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Patrick is so over shitty people waking him up in the middle of the night, so he buys a gun. He’s never used one, outside of that hunting trip his dad made him go on when he was thirteen, but that’s besides the point. It’s just to scare off the weirdos that try to wake him up in the middle of the night.
For example, this guy. The dark, shadowy figure that keeps knocking on his window like he’s out of it. It’s probably some drug addict looking for a fix. But Patrick’s not going to wait for him to leave; he’d probably stay there all night tapping on his window till he answers.
Fuck it. Patrick lifts himself off the back seat and reaches over to the glove compartment. It isn’t a comfortable maneuver, but he would be more comfortable if this shithead just let him sleep the entire night.
He shuffles around some papers before he finally grips onto the metal device he is searching for. He falls back into the middle seat and takes a deep breath. He hopes this fucker just fucks off. First he loses the Challenger, and now this?
With his left hand he pulls the door handle and kicks the door open. It’s dark dark; it’s probably past midnight if Patrick had to guess. The only lights are from the streetlight in the Walmart parking lot. The man is wearing a hood, covering any facial features that Patrick could try to make out. As his eyes adjust to the light, he still can’t make out anything except for his shadowy figure.
The man mumbles something as he has the audacity to try to climb into Patrick's car. Clearly not noticing the gun pointed at his face.
This guy is fucking insane.
Patrick shakes the gun, pushing it against his shoulder. “Get the fuck out of my car,” he huffs. He probably looks fucking crazy, but this absolute psycho is trying to break into his car.
The man seems surprised, like he didn’t expect this reaction. He jumps back in fear, almost tripping over himself. Patrick wishes that he could see his face, how scared he probably is.
“You’re fucking crazy, you know that.” Patrick snarls, waving the gun at the other man’s body. “You bang on my window like some lunatic, and you’re surprised I pulled a gun?”
The man freezes, shoulders hunching in on himself. Like it might make him disappear. Patrick steps forward, his bare feet hitting the pavement. He wants to keep going, berating the man in front of him. It gives him a rush, a twisted sense of control, something he hasn’t had in a long time.
As he’s about to continue, a trickling sound distracts him. He looks down at the man to see a faint wet patch growing on his pants. He’s pissing himself.
Patrick made him piss himself.
A laugh erupts from his throat. Like, this is the funniest thing he’s ever done. The hooded man finally seems to react, looking down at the puddle and then his legs. He reaches his hands to touch the wetness, maybe to hide it or see if it’s actually real.
Patrick holds himself back; he wants to touch it too. To feel the warmth, to feel how small he made the other man feel.
Instead, Patrick does something stupid. But he’s always made bad decisions. He reaches toward the fabric covering the man’s head and rips it off.
He expects some junkie loser, not this.
Not Art.
Not his best friend, who’s one U.S. Open away from a career slam. Not the guy he lost the Phil's Tire Town challenger to eight hours earlier. Not the… Patrick gets the idea.
Out of everyone in the world who would tap on his window in the middle of the night to come and find him, Art Donaldson would be on the low end of that list, until today, he guessed.
Patrick glances at Art again, his eyes roaming his body. It’s dark, yet he can still see the wetness on his pants. This time he doesn’t stop himself; he takes a step forward. Rocks rip into his soles; if he were less enchanted by Art, he would’ve noticed.
The gun bumps into Art’s shoulder before Patrick even realizes that he’s still holding it. It causes Art to jump back; he’s panting, like a scared dog. It makes Patrick awfully aroused. Yet Art doesn’t step out of Patrick’s reach; he gasps as Patrick’s hand reaches for his crotch.
A grin crosses over Patrick’s face as he finds Art tenting in his wet pants. He knows he should feel guilty; after all, he just scared his best friend into pissing himself. But that thought slips away almost instantly.
“You scared of a little gun, Donaldson?” Patrick teases pressing his hand against the tip of Art’s hard dick. It should be criminal how hot Art appears when he’s trembling in fear. It is still dark, but the streetlights illuminate his facial features a little more. Patrick can make out the quiver in his lip and how glossy and blown out his eyes are. Patrick wants nothing more than to push him further.
A jet of hot liquid spreads through Patrick’s fingers, trailing down to follow the other fluids pooling at Art’s four hundred dollar shoes.
Did he just?
Again?
Patrick wants to devour him whole.
He takes a step further, pressing closer into Art. He holds onto his shaking frame. The gun nearing his heart, gently pressing into his chest as Patrick cups and fondles his dick through the soaked pajamas. His feet cut over the sharp rocks till he’s stepping in Art’s piss. It’s cooling fast on the ground, but Patrick can still feel the heat radiating off of it.
“C’mon, big boy, tell me why you paid me a visit,” he trails the gun over his chest before finishing at his nipples. There’s nothing that Patrick wishes he had except a box light to bathe in every fiber of Art’s discomfort.
Art’s breath hitches, and he shifts his thighs a little bit, trying not to act like Patrick’s hand is fondling his balls. “Why do you have … a gun?” His voice trembles as he speaks; he sounds like he’s a teenager all over again.
That causes Patrick to laugh, startling Art all over again. He jumps out of his skin, but sadly he doesn’t piss again. It’s mildly gross how turned on Patrick is by Art’s fear.
Instead, Patrick grips onto Art’s way too expensive excuse of a hoodie and pushes him onto his backseat. His back thuds onto the stained fabric, some of them left by Tashi last night. He wonders how hard Art would cry if he shoved his face in his wife’s cum stain.
Under the light of the car, Patrick can finally see Art. His blond hair is disheveled, pointing in all directions. His eyes are blown wide, yet he’s still a few more mean comments away from crying. His cheeks and nose are a deep red as his lip quivers. Patrick follows his gaze down. A dark, wet patch covers his tenting crotch. His blue plaid pajama pants are covered in piss.
It reminds him of that one night Art got wasted and woke up the next morning with soggy sheets. Patrick never let him live that night down, but here Art is topping that. He’s always been extremely competitive with himself.
Patrick shuffles himself into the backseat, straddling Art. He doesn’t sit on his crotch, instead opting to hover over him. He still wants the perfect view of his soaked pants. Patrick rubs at his dick through the cooling fabric as Art lets out a high-pitched whine.
God, he's perfect.
With the gun in his right hand, he traces it up Art’s pale body, dragging his shirt along with it. Art pants, like some dog in pain or something. His abs are carved and chiseled, and it would be a little inconsiderate if Patrick didn’t touch them.
“What do you mean?” Patrick breaks the heavy silence of shallow breathing. “You expect me to not protect myself when there are creeps out here looking for me?”
Art has the audacity to look shameful. His cheeks glow deeper as he tries to pull his gaze anywhere else. But his body doesn’t seem to get the rest of the message. His dick strains harder against the wet fabric as soft groans escape his mouth.
Patrick traces the gun to the dip of his collarbone. His shirt is bunched up to under his chin. His pale skin glows under his shitty car light, but it’s so creamy and untarnished. Something in Patrick urges him to mark him. Pinch his skin till it turns red and he can see his nail imprints.
“Why are you here?” Patrick’s voice is heavy as his eye fill with fire. If he hadn’t felt the wetness against his thigh and seeping into his shorts, he wouldn’t have noticed that he was rutting against Art. “Tell me,” he urges, pressing the gun up and up. It’s right under his chin, forcing down on Adam's apple. The gun bobs up and down as Art gulps for air. “Did Tashi tell you how good I fucked her, and you’re here for your turn?” He drags the metal against Art’s jawline. He physically shivers, trying to fold in on himself.
Art’s eyes well up again, teasing Patrick. Art’s always been a pretty crier. With his bright blue eyes and big tears, the way his nose flushes and scrunches. With his left hand, he presses his thumb down under Art’s eye. “Tell me, baby,” he soothes his thumb over his soft skin as he uses the gun to caress his body.
Art’s practically shaking underneath him. If Patrick wasn’t holding him down, he’d probably fly away. His gaze is locked on the brunette. His gaze is heavy with arousal and hints of fear. Art tears his eyes away to watch Patrick touch him with the gun. Unsure of what might happen next.
“I wanted to see you,” He’s so earnest, a complete one-eighty from yesterday in the sauna.
Patrick bathes in that notion. Of course Art wanted to see him.
“Why?” He pushes further, trailing the gun to Art’s soft pink lips.
“Missed you,” It’s so uncharacteristically Art, it almost makes Patrick a little sad. But he knows how to cheer himself up.
With the tip of the gun, he moves to part Art’s lips. His blue eyes flash with fear, causing Patrick to buckle his hips down. A groan escapes Art’s throat. His lips part further, allowing the gun to slide into his mouth.
He chokes, gagging on the metal. Spit pools at the sides of his lips, dripping into his cheeks. With swift motion Patrick rearranges himself so that his straining dick presses against Art’s. A thought rushes into his mind as he humps Art’s wet crotch; he thinks about leaking a little bit, making it warmer. He ultimately decides not to; instead, he pushes the gun deeper into Art’s throat.
A choked sob breaks out from Art. So weak and sweet. His tears stream down his face, mixing with the drool on his cheeks. He’s so pretty like this.
“Fuck,” the brunette moans, thrusting harder into his best friend. Art reciprocates the motion, bucking his hips into Patrick, whining for more.
The wet fabric against Patrick's dick soaks into his skin. He wonders what Art’s dick feels like. If he’s getting friction burn from the piss. He runts himself harder against Art, watching as his face twists into discomfort. His eyebrows furrow as his eyes keep leaking. God, he’s such a crybaby. Patrick wonders how red his dick might be. Selfishly he hopes it still burns tomorrow morning. He hopes Art thinks of him.
Art chokes out a muttered phrase that Patrick can’t comprehend until he hears his name. “P’atrick,” he sputters into his pajamas, creating more of a mess. Patrick watches as his eyes roll back as he coughs out another moan.
Rolling his eyes, Patrick humps against him still. Rubbing his soft, sensitive dick raw. Even as a teenager, Art almost always finished first, but not that fast.
“You lasted longer when you were twelve,” he says, retreating the gun from Art’s mouth, his shoulders slumping. So much for having fun; Art can’t even hold his own.
Art sputters for a few seconds. His face is still bright pink with embarrassment. Tear tracks stain his face, mixing into his pool of drool leaking down to the seat. Art’s blond hair sprawls against the cum stain Tashi left last night. Like husband, like wife, Patrick thinks to himself.
“I-uh don’t do this often,” Art squeaks before nervously adding, “I’m sorry.” Maybe he can sense Patrick’s disappointment in him; he’s probably always sensed it.
Patrick doesn’t stop thrusting against him, but he does slow down and glances at Art. His eyes wide and honest, a rare appearance for Art. He cackles, because no. Art can’t be married to Tashi for him to have worst stamina than he had when he was twelve.
“You’re pathetic,” he ridicules him, moving off of Art’s crotch to sit squarely on his chest. Art’s eyes go wide as his breathing goes even more unsteady. Patrick’s knees press into the cushions of the seat. He bends uncomfortably at his neck since the ceiling is so low, but Patrick can’t bring himself to care. So what if he fucks up his neck, Art Donaldson is sitting behind him covered in his piss and cum, confessing that his wife doesn’t fuck him?
Patrick reaches down to take himself out of his pants. It’s cute how Art’s eyes widen, as if he wasn’t roommates with him for six years. Precum pools at his tip. Swiping at his tip, he collects the cum onto his thumb. He moves to press his thumb against Art’s lips; sluggishly, he parts his lips, accepting the treat. His tongue presses against Patrick’s thumb, swirling to get every last drop. Patrick holds his finger in Art’s mouth for a second longer before taking it out and wiping the saliva on his cheek.
“Have you sucked cock before?”
Art’s breath hitches. “No,” he croaks out.
Patrick pulls his fingers back, making his way to fist his cock in his hand.
“But I can,” Art adds, not even realizing what he’s saying till the words are already out.
Patrick smirks, moving his hand to cup it up underneath Art’s mouth. “Maybe next time,” he teases.
Art follows his gaze, nodding slightly. He looks at Patrick’s hand and then his face before sucking in his cheeks and spitting into Patrick’s hand.
“Good boy,” he praises, watching Art relish in the compliment.
Patrick sits back up, moving his hand to his dick. He enjoys the way Art watches him, biting his lip with his red cheeks burning bright.
He focuses on his tip, covering it in Art’s drool. Watching it drip down and before squeezing at the tip. Patrick suppresses an entire body shiver; instead, he moans out. He moves down his hand to rub his cock. Art’s saliva coating his entire dick.
“You really don’t fuck?” He moans out as he thinks back to last night. How Tashi was so desperate, even if she wanted to act like she wasn’t. It couldn’t be that Tashi isn’t putting out for her six-time Grand Slam winner husband.
Patrick opens his eyes to glance at Art. The blonde looks as if he’s hypnotized by the sight in front of him. “Donaldson,” he groans as he stretches himself further.
He’s close.
“Uh,” Art hesitates; he pulls his eyes away from Patrick's dick and turns to the ceiling. “I just—I have some performance issues,” he confesses, almost whispering.
God, it’s like Art is made for this.
A laugh rips through Patrick's chest. His breath catches on it. For a second he can’t breathe, and he thinks he might piss himself. Wetting Art’s bare chest with his piss.
“You can’t get hard?” Patrick clarifies, mocking him as he bites down on his lip to hide how close he is. How pathetic it is that Art can’t get hard for his wife, but here he is covered in piss, drool, and cum in a matter of minutes. He’s so fucking pathetic.
Art doesn’t respond; he pouts. His bottom lip pulled out as his eyes welled up again. It’s enough to push Patrick over the edge, and all over Art’s face.