DREAMSTATE TRAP.
summary: You donât know whatâs wrong with you and donât even remember how it started. You just know you sleep better when heâs near. That your body wants him close, that you need him there, pressed up against you. You said youâd leave him. More than once. But you didnât, not when he made sure you will always come back to his arms.
pairings: divorced dilf!art donaldson x afab!reader
warnings: 2k words. mature themes. somnophilia. nonconsensual undertones. obsession. manipulation. covert drug use (nicotine patches / chemical dependency). emotional dependency. breeding kink. free use referenced. sleep sex. dubcon-adjacent tone. power imbalance. dumbification (sleep-drunk, emotionally conditioned, mentally pliant state). read & consume responsibly.
notes: actually scared to post this. :( but hi! this is post-divorce art donaldson and yeah⌠heâs rich. lonely. washed. pushing 40. still hot. still got those sad little eyes. i just know heâd lose his mind if a pretty lil thing started sleeping in his bed. so soft. so warm. he didnât want to be left ever again. heâd do anything to keep you close. even if itâs twisted. even if itâs wrong. this is manipulative dilf art dick. heâs emotionally unavailable and physically unavoidable. yes itâs wrong. yes heâs crazy. ANYWAYYYYYYY enjoy and if u want more fics or have requests or want to throw something unhinged at me pls do. iâm taking requests. thanks love u đ
You sleep like you trust him.
You do. Thatâs the case. You sleep like you will be comfortable in your dreams because heâs just beside you to hug you. Like your bodyâs never been hurt. He doesnât hurt you. Never. He will kill himself first before he lands a hand on you. (Unless itâs for sex and you asked it, or not, maybe) Like no oneâs ever lied to you or walked away. You know heâs not lying to you. At least in front of your face, no. Like you donât know what he is. You donât, honestly.
He likes staying up late than you. You never knew why. He just said heâs not tired. Or he canât sleep. Insomnia, sometimes, is what heâs saying to you. But in reality? He likes watching you. Like tonight is the same as the others, he watches you wide-eyed in the dark.
The sheets are already wrapped around you from the movements. You are not a mover, but donât stay in the same place. Your cotton sleep shirt riding high over your ass, too big for you, too comfy, the collar pulled half off your shoulder like it always ends up that way. You didnât even wear panties tonight. You never do when you fall asleep in his bed. Itâs comfortable, you say. More air or your cunt can breathe, or whatever bullshit you say. Art doesnât mind. Itâs a raging go signal for him. Well, thatâs what he thinks. He could lift your shirt, nightgown, or whatever loose or comfortable you are wearing, and heâll cup you over it, sometimes rub his fingers if heâs aiming for tame, or slide in if heâs so horny. You donât complain. Said that it helps him sleep by touching you or fucking you. And you like to help him.
That used to scare him. That sweetness. That trust. Especially when youâre just letting him take it. He even joked about you being his free use doll when he was inside of you. You whine and giggle. It scared and excited him. The idea that maybe you didnât think he was capable of anything ugly.
Well, at first, heâs like that. But now? It doesnât scare him anymore.
His fingers gently run into the back of your hair, and he watches you shift. He makes those little expressions when you sleep. You look soft. You look like you are at peace. Your skinâs so warm there. Your pulse flutters when he presses. Itâs slow, steady, alive.
Sometimes, heâs praying to God because youâre so alive. So young than him. He prayed that others wouldnât take you away from him. The thing is, he wonât even let them do that. Youâve got no idea what kind of things a man like him can do, do you?
He slips the drawer open quietly while his other hand is still touching you like heâs scared to slip his hand away from you.
Finds the little box. Peels one patch from the back.
Your thigh shifts when he touches it. He gently caresses the flesh. Feels hot beneath his palm, your skin soft and bare. He sticks the nicotine patch just under the curve of your ass, just below your cheek, where the hem of your shirt wonât hide it, but you wonât notice it.
You donât even move.
Art smooths a hand down your leg. Feeling its smoothness under his palm. Just once. Then, back up again, where his thumb grazes the patch, which warms under your skin. His heart thuds in his chest like heâs done something filthy. Maybe he has.
Because fuck it. Every time he puts one on you, especially when itâs your thighs, or your ass, or the soft dip of your hip... he gets hard from it like clockwork. Like some part of his brain associates the feel of your unconscious body under his hands.
He shouldnât want it this much. He shouldnât. This is fucked up, even for him.
But he does. Heâs willing to bend his morals just for you. Youâre his girl, after all.
Your breath is soft and slow. Your chest rises and falls like youâre dreaming something sweet. Maybe you are. Perhaps itâs about him. Maybe youâre dreaming something filthy. Maybe your cunt is as warm as your mouth gets when youâre half-asleep and draped over him, murmuring his name like itâs instinct.
His cock throbs.
He palms himself through his boxers.
God, he thinks. He could slide right in like this. (Itâs not like he didnât try it already)
You wouldnât wake up. Maybe youâd shift a little and let out one of those broken sighs, legs parting out of habit. And heâd be so gentle with you. Heâs not even going to be full-on fucking you. Heâll just thrust slowly and deep. Just a little. Just enough. Feel you clench around him in your sleep like your body knows who you belong to.
Heâd never forgive himself.
But he might still do it.
He strokes himself slowly, silently, teeth sinking into his lip.
Itâs not just the patch. Itâs the trust. Itâs the faith you are giving him. You are devoted. The way your body gives without knowing. The way you turn into him when he touches you is like instinct. Like your body knows itâs bim. Like your whole system has rewired around him.
You always crawl to him. Literally. Or figuratively. Always coming back into his arms when you try to leave. Do you even dare to do that?
It makes him dizzy.
Youâve tried. Three times now. Bags packed, the door slammed, voice shaking. When he tries to text you, youâll say that he should delete your number. He never really replied after that. Heâs so comfortable with the idea of you coming back. Because you always do, every time, within days, youâre back. Pale and trembling. Clingy. Teary. Like you need him.
Like something inside you canât bear the idea of being without him.
You donât know why. But Art does.
You will bury and nuzzle your face into his chest. You will sob, your cries shake. Your shoulders are shaking, your fingers are holding tight to his clothes like you are apologizing for thinking about leaving, and you have it hard like itâs the only thing keeping you tethered. His palm slides up and down your spine, slow and calming, while you try to speak through the hiccuping wreck of your voice.
âI donât know why...â your breath hitches and breaks. âBut I- I canât-â you inhale sharply, nearly gagging. Stuttering as always. âI canât sleep without you. Itâs like my skin itches. I feel vomiting every time. My skin feels scrawling. I feel sick. My head hurts all the time. I-â You clutch into him tighter. âI need you. I donât know whatâs wrong with me.â
You sound so scared when you say it. Youâre ashamed. Itâs as if sheâs the only one who wants to return, and he will continue to accept you as he does in a charity case.
But heâs not. Heâs not ashamed.
Art hushes you, presses a kiss to your hair, and murmurs something like âShh, Iâve got you, baby,â while his thumb circles just under the swell of your ass, right over where the patch had been the night before the day you left. He continuously removes them before you realize itâs there.
You donât know whatâs wrong with you.
But Art does.
He watches your breathing slow again. Thumb trailing down the back of your thigh, the spot just beneath the patch. His other hand is palming your ass, just gently, not groping it. You murmur something in your sleep, lashes fluttering, body arching slightly toward the touch.
His heart squeezes.
God, he wants to ruin you.
Wants to keep you this soft forever. He wants to be able to watch you sleep for hours. Keep you warm and drugged and fucked out and barely thinking, brain all mushy and just needing him, wrapped up in him like a koala that doesnât know better. He wants to get you pregnant by accident. Watch you cry about it. Then heâll comfort you into accepting it. Watch you stay.
You shift again, thighs pressing together. He watches the ripple of muscle, the heat in your skin, the spot where the shirt rides high enough to show the curve of your hip.
Youâre not even awake, but he knows youâd let him.
If he touched you now, eased a hand between your legs, thumb soft against your clit, youâd whine for him. Quietly. Just enough to let out a sound. Maybe spread without waking. Let him finger you through your dream and wake up sore, aching, and full. God. He knows how easily you get wet.
Jesus.
He strokes his cock harder now. But not sloppy. Not the one who will make a sound. Itâs just slow, desperate pulls, his other hand pressed to your hip like heâs steadying himself.
He comes quietly. Barely breathing. Fingers tight. Come sticky on his stomach, hips twitching. Your body shifts, barely, like it knows. His name almost falls from your mouth in your sleep. He quickly cleans it up, always having tissue beside the bed.
He watches you for a while longer.
You donât wake.
You never do.
And heâs already up by the time the sun rises, turning the curtains lighter. Already cleaned up. But youâre still curled on your side. One leg is hooked over the blankets, patch warm, and pulsing on the soft meat of your thigh.
He peels it off gently.
Always before you wake. Always with a breath caught low in his throat.
God, you never notice how deep you sleep. Thatâs what he likes about you. The way you sleep early but even wake up later than him. Like you are enjoying your sleep, he loves how much warmer your body has run lately, how you turn into his touch before youâre even conscious of it. He knows your body better than you do now, how it reacts, clings and practically melts into the mattress when he moves behind you in the mornings.
He likes the morning the most. Sometimes, youâre still half-asleep when he fucks you. Sometimes, you sleep right through the first few strokes and mewling softly, legs parting, clit twitching under his fingers without thought. Heâs not even rubbing it aggressively. Just slow flicks to make you more wet. To make you more slippery around him.
And sometimes you wake up in the middle of it. You are hazy and dazed and clingy as hell. Fuck he loves it. Already have you whimpering âDonât stop,â like youâre the one who begged for it. Like itâs your idea. Like heâs not fucking you while youâre sleeping before youâre a whimpering mess. Like your cunt isnât already dripping around him, greedy and fluttering and open for more.
It makes him crazy. The way you arch into him instinctively. You whine when he tries to slow down, like youâll break apart if he leaves you empty. The way you cry into his neck with your face buried and say things like...
âMmph⌠dunno whyâŚâ you breathes into his chest, lips barely moving, voice sticky with sleep. âSleep so good when youâre hereâŚâ
A soft âah-â slips out when he shifts, cock still half-hard, still pressed against the mess between your thighs. âFeels good⌠donât go yet⌠donât-â you mumbles, clinging tighter, legs tangled with his while heâs thrusting his cock slowly, just how you like.
A choked little âmmph, fuck-â when he moves again, just enough to press deeper. To find your spot.
âHurts when youâre not- when youâre not touching meâŚâ you sniffles hiccups. âYou make it go away⌠I donât know how⌠I just need-â
You trail off in a breathy whine like your words are too much. Like youâre overwhelmed just being near him. Your face always buries in his neck, damp and hot, tears cooling your cheeks. Your hips shift without meaning to. It made you whine.
You donât even know what youâre saying. Doesnât realize how deep itâs sunk. How wrecked you already are. How utterly, unconsciously, youâre his.
You donât know whatâs keeping you here.
But Art does.
And every morning, he gives her body another reason to stay.
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