you make art put on a skirt for the halloween party.
one that’s white and frilly and just barely covering him up; one that makes him compulsively pull down on the bottom of it to conceal himself everytime he has to talk to someone. fumbling with his red solo cup as he prays that whoever he’s in conversation with thinks it’s a joke.
and people do.
when you two walk through the front door of the house party, all of his fellow tennis players burst into laughter and rush up to him. they clap him on the back and tug on his pearl-covered corset. they put their hands all over his body, someone even manages to give him a playful slap on his ass. he feels like a piece of meat.
art’s dressed as an angel, while you’re dressed as the devil. fitting, he had thought when you helped him with his thigh-highs. he didn’t want to admit that you encouraging forcing him to dress so.. femininely.. made him feel hot under the collar. not to mention the grabby touches from his stanford tennis team buddies. it was all too much.
so the night goes on, and he sticks close to your side. one hand holding yours nearly 24/7 so he doesn’t lose you.
he gets more laughs here and there when new people arrive and see his costume. they, like everyone else, assume it’s some sort of gag he’s doing. or, at the very least, a humiliation ritual that you’re subjecting him to for some reason. art drinks cupful and cupful of the nasty, syrupy party punch to dull the weird warmth brewing in the pit of his stomach.
the party dies down and art is wasted.
like, completely gone.
while you’re in the middle of a heated debate with one of your friends about whether or not the guy she’s dating is worthy of approval, art presses his hips into the back of your body and mouths at your neck. it’s slow and a little sloppy, and then you realize you have to be on caretaker duty for the rest of the evening.
but then he kisses your jaw with more intention, his hips absentmindedly rolling against you from behind. you pull him away by his wrist before your friend has a chance to realize what he’s doing.
you drag him into the bathroom and shut the door, turning to look at him. he looks like a drunk college chick. costume slipping, tights somehow ripped, cheeks flushed, hair messed up in the most slutty way. and he’s managed to lose his halo headband somewhere.
he pushes you backwards to the toilet and you ungracefully fall back onto the toilet seat cover with a hard thump. you frown up at him and shake your head.
“art,” you hum, “babe, youre- god, when did you drink so much? i don’t even—“
he cuts you off by slowly climbing into your lap. his skirt rides up his thighs, milky skin being revealed as the fabric lifts. he whimpers.
“please..”
your hands instinctively come up to his waist, cupping it and playing with the dangling string holding together the back of his top. he shivers and blinks slowly.
“i.. i jus’ want you to touch me,” he breathes out, slurring the whole way, “please touch me..”
he takes one of your wrists and guides your hand up his skirt. you’re surprised when you feel how fucking hard he is inside the lacy panties you tucked his cock into before you both left for the night.
“im so fucking horny,” he gasps, “i don’t know.. dunno why ‘m so.. im leaking already, please-“
you grope him over the fabric and he keens, his chest falling forward to press against yours before he swallows thickly and his jaw goes slack. you feel him throbbing in your palm.
he turns his head so that his lips are right by your ear, and then one of his arms reaches around to wrap around your lower back. his blonde curls are starting to stick to his forehead.
“please… please jus’ play with me…”
he cums over your fingers after just ten strokes.
you make him walk home with you as the remnants of it drips down his thighs.