₊˚⊹kate₊˚⊹

“Are you ever gonna let that go?” you hear someone say. You lift your head from the book propped up on your lap.

“What?”

“I said, are you ever going to let that book go? C’mon, we’re on vacation. It’s spring break. And you’re reading,” Art says, frowning.

“So what?” you ask, offended.

“You look like the stereotypical female lead of any movie right now, y’know?”

“What do you mean by that?”

He takes up a shrill voice, making a poor attempt at a girlish voice, coming off more as a police car siren.

“Oh I’m so different, look at me reading at the beach, ignoring all my friends and acting so mysterious!”

“Hey okay rude.”

You sit up, slamming the book shut. 

It truly is a beautiful day. If it weren’t for Art, you’d probably still be in your hotel room, doing your own thing. The drunken crowds and the perpetual fruity stench composed of tanning oil and cocktail mixers that came with spring break were the opposite of your scene. But your friends had insisted and you didn’t have the heart to say no to them. Also, you were scared they’d get blackout drunk before 2pm and disappear. So you’d indulged in their whims, getting ready with Tashi’s help, getting all but pushed out the door by Patrick and Art, following them all to the beach.

You shade your face from the sun with your hand, looking up at Art. The sun illuminates his golden hair, giving him a poor excuse for a halo.

“So… what? I’ve given up my book, you better make it worth my time, smartass.”

Art just grins, and you yelp when he grabs your sand-dusted forearm to pull you to your feet harshly; your stumbling body is stabled by two warm hands on your shoulders.

“Tashi and Patrick are playing beach-volley,” Art murmurs into your ear.

“So?”

The boy takes a faux-wounded expression.

“Are you gonna make me explain everything,” he teases.

“I might, just to piss you off,” you reply, brushing sand off the back of your thighs, and you entirely miss the way Art follows your hands hungrily. By the time you look up, his gaze is fixed on your face again, expression schooled back into something appropriate.

“Let’s just go,” you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him along with you, “beach-volley isn’t fun unless there’s worthy competition.”

When Tashi spots you walking up to them, she stops berating talking to Patrick and jogs towards you. Her smile is easy when she wraps you in a hug, the smell of her tanning oil floats up to your nose, and for once, you don’t exactly mind it.

“You’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence,” she jokes when she pulls back.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you reply, “this one all but guilt-tripped me into coming,” you add, jerking your head towards Art, who’s standing right behind you, a dumb smile plastered on his face. Tashi’s gaze goes from you, to him, then back to you, and you feel like there are words on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you along with her towards where Patrick still stands.

“Let’s make this interesting. Girls against boys,” she says when you’ve all regrouped.

“Oh, you don’t stand a chance!” Patrick exclaims, slinging an arm around Art to pull him closer, “Fire and Ice, baby, we’re unbeatable.”

“Maybe on the tennis court, and that’s being generous,” you bite back, though your voice is laden with the sly smile on your face. Patrick takes a wounded expression dramatically flopping down on the sand with a hand pressed to his forehead.

“How could you be so mean?” Art deadpans, and both you and Tashi laugh as you move to the other side of the net, already skillfully passing the ball between the two of you.

“C’mon, a little healthy competition,” Tashi calls out, pushing her brown hair out of her face.

“We’re gonna destroy you,” Patrick responds, scrambling to his feet, “aren’t we, Art?”

The boy hums noncommittally, entranced by your sun-soaked skin, and he’s convinced that he can somehow smell your shampoo mixing with the salty air, even from a distance.

“Earth to Art?” Patrick insists, and he’s jerked out of his rêvery. He shakes his head and assumes position, but at the first flash of your proud smile, he knows he’s fucked, and there’s no way that he and Patrick are winning. 

When you collapse in the sand, 45 minutes of absolutely destroying the boys later, your belly hurts from how much you’ve been laughing. Art attempts to get a high-five from Patrick, who, instead, stalks away in mock anger, grumbling something about distracting bathing suits. 

Tashi sits down beside you, and a few seconds later, Art joins you, sitting cross legged, a little closer to you than you’re used to.

“Wasn’t that worth giving up your book for?” he asks, poking at your side with his finger.

“I guess so. Patrick’s face of defeat made it worth it, actually.”

Art chuckles and Tashi keels over from laughing. The sun has started to set, painting the sky and ocean and vivid shade of orange, and suddenly, the possibilities seem endless.

“So, what now?” Tashi asks, sitting up and shaking the sand from her hair.

“Now,” Patrick says, making you look behind you, “we drink,” he announces, holding up four cans of beer. He tosses one in your direction, and you catch it effortlessly, cracking it open. The first sip is heaven down your throat, exactly what you needed after so much time in the harsh sun.

“You can be an angel, Patrick… sometimes,” you comment as he sits opposite you, beside Tashi. Art hums in agreement as you take your first good look at him in the past few hours: the salty water has his hair curling gracefully along his forehead and nape, his face is a rosy pink, maybe the beginning of a sunburn on the ridge of his nose and the top of his shoulders, sun dusting along the skin of his torso and that very Art-esque twinkle in his eyes. He’s too distracted by the nonsense that Patrick is spewing to notice your meticulous observation.

Or so you think.

When you take your second sip of beer, Patrick takes the opportunity to tip the can backwards, sending a wave of the liquid onto your face and trickling down your torso. You yelp in surprise, the cold beer a shock for your skin turned sensitive by the sun, immediately swatting away his hand as he cackles, but the damage is done, and your entire chest is already growing sticky from the beer.

“Patrick!”

“What?” he says innocently.

“You’re such an asshole!”

“I’m just having a little fun here, sweetheart. You should be mad at Art, really, he looks like he’s ready to lick that beer off you,” he says simply, and his statement has your head whipping around to look at the other boy.

Indeed, before he can manage to look somewhat normal, you catch him looking at your soaked front, lips hanging the slightest bit open. You frown, snapping your fingers in front of his face.

“Take a picture, Donaldson, it’ll last longer,” you drawl.

“Aw, I bet he wishes he could,” Patrick teases, which causes Art to shove him and stand up, quickly walking away to where you all left your stuff.

“Dick,” he mutters.

“C’mon, Art, don’t be like that!” Patrick calls behind him, “I’m just tryna help you out!” he adds, but the boy ignores him and grabs his things. The three of you watch him leave the beach, fraying his way through the crowd, and head towards the hotel you were all staying at.

Tashi smacks Patrick on the back of the head with such violence that he spits out the beer in his mouth.

“Ow! What was that for?!”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she replies, scowling, “why would you embarrass him like that?”

“I was just being honest. I mean, c’mon… he was totally staring at you,” he says, looking in your direction.

You flush under Patrick’s sharp gaze, shrinking into yourself.

“You didn’t have to be an asshole about it,” you mutter, voice full of reproach, “not all men are as perverted as you.”

“Rude.”

“Just being honest,” you parrot, mimicking his lilt.

Tashi stifles a laugh behind her hand and Patrick glares, but you’re too busy replaying the moment in your head. Because, yeah, Art had been staring… but that’s not because it was you, right? Boys are just like that, freaks and pervert-like, right? There’s no way—

“Aw, she’s thinking about it!” Patrick exclaims, jerking you out of your rêvery, and you don’t hesitate a second before lunging forward and smacking his cheek. Patrick shrieks, pulling back to keep away from you, he looks utterly shocked by your outburst. In his defence, it really wasn’t like you at all to act like this.

Tashi bursts out laughing and she borderline has to hold you back from trying for another, more violent retaliation.

“Let’s just go back to the hotel before this turns into a fight,” she says, pulling you to your feet with her, “Art’s over there all alone anyway.”

You all gather your belongings, and the walk back to the hotel is quick, mostly basking in silence. You’re still thinking about the Art incident, Patrick still looks dumbfounded, his fingers occasionally grazing along the spot where your hand connected with his face, and Tashi was never one to break silence when it was needed.

When you step inside the building, the plastic smelling air of the A/C relieves your overly-warm skin, and you and Tashi split ways with Patrick in the hallway, boys and girls heading to your respective rooms. Your friend unlocks the door, pushing it open, and you immediately collapse on the crisp sheets of your bed, closest to the window.

“He’s such an asshole,” you murmur against the mattress.

“Who? Patrick? Are you just discovering this now?” she jokes, settling beside you.

“... No. He was particularly annoying today, though,” you say, turning to lay on your back. You meet Tashi’s warm gaze, and a small, reluctant smile starts to sculpt your face.

“How do you spend more than five minutes with him?” you ask, running a hand down your face.

The girl shrugs.

“I’m not sure. Whenever he pisses me off, we fuck. It’s simple, really. He goes dumb and quiet really fast.”

Your laugh softly, finally sitting up.

“I’ll never understand you,” you say quietly.

“You don’t have to. You just have to know that you’ll always get your ass handed to you by me on the tennis court.”

You smack her shoulder playfully, moving to let your legs dangle off the bed.

“I beat you a few times.”

“When I was sick or tired.”

“You make it sound like I can only beat you when you’re weak.”

“I’m making it sound like what it is,” she taunts softly, and you chuckle.

“Fuck you.”

She throws a small smile your way, before attempting to push you to your feet. 

“Go shower, it’ll help clear your head.”

“Clear my head from what?” you ask, frowning.

“The whole Art thing. I know you’re thinking about it.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure you aren’t.”

“Why would I be thinking about it?”

“Because he was totally looking at you like he’d lick the beer off your skin if you asked. Patrick wasn’t wrong.”

You whip around to look at her, eyes going wide.

“You too? You can’t be serious. Art is just a hormonal man, he saw boobs and couldn’t help himself.”

“I mean… yeah, but it’s mostly because it was you.”

“Oh, fuck off. That’s not true!”

“It absolutely is. That cherub of a man wants you so bad it’s actually pathetic. It’s obvious to everyone… except you, apparently.”

“Tashi!”

“What?”

You groan in response, standing up to plant yourself in front of her.

“How can you be so casual about this?” 

Tashi grins, somehow enjoying your increasingly distressed state.

“Why are you not being casual? Why does it stress you out so much?”

For a few seconds, you’re stunned into silence. You just stare at Tashi, lips parted, breathing shallowly. She was right. Why did it bother you so much to know that Art had a thing for you (allegedly)? 

“Beacause… because, Art is my friend, and you’re making me feel weird about our relationship when there’s nothing to feel weird about! Patrick would’ve done the same thing! I’m pretty sure he did, actually, and—”

“Patrick would do that with anyone.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying! Why is Art looking at me so weird to you all!”

“Because Art wouldn’t have stared like that if it was anyone else. He stared because it was you,” Tashi states, enunciating each word like she’s trying to drill them into your brain, “what’s so hard to understand?”

You stay silent, staring at Tashi like she’d just tried to explain quantum physics to you.

“... This is ridiculous, I’m going to shower,” you finally bring yourself to mumble, before crossing the hotel room and walking into the bathroom, shutting the door with a little more force than necessary.

You step into the shower, turn on the blistering hot tap and shed your clothes and bathing suit. Half the beach’s sand falls from your skin, dusting your feet and the shower’s tiled floor, to immediately be washed away by the steaming stream of water. The hot water on your head proves itself an immediate relief, washing away the salt from your dry skin and relaxing your coiled muscles. 

You blindly paw at the cluster of products in the corner, settling on Tashi’s expensive peach-scented shampoo as revenge for her incessant pestering. It smells sweet like candy as it pools in the cup of your hand, and you can actually feel your hair softening as you lather it onto your head. You hum mindlessly as you shower, using all of Tashi’s products, the good, expensive, silky stuff that leaves you feeling like you’d just been reborn.

When you step out, wrapped in a fluffy towel, you smell like peach rings, your hair is as soft as silk or velvet, and your muscles have finally wound down, easing the tension in your back and shoulders.

You find Tashi sitting on her bed, picking at a loose thread on one of the dresses she’d laid out in front of her.

“What’s all this for?”

“Patrick called. Says we’re all going clubbing.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Too bad, you’re coming,” she says, standing up and walking past you to take her turn in the shower. Her steps stutter as she reaches the doorway, and she glances at you, eyes narrowing.

“Did you use my shampoo?”

“And your conditioner. And your bodywash. Oops.”

Tashi rolls her eyes, huffing in exasperation.

“Bitch.”

“You don’t mean that,” you call out, slumping down on your bed, grimacing at the grains of sand that linger on the sheets.

“You’re right,” Tashi calls back, before shutting the door. A few seconds later, you hear the shower turn on, water splashing on the tiles. You wait a few minutes before dragging yourself upright and walking over to your suitcase, surrounded by a halo of crumpled clothes. You pull out a few dresses, a skirt you’d packed without remembering how short it actually was, an impressive collection of tops, before dropping to the ground in defeat. You genuinely have no idea what to wear. You don’t even seriously want to go out.

You reluctantly grab a bra, a simple thing, black with some lace details on the edge, and push the straps over your shoulders before clasping closed. Underwear follows suite, and you’re left sitting on the grey carpet of a quiet hotel room in your underwear when a soft knock resounds at the door.

Your first reflex is to pull the towel you’d discarded over yourself, and you stay, paralyzed, waiting for a confirmation of what you’d just heard. The knock on the door repeats itself, the slightest bit more insistent, and you pull yourself to your feet, half wrapping yourself in the wet towel.

A quick glance through the peephole informs you that the person on the other side is Art. He’s cleaned up since the beach, his damp curls hanging around his face, skin scrubbed clean of salt and sand. You catch a glimpse of the linen button-up he’s wearing before deciding to cut his wait short. You unlock the door and pull it open, hiding your half-naked body behind it, and peek your head around the edge.

“Hey Art,” you say, smiling softly.

“Oh,” he replies, lips stuck agape, “hi,” he adds, trailing off, cheeks slowly growing pink.

“Can… I help you?”

“Uh… yeah, yeah actually. Patrick sent me over to see if you and Tashi were ready to go out.”

“Well… Tashi’s still in the shower, but she’ll be out soon, and I’ve already showered, so we shouldn’t be too long,” you explain, though you both know you’re being generous in your estimations.

“Oh… okay, how long—”

“We’ll just come get you when we’re ready, ‘kay? I promise we’ll be quick,” you reassure him, tilting your head to the side. 

He cleans up nicely, you think to yourself. His button-up’s sleeves are rolled up, revealing the skin of his strong forearms dusted with golden hair, the top few buttons are undone, allowing for a quiet glance of his chest, he’s changed his bathing suit for some well-fitted jeans. He looks… good.

“You smell good,” you hear him mumble, and his voice pulls you out of your not-so-discreet observations.

“Huh?”

“You smell good… kinda like peach rings,” Art repeats, avoiding your gaze like it might set him aflame.

“Oh… thanks, Art. I stole Tashi’s products so… but thanks,” you say, eyes twinkling, searching for his blue eyes but never being able to meet them.

“I’ll see you in a minute,” he mutters, before rushing down the hall.

“See you later!” you call out behind him and stepping out from behind the door, forgetting your divested state, and when Art turns around to look at you one last time, he’s met with the glorious sight of you, haphazardly wrapped in a towel, barely concealing the amount of naked skin and black lace covering your body. 

Fuck you were pretty. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His face flushes, words catch in his throat, he doesn’t know where to look as you just stand there, self-consciously pulling the towel higher to better hide yourself. Still, he can see the edge of the bra along your cleavage, and he can catch a glimpse of the underwear through a gap in the folds of the fabric.

“I—” he starts, “I have to go,” he mumbles, quickly turning around and all but running down the hallway.

You quickly back into your room and slam the door, your neck and face growing hotter by the second, before collapsing face down on your bed. You moan into the pillow, in pure distress, and that’s how Tashi finds you when she steps out of the shower.

“Jesus, what happened to you?” she asks.

“I basically just flashed Art by accident,” you mumble.

“What? Why would you do that?”

“It was an accident, Tashi! He was so embarrassed… Oh my god, I can never show my face again.”

“Oh c’mon, it’s not that bad, is it? You were wearing underwear, and well… it’s Art, not Patrick, not a total stranger.”

“I’d prefer it if it were a stranger.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Tashi chastises you, pulling you to your feet, “let’s get dressed and go out. You need something to empty your mind.”

“Fine,” you groan, following her to where both your suitcases lay, gutted, on the floor. She picks up the excessively short skirt and tosses it your way.

“I’m not wearing that,” you protest.

“Then why did you bring it?”

“I forgot how short it was.”

“You’re wearing it,” she says, leaving no room for discussion.

“Tashi—”

“You’re wearing it,” she repeats.

This was going to be a long night, you could feel it.

“Jesus Art, what happened, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Patrick says when Art rushes into their room and slams the door, leaning heavily against it. The blond barely spares a glance for his friend, who’s lounging on the bed in his boxers, he stalks past him and sits down on the couch, covering his face with his hands.

“What happened?” Patrick insists.

“I can’t see her ever again,” Art moans.

“Who?”

Art says your name like it’s sin on his lips, without looking up from the dirty carpet. Patrick grins, sitting up immediately.

“What happened?” he repeats, but his tone has shifted to something more taunting, “did you accidentally confess your undying affection to her?”

“I saw her naked,” Art spits out, as if the words burn him.

Now, Patrick had seen a lot. He’d heard a lot. He was expecting a plethora of possible answers from Art, but him seeing you naked was definitely something he wasn’t expecting. He just sits there, staring at his friend, trying to comprehend what he’d just told him.

“You saw her naked!?” he finally exclaims, jerking out of his stunned silence, “how did you even manage that?”

“It was an accident!” Art replies, unknowingly mirroring your own words, a few rooms down the hallway.

“I knocked and when she opened, she was in her underwear, wrapped in a towel! But when she said goodbye, the towel kinda slipped, and I saw everything!... Oh my god, I can’t talk to her ever again, she must feel humiliated.”

“Dude, calm down. First of all, she wasn’t naked, she was wearing underwear—”

“That’s practically naked!”

“It really isn’t,” Patrick says nonchalantly, totally ignoring Art’s outraged expression.

“It’s not that bad,” he adds, “I thought you’d peeped through her window or something.”

“Jesus, Pat, why would I do that?”

“Because, you’re totally down bad for her, and you’re enough of a pervert to do that,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“I’m not a pervert!” Art all but yells, suddenly standing up.

“Sure you are. You’re just better at hiding it than I am.”

“I’m not a pervert,” Art repeats weakly, but he vividly remembers his train of thought when you had beer dripping down your chin, down your chest and onto your belly. He remembers how sinful it was, how he’d imagined you laying on your back, skin glossy with sweat, how he’d gladly lick it off your skin if you asked him nicely, if you asked him at all.

“Oh my god, I’m a fucking pervert,” Art whines, falling back onto the chair, “I’m such a pervert.”  

Patrick grins from the bed and lets himself fall on his back.

“See? Wasn’t too hard.”

“Patrick!” Art snaps.

“Art!” Patrick mimics, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Fuck you,” Art says, “you’re such a dick.”

“Just trying to help you out, Art.”

Art groans loudly, burying his face in his sweaty hands again.

“She smelled like peach rings,” he mumbles, sounding ashamed of himself for even noticing.

“Huh?” Patrick says.

“Nothing, forget it.”

You stand in front of the mirror, tugging at an unruly strand of hair, at the hem of the dress you’d donned, at your necklace that just won’t sit right. Tashi had just left to get the boys, so the hotel room was quiet, leaving infinite space for your thoughts to echo. How could you ever face Art again? You’d probably embarrassed him, humiliated him, even. How could you ever look at him again?

With a final glance in the mirror, you drag yourself out of the bathroom and out of the room, slamming the door violently behind you. You’d managed to wrestle the ridiculously short skirt out of Tashi’s hand, and she’d helped you pick out a slightly less exhibitionist dress, but it still feels absurd on your body. You try not to dwell on it. You fail miserably.

Down the hall, by the elevator, you can see your three friends waiting for you. Patrick already has an arm slung around Tashi’s shoulders, fingers playing with the strap of her top. Art stands off to the side, talking to Patrick, and he doesn’t notice you walking closer until you’re right beside him and a cloud of peach-scented air floats up to his nose.

He hesitates to look at you, you hesitate to look at him, so you both stand side by side, gaze averted. Patrick and Tashi look at the both of you, then at each other, but for once, they stay quiet. Tashi presses the button to call the elevator and nothing else is said.

In the elevator, you’re too busy fixing your hair in the mirror to notice Art’s white-hot gaze dragging down the back of your body, from the stretch of your neck down to your feet, lingering on the hem of your dress that trembles teasingly. Just as he’s looking up, he catches Patrick’s gaze, who mouths pervert before grinning and turning away to look at Tashi.

This was going to be a long night.

Your head hurts from the strobing lights, your throat feels dry despite the fact that you’re on your third drink already, and you can barely hear your thoughts. Patrick and Tashi abandoned ship after the first drink, they’re somewhere on the dance floor. Art is… gone, you aren’t sure where exactly.

So far, you’ve dodged three very obnoxious men who tried to get their hands on your ass, and you’ve retreated to a corner to keep far away from them, but the heat is getting to you.

You leave your now empty cup on a table and fray yourself a passage through the mass of bodies, pushing through the heat until you emerge outside, greedily drinking in the fresh, salty air. You can still hear the music pounding behind you, but all you can think of his getting far, far away.

You sit down on the curb, check your phone for messages (none) and end up just sitting there, looking at the moon, trying to ignore the world around you, though tonight it seems like the world doesn’t want to let you forget, because soon, somebody sits down beside you.

A man, smelling of sweat and cheap beer, shirt completely open, cap sitting backwards on his head. Frat boy. Great. From the corner of your eye, you remember seeing him inside, talking to a pretty brunette in a blue dress who did not care about him, clearly. Apparently it was your turn to suffer now. 

“You seem tired,” he says.

“I am,” you bite back, without turning to look at him.

“I’m Luke”, he says, turning to face you. You stay quiet.

“Y’know, this is usually the part where you tell me your name.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Aw, c’mon sweetheart, don’t be like that. I saw you inside, I know you’re lonely.”

“So what, why’s that your problem?”

“I can fix that,” he says, words thick with innuendo.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

The man, Luke, frowns.

“What are you so bitter about, huh?”

“I came out for some peace and quiet, Luke,” you inform him sharply.

“Well then let’s find you some peace and quiet. I have a quiet hotel room,” he offers, and you have to hold back a scowl.

“No thank you.”

“What, you got a boyfriend or something? If you do, and he left you alone like that, you deserve better.”

“I suppose you think you’re better?”

“Oh, I know I’m better, baby.”

You roll your eyes and pointedly look the other way.

“You’re ignoring me? Real mature,” he says, placing a clammy hand on your forearm, and you can’t help but pull away, turning your body away from him and crossing your legs at the ankles, pulling your knees closer.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ prude,” the man mutters, leaning closer. His breath is sour with alcohol and cigarette smoke, you feel surrounded when his hand grips your shoulder, trying to pull you closer.

“Can you please leave me alone?” you hear yourself say, voice pitifully quiet.

“Can’t leave a pretty girl like you alone, baby. That would be rude.”

If you weren’t so perturbed by earlier events, so sluggish from the alcohol in your blood, so tired in general, you would’ve probably pushed Luke away, stood up, yelled at him… but for some reason, you didn’t have the strength today. You shrink into yourself, hoping someone passing by might help, that the man’ll have a sudden burst of conscience and leave, just stand up and walk away.

Obviously, none of that happens.

One of his hands lands on your thigh, gripping hard, trying to pull you closer. You resist. Barely.

He opens his mouth to say something when, suddenly, you hear your name being called out in a sweet, familiar voice. Your head whips around, immediately connecting with Art’s worried, blue gaze.

“There you are,” he mutters, traipsing closer and grabbing your forearm in a gentle manner that contrasts with Luke’s beast-like touch. Luke’s touch falters, and he lets you slip away from him. Art pulls you to your feet and into his arms, wrapping an arm around you.

“I was looking for you,” he murmurs into your ear, and you feel yourself smile.

The sweetness of the moment is shattered when someone clears their throat, and both you and Art are forced to look down to where Luke is still sitting on the curb.

“Am I bothering?” he asks.

“Yes, actually,” Art replies, voice suddenly stern.

“Who even are you, dude? Can’t you see I was talking to her?”

“Harassing her, more like. I’m her—”

“Boyfriend. He’s my boyfriend,” you interrupt, taking the opportunity to make things clear with Luke that you had no intentions whatsoever to even look in his direction again. Art’s eyes widen the slightest bit at your words, his grip on you loosens for a split-second, but he recovers almost instantly, pulling you closer, his hand lingering near yours, giving you an opportunity, waiting for you to take it.

“Pretty shitty boyfriend, leaving your girl all alone,” Luke mutters, standing up.

“I needed air. He can understand that, clearly you can’t,” you spit back, grabbing Art’s fingers and intertwining your fingers with his in a way that isn’t really a commitment to the bit. It feels a little too real, the way your palms press against each other.

“Hey, listen man, I didn’t know she was taken,” the man says, backing away slowly, “I wouldn’t have—”

“Sure you wouldn’t have,” Art muses, frowning, “just fuck off.”

Luke rolls his eyes and walks away, rolling his eyes and sparing one last, unabashed gaze in your direction that makes you feel slimy in your own skin. You watch him retreat, stumbling slightly from his inebriated state, and when Art wraps his second arm around you to pull you against his chest, you don’t question it. He smells of him, slightly sweaty, of the sugary drinks he never admits to liking. His shirt is soft against your cheek.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“I’m fine,” you mumble back, “thank you, though.”

“You don’t have to thank me… What happened? You’re usually a lot more spiteful than that,” he teases, and you can’t help a small laugh that dances on your lips. It tastes wonderful.

“Tired. Don’t really wanna be here. Too much to drink.”

It’s Art’s turn to laugh, finally pulling away from the hug to hold your gaze. You’re proud of yourself for keeping it together.

“Do you wanna go back to the hotel?” he offers, jerking his head in the general direction of the establishment.

“Can we go for a walk?” you ask, “by the beach. I need fresh air.”

Art nods, and for those few moments, all the uneasiness that had been haunting you both since that unfortunate accident in the hallway just vanishes. Art keeps your hand in his and pulls you along with him, walking slowly. You match his pace, trailing close to him, letting your shoulders brush occasionally.

It doesn’t look out of place, you and him have always been close, always walked side-by-side, often held hands. But something feels different tonight, under the Florida moon, with the salty air drifting in and something sweet on your tongue. The beach isn’t far away, and soon you’ve both shed your shoes to walk on the cold sand, letting it rub against your skin and ground you to reality.

You don’t talk, not really, but with subtle gestures, you guide each other. At some point, his hand migrates from yours to the dip of your waist, and you let him. When you’re close enough to the water to feel it lapping at your toes, you stand still, lean you head against your shoulder.

“I’m sorry about what happened earlier,” you finally say, letting the crashing waves swallow your words as soon as you say them, so they remain for you and Art’s ears only. He frowns, tilting his head to look at your face. Your eyes remain focused on the horizon, tracing the imaginary line with precision.

“What are you sorry about?”

“The… The hallway thing? I didn’t mean to do that. It was an accident, my hand slipped… sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“Why would you make me uncomfortable?”

“Well… you probably didn’t want to see all that,” you admit bitterly.

“Hey, no… it should be me who’s apologising. You didn’t do anything wrong. I stood there and watched you like a pervert. And then I ran away.”

You laugh softly, taking a step to the side and turning to look at him properly. Here, in the moonlight, his face has softened. The silver light makes him look oh so pale, despite the lingering redness on the ridges of his body, his hair is frizzing up and waltzing with the wind, a grin lingers on his lips, like he’s hesitating to let it exist, in the quiet of the beach, so far away from everyone.

“And I’m sorry about Patrick’s… behavior,” he adds, “He’s always an asshole but today he was really just a dick.”

“It’s fine. You don’t have to apologize for his behavior. He’s not your kid.”

“Feels like it sometimes.”

You laugh, louder this time, and walk closer again, nestling yourself under his arm.

The silence stretches out into the distance, your conversation flows in the waves and the breeze, in the way your fingers meet and twist.

A wave pulls higher onto the coast, drowning your feet up to your ankles, but you don’t flinch at the cold water, nor does Art, because suddenly, the moment is monumental and your head tilts back to meet his lips halfway.

It’s a sweet kiss that quivers on the surface of your skin, a slow heat makes its way across your face and down your body as Art’s lips move against yours. You treat each other like you’re a couple made of glass, like too much heat, too much force, might break one of you.

When you think about it, it just might. 

You pull back first to run a finger along your warm lips, and you feel them form a discreet smile, a smile that’s mirrored on his face. You let yourself fall onto the sand, and bury your hand in the coolness. Art joins you, kneeling beside you, bringing your lips to his again, with no care for anything and no hurry, your hands drag up his body to cup his jaw and guide him closer. He, in turn, pulls you closer by your hips, pulling you atop him with such ease that you feel featherlight. He’d always surprised you with his strength, that quiet power that hides in his lanky figure.

With one knee planted on either side of Art’s hips, your hand on his neck and his hands on your waist, you indulge in each other for the first time ever, letting everything pushed down finally come to light.

Gently, his tongue breaches the confines of your mouth, and you can taste his last cocktail on his tongue. He tastes like…

“You taste like peach rings,” you murmur against his lips.

“I’ve been chasing that flavor all night,” he replies.

“Why?”

“‘Cause it reminds me of you. You smell of peaches. Sweet like candy,” he confesses, somewhat ashamed.

“Oh… oh, wow, Art,” is all you manage to say before you kiss him again, delicately, like you’re winding silk with your lips. It’s his turn to pull back first, reluctantly, like honey binds your mouths together.

“We should go back to the hotel,” he says quietly.

“Why?”

“Because… I don’t think I can stay in public much longer,” he admits, punctuating his statement with an upward roll of his lips. You gasp at the feeling, realisation flooding you. 

“Shit… yeah, we should go,” you say, scrambling to your feet and pulling him upright with a laugh.

You grab your shoes and hurry back to the hotel, the walk interrupted by soft laughs and even softer kisses.

The lobby is empty when you burst in, so is the elevator and so is the hallway, thankfully, and you guide Art to you and Tashi’s hotel room with the excuse that it’s probably cleaner than Art and Patrick’s. Art knows you’re right. He doesn’t say it.

Inside, the window is open, letting in some cool air, the leftovers of your preparation from earlier linger around, discarded jewelry, clothes that were replaced by others, towels and makeup. Your bed is clear though, and you waste no time in resuming your activities, gently pushing Art down to clamber atop him. His lips find yours and his hands run along the back of your thighs, teasing hesitantly below the hem of your dress. He says your name so quietly, so desperately, that you can’t help but pull back to let him talk.

“Need to taste you,” he mumbles, gently flipping you both over to kneel in front of you, resting his head on your knee. “Please.”

You’re a weak, weak woman, because even if you wanted to say no (which you don’t) you couldn’t possibly, not when Art’s looking at you like that, begging for a taste.

You nod, almost imperceptibly, and his head drags higher, higher, until his nose nudges against your underwear, and the wet spot forming there. You bite back a choked sound as he presses harder, pulling your underwear to the side eagerly.

“Art.”

“Hm?”

“Take it off,” you utter, “it’ll be easier.”

He nods in quiet agreement, hooking his fingers along your underwear and pulling it down your legs and over your ankles. He places it delicately on the floor beside him. You try not to think about it too hard, because suddenly, he’s all over you again, hands on your thighs, pushing you open with startling tenderness.

His mouth meets your pussy and he immediately whines, lapping up everything you give him like he’s a thirsty man. His fingers drag up along your folds and gently probe, pushing ever so gently into your, and you can’t help it. You whine softly and let yourself fall back on the bed.

It’s a lethal combination, his lithe fingers, his eager mouth and his pure, unadulterated need for you. He’s feasting and you’re writhing in premature pleasure.

“Art… oh fuck,” you manage to string out. He doesn’t reply, too busy pushing his fingers fully into you and curving them just as he places a kiss on your clit. He’s hitting those spots nobody had ever found, all at once.

“Yeah, right there,” you moan, “right there,” and your soft reassurance is all Art needs, because he doubles his efforts, lapping at your folds, gently pushing in and out, rubbing your clit with expertise.

“Art, baby… oh god,” you stutter, and he whines against you when you card your fingers through his golden locks of hair.

“Need you… need you so bad,” he says against you, the vibrations sending ripples of pleasure up your body.

“You have me.”

“Need to be inside you,” he confesses, burying his reddening face between your legs. You gently tug at his hair, dragging his head up, and the sight of his face, pink dusted along his cheeks, pupils dilated an ungodly amount, slick glistening around his mouth, is so lewd that you could cum just from the sight.

He climbs atop you, planting a hand on either side of your head, but his strength falters when you drag a hand down his torso and palm at his growing erection through his pants. The print is enough to make you salivate.

You make quick work of both of your clothes, and soon, you’re laying atop him, entirely naked, trying to ignore the press of his dick along the curve of your ass.

“There are condoms in the nightstand,” you whisper in his ear, and he frowns.

“Were you expecting anyone else?”

“They’re Tashi’s,” you explain, reassuring him with a soft kiss to his jaw. Art fumbles blindly in the drawer for a few seconds before pulling out a condom and handing it to you. You raise an eyebrow but take it nonetheless, placing the edge of the wrapper between his teeth and quietly instructing him to bite down.

You rip the wrapper open and pull out the condom, leaning backwards to adopt a more comfortable position.

He’s big. Huge, even. You’re not convinced that the condom will fit, actually. But gently, slowly, you push it down on his cock, ignoring how Art whines and bucks up his hips already. 

It fits. Just barely, but it fits, and after a few experimental pumps, each accompanied by a wanton moan from Art, you pull yourself up on your knees again, aligning your entrance with him.

Then, you hesitate. A split-second. But he feels it. 

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he mumbles.

“No… I want to,” you correct, “I really do… ‘s just…” you trail off.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re… bigger than I’ve ever had. Like… really big. I dunno if it’ll fit,” you ramble, not noticing the way his eyes widen at the praise.

“I’ll be gentle,” he begs, “Please, please just let me inside you… please.”

You feel your face grow impossibly hotter at his sweet begging.

“I know you will, baby, I know…”

“Please?” he insists.

“Okay… I’ll go slow, Art, you tell me if anything feels wrong,” you mumble absentmindedly before slowly, slowly lowering yourself. You whine when his blunt tip hits your folds, and you moan loudly when he gently pushes into you.

It’s definitely a stretch, you can feel your walls struggle to accommodate, a not too unpleasant tingle running up your body.

“Oh my god,” you moan, tipping forward, bracing your hands on his chest. Your legs shake, and you can’t keep yourself upright. Art’s hands wrap around your waist, helping you slowly lower yourself, but he isn’t faring any better.

His face is contorted in pure ecstasy, eyes fluttering closed, head tipped back, incoherent noises tumbling from his lips.

When he bottoms out, hitting your deepest walls, your breath is pushed out of you. You stay still, both for your sake and for Art’s, who looks close to passing out from pleasure.

“Art… I’m gonna move now, okay?”

“Uh-huh,” he huffs.

You take a deep breath, tensing your legs as you push yourself up, up until Art almost slips out of you, before lowering yourself again. You repeat the motion, biting your lip but barely stifling your moans.

“You’re doing so good, Art… so good,” you moan, and your voices mix as your gestures speed up.

Your body has gotten use to his girth, his weight, and you’re just chasing that peak with blind need. You feel Art’s hand splay, first on your belly, then further up, dragging along your ribs before wrapping around your breast, kneading gently.

The simultaneous stimulation, the feel of Art everywhere, all over you, inside you, his sweet voice streaming up to your ears, it’s all overwhelming in the best way.

Art moans your name, repeatedly falling from his mouth, face contorted in pure pleasure.

“‘M close baby… you’re being so perfect… jus’  perfect,” you choke out, head tipping back, hips slamming down onto his as Art struggles to form a single coherent thought, little uh uh uhs of need filling the air.

Your orgasm comes in a blinding jolt, unexpected and white-hot. Your back arches, your hands fall behind you, on Art’s strong thighs, who, in turn, tense, as he crumbles beneath you, crying it in pleasure.

You stay like that a few seconds, frozen in your position, body aching and your breath fleeting.

“Art?” you finally say, words hanging in the sex-scented air of the room.

“Yeah?”

“... are you crying?” you ask, leaning forward, feeling of him still buried inside you, to cradle his face. You wipe away a stray tear from his cheekbone. “Why are you crying?”

“That… was incredible,” he murmurs against your waiting lips, “better than I ever could’ve imagined.”

You laugh softly, falling fully against his chest and shifting to allow Art to pull out his softened dick from your warmth. Both of you whine in tandem at the loss of contact. You lay on your side, resting your head on your hand, watching Art as he cleans himself up, watching the ripple of his back muscles, the flex of his biceps, the trail of golden curls along his abs that lead low, low, lower.

Quickly, Art has you buried in the crook of his arm, held against his chest, nose buried in your hair.

“You smell like peach rings,” he says for the tenth time tonight.

“So you’ve told me, yes.”

“Taste better than any candy ever could, though.”

You smile against his chest. 

“Good thing I’m yours to eat now,” you tease, and though your tone is lighthearted, you feel his body grow warmer.

“Mhm,” he hums, “so sweet.”

Soon enough, you both doze off in each other’s arms, sheets tangled in your legs, skin caressed by a soft breeze.

The silence is broken when the door flies open, Tashi and Patrick tumbling in, but they both freeze when they spot the pair of you in bed.

“Oh my god,” Tashi whispers.

“They finally did it,” Patrick answers, grinning, “the sly bastard.”