#ovulation is a curse i feel like a rabid dog

[jesuistrestriste]

Calling Art ‘Artemis’ in public while out with a group of friends and he gets hard IMMEDIATELY. desperately trying to his it from the other while he whimpers from the lack of friction..

i’m literally losing it my god #ovulating (also sorry for spamming your asks all the time)

venus real as fuck.

like you’re out with art and a handful of other tennis players at some catered banquet, gathered around a table and conversing casually. neither of you really know these individuals; it’s all small-talk, and polite smiles, and laughing at the right times.

you’re sat right next to the blonde, and he’s engaged in what-seems-to-be an interesting conversation. your knee knocks his, but it doesn’t do much except make his breath catch subtly for a moment. and then he’s back to talking.

you talk with some others at the table, and then a hostess arrives with an anticipatory smile and opens her notepad. “what can i get for everyone?”

the others order, going around the circle, and then it gets to you before it gets to art.

you hum, looking over the menu of different expensive wines and luxurious dishes, and you sigh. your eyes pour over the options. your knee bumps art’s again, and he jolts slightly in his seat.

“what are you thinking, Artemis?”

everyone at the table looks to the man next to you, completely confused. artemis? no, that’s art. what’s going on?

but art knows what’s going on. he looks to you, a whine bubbling up in his throat that he has to swallow down as his cheeks tint a bright red up to his ears. his real, full name was something you were only supposed to use against him in the bedroom.

not in public. not here.

and because the only other times he’s heard it come out of your mouth have been when you were praising him or telling him he had permission to come, his cock starts to involuntarily swell in his dress pants.

he shakes his head and clears his throat as he tries to push down the nervousness and arousal that he assumes is as clear as day on his face.

“i— i don’t know yet, im still deciding,” he says to you, an embarrassed chuckle spilling forth.

you smile at him softly, innocently, and nod.

now his knee is pushing against yours under the tabletop, harder than you had tapped his minutes prior, and you know he’s silently begging for you to do something.

he shifts in his seat, basically writhing, and his breathing falters. the person sitting on the opposite side of him gives him a funny look like ‘this dude has ants in his fuckin’ pants’, but they remain oblivious to the pulsing boner art has fully popped in his clothing. poor guy.

Artemis, Artemis, Artemis.

it rings through his skull, in your voice, as he sits there and waits for you to order so that he can do the same. he wants this whole fiasco to be over so that he can excuse himself, stand up from his chair, cover the tent in the front of his pants, and wobble his way to the public bathrooms to take care of himself.

he’d curse you out if he could, but he’s too busy squirming in his seat against the hot pleasure starting to bubble in his lower abdomen. no, it’s boiling now. his shaft rubs against the inside of his boxers in the wrong way, and the smallest of noises leaves his lips.

you’re evil.