag and makes sure the tape is still there, then panics because he checked too obviously and now it looks suspicious even though no one is looking.
by the time he reaches your locker between classes, his pulse is loud enough to be its own soundtrack.
you’re there, arguing with lucas about whether time travel would ruin birthdays. your hands are moving, your eyebrows raised, fully invested.
you bump mike with your shoulder without looking and keep talking. he feels it like an electric current.
“you’re wrong,” you tell lucas. “if you time travel you get more birthdays. that’s math.”
“that’s not math,” lucas says.
“it’s emotional math.”
mike laughs before he can stop himself.
you turn and grin at him. “back me up.”
“i’m not getting involved in time birthday politics,” he says. “too dangerous.”
“coward,” you say warmly.
that word, from you, sounds like affection.
he has to look away for a second.
dustin appears behind you and stage whispers, “he’s been weird all morning.”
“i have not,” mike says instantly.
“you stared at your backpack like it insulted you,” dustin says.
“i was thinking.”
“you said ‘oh no’ out loud.”
“that was unrelated.”
you look between them, amused. “you guys are so suspicious.”
mike feels like his heart is trying to escape.
the drop window opens when you and lucas detour to the water fountain. hallway loud. lockers slamming. bodies everywhere. perfect cover.
he moves on instinct before courage can fail.
your bag is open. front pocket unzipped.
slide tape in.
done.
he turns to leave and walks directly into a senior built like a refrigerator and bounces backward.
“s-sorry,” he blurts, voice cracking in betrayal.
he keeps walking. does not look back. does not breathe until he hits the stairwell. his hands are shaking again.
“okay,” he whispers. “okay. done. that’s it. you can’t undo it now.”
he feels lightheaded. like after running too hard.
he also feels weirdly proud.
and deeply terrified.
mostly terrified.
lunch detonates the plan.
he knows something is wrong before he sits down because he can hear your laugh across the cafeteria and it’s the kind where you can’t breathe between bursts.
someone has a tape player out.
alien screeching noises echo off the walls. it makes mike freeze mid step.
“no,” he whispers. “no way.”
he sits slowly.
“what is that,” he asks, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near fragile.
you’re wiping tears from your eyes. “my secret admirer is apparently a comedian.”
dustin is glowing like a guilty sun.
mike connects the dots instantly.
“you didn’t,” mike mutters.
dustin grins. “i absolutely did.”
“you’re going to die,” mike says calmly.
“worth it.”
“what is happening,” you ask.
“nothing,” both boys say at once.
the tape continues: burp sound effects layered over sci fi music.
you laugh again.
mike feels relief first. that is not his tape. good. excellent. he is not publicly emotionally exposed.
then dread.
because now there are two tapes.
and if you never find the right one, or worse, if someone else takes credit, he might actually lose his mind.
he stares at his lunch tray and doesn’t taste any of it.
“you okay,” you ask him softly.
he looks up too fast. “yeah. why.”
“you’re chewing like you’re solving a crime.”
“i always chew like this.”
“no you don’t.”
he shrugs. drinks milk he didn’t want.
“maybe i’m evolving.”
you smile at him like that’s a real answer. it almost kills him.
that night the walkie crackles while he’s pretending to do homework.
he grabs it instantly.
“yeah?”
“i found the other tape,” you say.
his chest goes tight.
“other tape?”
“yeah. the real one. it was in the small pocket.” a pause. softer now. “i listened to it.”
he sits down slowly on the edge of his bed.
“oh.”
“it’s really good, mike.”
he stares at the wall.
“whoever made it,” you continue, “they know me. like actually know me. it’s kind of unfair.”
he swallows. his voice comes out lower than expected.
“yeah?”
“yeah.” a small breath through static. “it sounds like you.”
he could lie. but he doesn’t.
“maybe,” he says quietly, “you’re right.”
static hums between you like shared air.
“come by tomorrow?” you ask. “i want to talk about it.”
his pulse jumps.
“okay,” he says. “yeah. okay.”
click.
he keeps holding the walkie long after the channel goes quiet.
“okay,” he whispers to the empty room.
then, after a beat,
“oh no.”
mike doesn’t oversleep.
he wakes up early, like he always does when something matters. his eyes open and the thought is already there, fully formed.
she knows it was me.
he lies still for a minute, staring at the ceiling, tracking the faint crack that runs from the corner toward the light fixture. he’s traced that line a thousand times after nightmares, after arguments, after long nights building campaign notes.
today it feels different.
“okay,” he says quietly to the empty room. “fine. we’re doing this.”
he sits up.
no dramatic spiral. no flailing. just nerves sitting low and steady in his stomach like a coiled wire.
he can handle nerves.
he handled monsters. alternate dimensions. government lies. he can handle talking to his best friend about a mixtape that accidentally turned into a confession device.
probably.
he bikes slower than usual.
not stalling. thinking.
there’s frost at the edges of lawns, sun low and pale, the kind of morning where everything feels like it’s holding its breath. his tires hum against the pavement. the cold air keeps him sharp.
he replays last night carefully, like reviewing game footage. you listening. you going quiet. you saying it sounded like him.
he doesn’t build fantasy outcomes. he’s learned better than that. hope is good. assumptions are tactical errors.
still, there’s a steady warmth under his ribs he doesn’t try to kill.
he meant what he put on that tape. and if he’s going to be caught, at least it’s for something true.
your house looks the same as always.
that helps.
he props his bike against the rail and takes a second before going up the steps, just breathing, steadying. not psyching himself up. just getting centered.
“you’re not on trial,” he mutters. “you’re visiting your best friend. who maybe knows you’re in love with her. normal day.”
he knocks.
the door opens fast, like you were already near it.
you’re in his old campaign sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up unevenly, hair loose, face a little pink from the cold air inside the house.
he notices all of it at once and pretends he doesn’t.
“hey,” you say.
“hey.”
the word lands solid. good. usable.
no voice crack. small victory.
you step back to let him in, and your shoulder brushes his arm as he passes. familiar contact. still hits different today.
he files that away and keeps moving.
the living room is quiet. no tv. no radio. intentional.
the tape player sits on the coffee table. the cassette beside it.
he recognizes his own handwriting on the label and feels a strange mix of embarrassment and pride.
“you.. made cocoa?” he says, spotting the mugs.
“yeah,” you answer. “felt like a sitdown topic.”
he huffs a soft breath. “that sounds ominous.”
“it’s not,” you say. “well. maybe a little.”
you both sit. angled toward each other, not straight on. like you always do when conversations matter.
no one hits play.
that’s interesting.
“i listened all the way through,” you say.
“both sides?”
“both sides.”
he nods once. trying to visually keep himself together. barely.
“okay.”
you study his face for a moment, like you’re checking whether he’s going to dodge. he doesn’t.
“were you ever going to tell me,” you ask, “or was the tape supposed to do all the talking.”
he considers that honestly.
“i was going to tell you,” he says. “i just didn’t know when yet.”
“so the tape was… what. reconnaissance?”
he almost smiles. “more like controlled disclosure.”
that gets a real laugh out of you.
good. tension breaks a notch.
you pick up the cassette, turning it slowly between your fingers.
“you’re not subtle,” you say.
“i know,” he answers calmly. “i didn’t want to be.”
that shifts the air.
you glance up at him. searching. he holds the look, steady, no flinch.
mike doesn’t run from eye contact when it matters. he learned that the hard way.
“why music,” you ask softly.
“because you actually listen,” he says. “not just hear. you listen to lyrics, tone, all of it. i figured if i tried to say it out loud first, i’d rush it. music keeps me honest.”
you absorb that. he can see it land.
“some of those songs are… specific,” you say.
“yeah.”
“like, extremely specific.”
“also yeah.”
a beat.
“were you worried it would scare me off.”
he thinks about it.
“no,” he says. “i was worried it would change things.”
“that sounds the same.”
“not to me.”
you tilt your head slightly. inviting the distinction.
he gives it to you.
“scaring you off means i misjudged you,” he says. “changing things just means it mattered.”
you go quiet at that. but he doesn’t look away.
“i thought,” you say after a moment, “that if you ever liked me like that, i’d know.”
he shakes his head once. small.
“not necessarily.”
“why not.”
“because you’re important,” he says simply. “i don’t gamble important things on hints.”
you swallow, eyes dropping briefly to the tape again.
“i liked you first,” you say.
he blinks. not because it’s unbelievable, but because it hits clean and direct. he also feels like a massive idiot.
“how first,” he asks quietly.
“months,” you say. “i just decided not to act on it.”
“same strategy,” he says. “different execution timeline.”
you smile. there’s relief in it. and something warmer.
“so.. what changed?” you ask.
he doesn’t dodge.
“i got tired of pretending the category fit,” he says. “best friend didn’t feel big enough anymore.”
your breath catches slightly at that. he still notices.
he always notices.
“and the tape,” you say, “was you stopping pretending.”
“yeah.”
your knees are almost touching his. neither of you adjusts.
“i’m glad it was you,” you say quietly.
he studies your expression to make sure you mean it. you do.
“good,” he answers. “because it was definitely me.”
that earns him a soft laugh.
“you’re not even embarrassed,” you say.
“i am,” he replies. “i’m just not ashamed.”
the distinction hangs there, solid and real.
you reach out without thinking and rest your fingers briefly against his sleeve near his wrist. grounding touch. familiar. new meaning.
his pulse jumps but he doesn’t pull away.
“you always do that,” you murmur.
“what?”
“feel things all the way through.”
he shrugs lightly. “partial feelings seem inefficient.”
you grin. “that’s the most mike answer possible.”
“yeah,” he says. “i know.”
and the way you’re looking at him now is different than yesterday. not shocked. not uncertain.
open.
he recognizes it because he feels the same way. like the tape didn’t create anything. it just turned the lights on.
the room feels different after the tape stops. not quieter exactly. just… closer. like the air itself moved in.
mike is very aware of your hand still in his. not loosely. not by accident. your fingers are still threaded with his like they belong there, like you forgot to let go or decided not to.
he doesn’t move it. doesn’t even adjust.
if he shifts too fast he might break whatever this is and he doesn’t want to find out what happens if it breaks.
you’re closer than you were ten minutes ago. he doesn’t remember either of you leaning in, but the space between your knees is gone now. your shoulder rests against his arm. warm. solid. real.
he keeps thinking: this is happening. this is actually happening.
then, right behind that thought:
don’t mess it up.
“you’re thinking too loud again,” you say softly.
he blinks. “what.”
“your face,” you smile a little. “you do that thing when your brain goes into overdrive.”
“i do not.”
“you absolutely do.”
he huffs a quiet breath, embarrassed and fond at the same time. “i just don’t want to say the wrong thing.”
“then don’t perform,” you say gently. “just talk to me.”
“okay,” he says quietly. “truth, then.”
you nod once.
he swallows. his thumb shifts against the side of your hand without him meaning to, just feeling the fact that you’re still there.
“when you said you liked mixtapes because they’re more honest,” he says, “i couldn’t get it out of my head. it felt like a test i didn’t know i was taking.”
“a test?” you echo.
“yeah. like if i didn’t do something, someone else would. and they’d say it better. faster.”
“mike…”
“i know that sounds stupid.”
“it doesn’t.”
he looks at you then, really looks, and you’re not smiling at him like he’s being cute. you’re listening like he’s being real. it steadies him enough to keep going.
“i kept telling myself it was just because you’re my best friend,” he says. “that’s why it mattered. but that explanation stopped working a while ago.”
your breath catches just slightly. he hears it.
“when?” you ask quietly.
“i don’t know,” he admits. “there wasn’t a moment. it was like… background noise turning into the main track. one day i realized everything felt louder when it was you.”
your eyes go soft in that way that always undoes him a little.
“i thought you didn’t see me like that,” you whisper.
the sentence lands straight in his chest.
“i always saw you,” he says immediately. “i just didn’t label it right.”
“that matters, you know,” you say. “being seen like that.”
“i know that now.”
your thumb brushes once over his knuckles. absent. affectionate. it sends a clean line of electricity up his arm and he has to breathe through it without looking like he just forgot how lungs work.
“can i tell you something kind of embarrassing?”you ask.
“most likely,” he says softly.
you bump your shoulder into his. “be serious.”
“i am serious. go.”
you glance down, then back up at him through your lashes.
“i liked you first,” you say. “by a lot.”
his brain stutters.
“..what?” he barely whispers.
“i just figured you didn’t. so i tried to act normal about it. which did not help my confidence, by the way.”
he actually frowns. not at you. at the idea.
“that’s not fair,” he says.
“feelings aren’t.”
“no, i mean it’s not fair you thought you weren’t… pickable.”
you laugh softly. “pickable?”
“you know what i mean.”
“i do.”
he shakes his head, earnest, a little flushed. “if i made you feel invisible, that’s on me.”
“you didn’t make me feel invisible,” you say gently. “you made me feel important. just not chosen.”
that one hurts in a precise way.
so he answers it the only way he knows how. directly.
“i’m choosing you now.”
your eyes widen a fraction. your fingers tighten in his.
“yeah?” you breathe.
“yeah.”
you kiss him before he can overthink it.
soft at first. tentative. your hand lifting to his jaw like you’re checking whether this version of him is solid.
he is.
he turns into it instead of freezing, because this is you and he knows you and this isn’t a risk, it’s a step.
your lips are warm and a little nervous and he can feel that you’re trying not to rush it, which somehow makes it more intense, not less. his thumb presses into the back of your hand. grounding. answering.
his chest feels too full. like emotion without a container.
oh, he thinks distantly. so this is why people write songs.
when you pull back you’re flushed, eyes bright, breathing a little uneven.
“i’ve wanted to do that for months,” you admit.
“you should’ve filed a request,” he murmurs, still close. “i could’ve scheduled it.”
you laugh against his mouth and kiss him again, and this one is less careful. still gentle, but surer. like you’re done asking permission from the universe.
he smiles into it, helpless and happy.
when it breaks, your foreheads rest together.
“we’re okay?” you whisper.
he nods once, immediate. “we’re more than okay.”
“good.”
“good.”
neither of you moves away.
the tape clicks as the empty reel spins. the sound is small and steady and weirdly perfect.
“best valentine’s day i’ve had,” you say.
“it’s not even technically valentine’s day yet,” he answers.
“still counts.”
he squeezes your hand once. agreement logged.
“next time,” he says quietly, “i’m not using a secret identity.”
“next time?”
he meets your eyes, open and certain now.
“next time i just knock on the door.”
you smile like that was the only answer you wanted.
and he thinks, with a calm he’s never had about this before,
yeah.
no rewind needed.
━━━━ lovers rock / 18+
𓏲⋆ ziggy katz x fem reader ༘⋆ pt 1, pt 2, can be read alone
after weeks of fighting with his parents, you two finally get a night alone when everything has calmed down and all that's left is lingering tension he needs to release. you've always been his favorite person to help with that.
a/n warnings: smut (sorry...) hi again i love u guys so much i cant ur all too sweet... this is soo long. also #loveoverlust in this one cuz i am #projecting ahaha it is cute but def 18+.... also this is over 7k words genuinely wtf is my problem
"Heyyy, so..." Ziggy's familiar voice rings in your ear over your phone you'd just picked up, a stupid grin finding your lips, "hypothetically, right. I was wondering if your parents were home, since I know you said they had something going on this weekend."