#andddd post!

wicked games

pairing : dom art donaldson x reader

summary : when you almost cheat on art, he has no other way to show you how much he cares better than fucking you.

warnings : (almost) cheating, nsfw!!!, insecurity, rough handling, substance abuse (alcohol, weed, coke), bdsm, humiliation, so much dirty talk, fingering

consider reblogging if u feel kind 🤍

master list here

It’s very vague how you got to this situation, exactly.

Blurry cut up scenes of passing around a joint, taking shots of some mystery liquid, having at least 4 beers, throwing up on someone’s lawn.

But there’s one specific scene you remember pretty clearly. You weren’t even that drunk yet, just took a hit or two off Art’s blunt and that was it. But for some fucking reason, Patrick was enticing you more than he usually does. He’s good looking, obviously, but more now than ever.

A little sweaty, dancing in the endless sea of people, alongside Art, your boyfriend, who you honestly barely noticed in the moment, curly, dark hair bouncing with every movement, the faint white powder around his nose, his little smile at you like somehow, he knew. He knew you were checking him out. Knew the feeling you were having because he was feeling the exact same way. You both were feeling this sudden, intense connection and were willing to risk anything for it.

But the moment vanished as soon as it came and soon your little group dispersed again. Art went to get another drink, Patrick went upstairs to the bathroom, you waited. You waited til Art disappeared into the mass of people flooding the kitchen holding red solo cups and you slipped upstairs, following after Patrick, pressing your hand against the door to let yourself in before he can close it.

And.. yeah. Guess you were wrong.

Not entirely wrong, actually. He let you rub up on him a little, let you tell him how bad you’ve been wanting him all night, let you tell him Art doesn’t need to know about anything, pretty sure he squeezed your ass once or twice. But he didn’t even let you kiss him before he was reeling his stupidly handsome face back and grabbing your wrists and peeling your hands off his body and laughing at your whine.

“C’mon. You’re hot. But I wouldn’t do that to him, okay? You’re drunk, too.”

And that’s how you get here.

Completely, 100% stone-cold sober (unfortunately), having to deal with your cross faded selfs decisions, in the sudden freezing temperatures of Art’s dorm room. He’s standing in front of you, arms crossed.

Of course he found out. It’s stupid to think maybe he wouldn’t have. You knew they’d been friends forever, how could you get away with sleeping with his best friend?

You just wish you’d thought of that before you tried.

You can practically feel the anger coming off of him, rolling off his overheated skin in red, hot waves.

“What the fuck do I even do? One of the only times we all three are together and the second I turn my back you’re trying to get him to fuck you?”

He spits his words out with so much irritation it almost scares you. It makes you feel ashamed, slutty even. He’d never been able to do that before.

“Sorry — I mean, I was drunk, Art, you know that..”

“Don’t. Don’t try to blame this on something else. You can control yourself. You were barely tipsy.” He groans, running his hands through his already messy hair. “What do I do? What am I supposed to do?”

He just stares at you. As if he’s actually expecting an answer from you. You open your mouth to say some bullshit, but he interrupts.

“You know — most guys would break it off over this. Do you get that? I’m being so fucking kind, letting you even in my room right now. Nevermind having a conversation with you, after you tried to fuck my best friend.”

It makes you close your mouth instantly. You actually have never heard Art be mean to you. It’s always ‘I’m sorry’s when you fight and ‘thank you’s when you make up. He’s probably the most push-over boyfriend you’ve ever had, agreeing and nodding to whatever you say like a dog.

You avert your eyes to the floor, shrug, mumble another sorry apology.

“Were you even gonna tell me? I had to learn from him, two days later?” He scoffs, tilting his head. “Are you, like, some sort of slut?”

That word makes your eyes widen. Makes you redirect your attention back to him, makes your toes curl in your shoes.

“What?”

He’d never called you that before. Not even when you fucked. Which, you guess, is normal, because you’re usually the one calling him names and slapping him around. Which he enjoys.

“Are you,” he takes a step forward, “a slut?”

That word stings the same and makes your stomach hurt a little. You shake your head, eyes falling from him again. “I’m — no — what — “

“Come on.” He laughs a little. “You tried to fuck my best friend. There’s a word for that.”

He’s being mean. He’s never been mean.

It was just a lapse in judgement. I was drunk. I was high. I was both. I didn’t mean it. It was nothing.

100 excuses run through your head and you can’t find the energy to open your mouth and say any of them. You feel defeated, lost, silenced. His words make your stomach hurt and all you wanna do is sink into the floor of his dorm, and maybe then he’ll feel bad for you.

You hear him let out a sigh, see his hand gesture to something.

“Get on the bed.”

It feels like a demand more than a request, so you comply. You walk to his bed, sit down on the edge, rub your thighs nervously with your hands.

“On your back.”

Your brows furrow a little. Where the fuck is this going?

You lay down on his pillows after toeing your shoes off. The smell of his sweat and warm body against his sheets doing nothing to settle you like it usually does. All you can focus on is him. The way he’s acting, the way he’s being so fucking mean all of a sudden, the way he crawls between your legs and pries them open to get closer to you.

“Since you wanna act up,” he states, running his hands down the inside of your thighs. “I’m gonna teach you why you shouldn’t. Yeah?”

His touch makes you squirm a little, your breathing picking up.

“What — what do you mean?”

He cups your pussy over your shorts. You’re not wet at all yet, but the touch still makes you shiver.

“How would Patrick fuck you? Have you thought about that?” He mumbles, softly, rocking his palm against you.

The question takes your breath away. You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut. What the fuck?

“C’mon.” He whispers, tender all of a sudden. “Is that why? I don’t fuck you good enough? Patrick would do it better? He’d give you what you want?”

“No — that’s not — “ you gasp a little, trying to sit up to get away from his hand, which he immediately grabs your hips in reaction to, keeping you in the exact same spot.

“You don’t get to run away from this now. Tell me how you want it. You think I’m too soft on you? You wanna be fucked like a whore? That’s why you go around throwing yourself at everyone who looks your way?” He pulls his hand away from your core, sits up onto his heels like he’s gonna fuck you.

“No,” you whine, shake your head and sit up, reaching for the waistband of his shorts, which he quickly hits away.

“No.” He repeats. “I’m not fucking you. You really think you deserve that from me right now? You are such a slut.” He laughs a little, mean. Not like you’ve ever heard before, not at you. He guides you back down to the mattress with his hand to your chest and you go easily.

You can’t think of anything to say but a pathetic ‘sorry’, so that’s what you say.

“You think you being sorry is gonna help? You think Patrick’d be rougher on you? Answer my question.”

Your mouth feels dry, your brain feels empty. You’ve always been in control with him. This sudden shift is making your head feel like it’s been caved in.

“I — yeah,” you mumble, looking up at him. He just hesitates a moment before nodding slowly, and it almost makes you feel bad. Almost.

“Okay.” He breathes. He reaches up to the waistband of your shorts, watches your face as he peels them off. You notice his shaky hands as he does it. He sits up, leans down against you to kiss you.

It feels more robotic than usual, but that feels okay because at least he’s kissing you at all. It feels like a kiss an ex would give you during a quick fuck that didn’t really mean anything. Art fucked you like it meant everything. Everytime.

“Tell me how Patrick would fuck you,” he mumbles against your mouth, shoving his hand under your panties and quickly finding your clit with his fingers.

You gasp into his mouth, shifting against his pillows. Telling your boyfriend about all the ways you’d let his best friend fuck you doesn’t sound like an excellent idea. “I don’t — I don’t wanna tell you that, Art,”

“I wanna know. You want him? Right?” He reaches down, spreads your increasing wetness over you. You just nod because you assume it’s what he wants to hear, somehow, and it makes him huff air out of his nose in frustration. You can’t figure out what the fuck he wants. “Yeah. So I’m gonna fuck you with my hands and make you come til you cry,” he breathes, “and then kick you out of my room.”

You just nod again, hips bucking up into his hand. You want more. He can tell you want more. “C’mon,” you mumble, eyebrows furrowing.

“Tell me what you want.” He slows his fingers on your clit, smiles evilly at your whine.

“Finger me.” You say quietly. “Please.”

He pulls his hand out of your underwear and sits up. He pulls off the shorts that are hanging around your thighs and then the panties around your hips. Now you’re half naked on his bed, and you’ve only kissed once. But somehow you’re.. insanely turned on. Maybe you are a slut.

He reaches up to your face, guides your mouth open with one hand, and glides his fingers that had just been on your clit, into your mouth. “Get them wet,” he mumbles, and you do. You swirl your tongue around his fingers, looking up at him in that way he likes so maybe he’ll finally take his fucking pants off.

He smiles a little and pulls his fingers out. He slides them down to your entrance, swirls them around your slit. He listens to you whimper. “That’s where you want it? Right here?” He glides his middle finger against you. So fucking close to where you want it. You usually enjoy when he teases you, but not now. Not after he’s been so mean.

You nod frantically, hips rolling up into his hand again.

He chuckles. “You’re fucking soaked. I thought you didn’t want me.” He presses one finger in and relief fills your body. He presses another. You let your head tip back against his pillows. “Just whoever can get their hand in your pants, huh? That’s who you get wet for,” he mumbles, presses onto that spot that makes stars bloom behind your eyelids.

“Fuck,” you hiss, hips bucking up again. His other hand comes to the bare skin of your hips.

“Stop fucking moving. You wanna be fucked like you’re worthless so bad, so stop moving. You’ll move when I tell you that you can.” He presses you down into the mattress, beginning to finger you faster with his other hand. Your brows pinch together as you fight the urge to thrust up into his giving hand. He’s giving you what you want and you still want more.

The sounds of wet skin slapping against wet skin and your desperate, muffled sounds fill his room.

“That feel good?” He mumbles, fucking into you with more purpose. “Finally fucking you how you want it? None of that soft shit anymore? Just wanna be fucking nailed.. hm.” He hums.

You let your mouth fall open, back arching.

“I’m actually being very kind,” he starts. “What I should do is get you on your knees and fuck your stupid mouth til you can’t see. Then maybe you’d realize you have what you want right here. Don’t you?” He reaches down with his other hand, rubs your clit with his other hand. “You can have what you want. I just gotta know what it is. If you want me to use your little pussy, I have to know. You don’t have to go throwing yourself at Patrick.” He scoffs, mean. So mean. “What does he even have? You know he probably fucks a new girl every night. But that’s probably what you want, isn’t it? To be fucked and tossed away? You are a fucking slut.”

He leans down and you swear the image you see almost sends you to heaven. He bends down, spits right on your core. Fuck.

“But you’ve got such a pretty pussy,” he laughs a little, pumping you even harder now. “How he said no..” he laughs again, watching your face, hearing your sounds.

“Gonna come.” You whine into his pillows, hands coming up to restlessly grab at his pillowcases. You let your hips buck up into him and he doesn’t stop you.

“Yeah? Whose name you gonna say?” He tilts his head, watching your chest heave faster with every breath.

“Art — Art,” you gasp, feeling like you’re teetering off the edge of a cliff.

“That’s right,” he mumbles. “C’mon. Come for me.”