andwordsarefutiledevicess

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different year, same vibe

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Bestfriend!Art who is really frustrated because everything is going wrong and girls are rejecting him and he keeps losing matches and his coach is mad at him and his grades are slipping. He’s so upset and asks if he can come tell you about it. Of course you say yes; he’s your bestest friend. You expect him to rant like he usually does, shoving snacks into his mouth as he rambles to you in an oversized Stanford hoodie. You don’t expect to end up on your side, Art’s cock rutting into you as he furiously rubs your clit, saying he’ll feel better soon. He just needs to cum. And you grasp onto his hair like your life depends on it.

“Atta girl—“ another deep thrust. he still hasn’t said why he’s so upset. maybe he never meant to. “—taking it so good.��

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SCREAMINGGGG

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SO HOT

the hair….jesus christ (positive)….

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the hair….jesus christ (positive)….

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mike faist always looks like he just got away with telling a really dirty joke in class

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but saying it out loud is hard

summary: art tries to sleep, patrick is blissfully unaware. mark rebellato academy circa 2006 (prior to us open). loosely inspired by futile devices by sufjan stevens.

a/n: a quick something about art and patrick at rebellato. this is less patrick x art and more just....musings on homoerotic friendships. its been a while since i've posted, but feel free to send requests! i'll be active the next few weeks :)

the rattle of the air conditioning blended with the rhymic sounds of patrick’s deep breaths. the sheen of sweat across art’s skin chilled, sending a shudder down his gangly legs. for the past hour art had been wrestling his sheets while the window unit, nearest to his bed, blew his curls back into his eyes no matter how many times he raked a hand through them. it’s was three a.m. and, in the unceasing may florida heat which even the night could not escape, in the bed too small for his post-growth-spurt body, art was ready to give up on his hopes for a good nights’ rest. 

a muffled snore from patrick’s end of the room only served to taunt art. it was like patrick was saying “my bed is far away from that shitty ac, and i’ll be perfectly rested to whoop your ass during practice tomorrow” with each open-mouth, blissed-out breath in. art had never slept well at rebellato, not in the nearly six years he’d been there. his mind couldn’t seem to turn off when the lights did. he missed the feeling of his dog at the foot of his bed and, secretly, being able to hug his worn-out stuffed animals. but he’d learned to tough it out, and wait until he couldn’t keep his eyelids up before his restless mind gave into sleep. 

art was proud that he hadn’t slipped back into his old bad habits. when the cicadas chirped through this nights of those first few years at rebellato academy, art would push his and patrick’s beds together. sometimes he’d give up and just squeeze himself into pat’s bed and they’d sleep like sardines. sometimes patrick was the one to make the decision. art didn’t have brothers, and believed patrick, who had two, when he’d told art that this is what brothers did. they’d wake up with their cheeks smashed together and he couldn’t tell when one boy started and the other ended. now art felt too old for it. or something like that. 

it must have been the days of poor sleep that caused art to lapse back into this bad habit, or at least that was what he would tell himself the next morning. his drowsiness stripped him of the executive function necessary to stop his legs as they swung out of his own bed, and the soft beds of his feet hit the hardwood floors. 

patrick’s mattress dipped with the weight of art’s body as he crawled into the opposite bed. 

“are you asleep, pat?” his voice sounded strange to hear out loud after hours of quiet. 

a grumble, and then “yes.” art rolled his eyes in the dark. 

“if you’re asleep then why did you respond” art retorted, less a whisper and more just a quiet tone. he rested his head down, facing patrick, as he tried to settle his body without knocking knees in the twin bed. 

patrick’s eyes finally opened, heavy-lidded with interrupted sleep. “what’s up” he rasped, stretching his shoulders and tangling his brown waves on the pillowcase. 

“can’t sleep” art said, trying to sound dishonestly casual. patrick rubbed his eyes, reminding art of the 12-year-old pat he first met. patrick resigned, lifting his blanket as an invitation for art to share the bed like they used to. art muttered a “thanks” before scootching closer. 

pat had already closed his eyes. a second body in patrick’s bed, let alone that of his best friend, didn’t seem to bother him. art wished it was that easy. like everything pat did, he slept with the practiced nonchalance art never mastered. 

in the rare instance art had the gumption to reach out and take the things he wanted, he couldn’t rest with his success in the way that pat always had. it took emma shapiro telling kat zimmerman that she didn’t think art would ever kiss her, and kat zimmerman telling patrick, and patrick telling art he needed to “lay one on her” for art to finally kiss emma during the last week of seventh grade. he was convinced she hated it and hated him, and he never messaged her on AIM like she’d told him to. pat had already had is first kiss the year before with jessica martinez during a game of spin the bottle. patrick spun the bottle, grinned as it landed on jessica, managed to sneak in a bit of tongue, and grinned at art when jessica promptly ran away afterwards. the bottle never landed on art and he never felt up to spinning it. 

with a soft thud, the weight of patrick’s arm landed across art’s body as he moved in his sleep. with each of art’s inhales, the rise of his chest would move patrick’s arm with it. bare skin dragging along bare skin as their bodies rode the same slow wave of movement, and art finally slept. 

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patrick is for sure a chosen (he’s the chosen that fucks)

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whatever. so much of challengers is about an obsession with the body tashi doesnt go to art and patrick's room for conversation she already knows the amount of crazy she is about tennis is the amount of crazy they are about only her and nothing else. she still has faith, then; she revels in her trust of her own body bc it hasn't "betrayed" her yet. her disdain for patrick, her desire to possess both of them that only works with art--it's innately sexual, in many ways she wants to be in their bodies. she offsets the vulnerability in her position, that of being in the (in her eyes) humiliating but intimate situation of only being able to access your most fulfilling pleasure through another person's body, through obsessive control of it. when she's in her dorm with patrick and having sex with him is coaching him and he refuses to sit. well she gets it eventually with art

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art donaldson now canonically doesn’t know have to correctly shave his own legs, and yet insists on doing it anyways

so hd you can see the razor burn on his thighs 🥰

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the edit itself

this edit is getting taken down from tiktok every time someone reuploads it, its straight up censorship at this point

Im not even american but im having a great time with this

DONT LET THIS DIE

credit to miraculousgastropod for the original

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The fact that some people think that Art and Patrick are straight fucking baffles me

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they both want the other cookie so effing bad

Mike Faist and Josh O'Connor for Challengers - BAFTA Q&A Panel

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Girl...

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naw why did it just hit me that art chose tashi over his best friend of like six years….erm…

like i get that he was feeling neglected by patrick but yikes

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not to sound parasocial asf but he seems much happier and less tired than during the press tour. i’m assuming this was filmed in september or october

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PRINCE HAIR MIKE FAIST