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You crawl into bed with him, worming your way under the covers, curling up behind him and pressing your icy cold feet against the backs of his thighs. He squirms away from you, then turns to face you, forcing you to straighten your legs so you can't warm your feet up with his body heat.
The look in his eyes pretty much tells you that he hasn't forgotten what day it is, and you know that means he isn't gonna trust you for a second.
"Morning," you say, far too chipper for the time of day. You move forward until your chest is against his and he wraps his arms loosely around your shoulders, kissing you on the cheek and then on the lips.
"Good morning," he mumbles, his voice a little bit hoarse. He turns his head so his face is against his pillow and clears his throat, then turns back to look at you. "How long have you been up?"
"I don't know," you say, leaning your forehead against his. "Like, an hour? Two?"
He hums, then kisses you on the forehead. "What time is it?"
"Seven," you tell him.
"Awfully early on a Saturday, John," he says, stroking your bare shoulder and leaning back a little to meet your eyes. He totally knows that you're trying to mess with him.
"I know." It's like you're having a staring contest or something. He's the first to break eye contact, because he closes his eyes and leans his forehead back against yours. "I win."
"I wasn't aware of any competition."
"We were totally having a staring contest."
"Whatever you say, John."
He starts to pull away but you grab the sleeve of his nightshirt, tug him back so he's laying beside you again.
"Can we cuddle?"
He hesitates for a second, but then gives in, settling back into his bed and getting comfortable and letting you fit yourself between his arms, legs twining with his. You almost don't wanna do what you're about to do, but, hey. April Fool's day and everything.
It's a really dumb prank, if you're being totally honest with yourself. All it does is embarrass you, and there isn't even any point in that.
That thought doesn't occur to you as wet warmth spreads across the front of your pajama pants.
"John," he's is looking at you like you've got two heads. Like you've done something really socially unacceptable. Something like peeing your pants while you're cuddling with your dad.
It suddenly hits you that this is really embarrassing and not a good prank at all. It would've been better if you hadn't been wearing pants but you totally just wet your pants for no good reason at all. Shit you are so dumb. It wasn't even all that funny.
Your dad always has the best pranks, though, and you wanted to get him before he got you. You thought this was a great prank about five seconds ago, but now you've just got flannel pants that are soaked through with piss and your dad's blankets are wet too (that might be the only part of this you can laugh at, because you're suddenly really embarrassed) and your dad's probably got wet boxers too. You wouldn't blame him if he was repulsed by this entire thing. Specifically, you.
Except he apparently isn't.
He's still staring at you like you're some kind of mythical creature but he doesn't look mad or disgusted or upset or anything like that. It's all surprise. He's just looking at you. Like maybe he wants to say something but doesn't know how.
"Uh," you let out a nervous laugh. "April Fool's? You totally have to do laundry and stuff now and—" He cuts you off with a kiss, pushing a knee between your thighs and rubbing.
You weren't really done peeing. You just got too embarrassed and started holding it. He seems to notice this because you tense up when his knee presses against you, then he buries his face against your hair.
"Could I take your pants off?" His voice is hardly above a whisper. You nod and he doesn't waste any time getting them off of you, but he definitely grabs the wetter part of your pants on purpose. When he has your pants and boxers off, his knee presses back against you and you whine.
"Dad, I—I still kinda gotta... go."
"I know," he says, and his knee pushes up again, and he moves closer to you, hips pressed right against yours. You whimper and start to pull away to go to the bathroom, but his arms are around your waist in a second and he's pulling your body against his and pressing harder against you with his knee. "You're staying right here, though."
You try to squirm out of his grip but that really only makes you need to pee more and he's got a tight hold on you and, yeah, he's right, you're not going anywhere.
Tears form in the corners of your eyes as you try your hardest to hold it, your dad's leg pressed up against you and not doing anything to help you not piss all over him. It doesn't take long to get to a point where you can't hold it anymore and you can feel the warmth spreading across the front of your dad's boxers and fuck, this is so embarrassing, this is beyond backfiring.
Your dad looks like he's totally happy to have you peeing on him and holy shit you can't even pretend it doesn't feel amazing to let go of it. You've been holding it since before you even crawled in bed with your dad and he's forcing it out of you now and you'd probably compare the feeling to that of a really intense orgasm. You moan and he presses a little harder against you.
You can feel the bulge in his boxers pressing against your bare thigh, the soaked material starting to dampen your skin.
He's getting off on having you pee on him.
You think about laughing and saying something like "gotcha!"
It doesn't seem worth it at this point.
"John," he says, leaning his forehead against yours. "May I touch you, or would you rather I not?"
You nod, your head a little bit hazy. When he doesn't move, and when you realize that it wasn't really a yes or no question, you open your mouth to speak. "Please touch me."
He doesn't hesitate, even a little. His hand wraps around your cock and he seems a little overeager, but you aren't complaining.
"Do you still have to go at all?" You kind of do. You've been holding it for at least an hour and starting to go and then stopping is getting kind of difficult. Unable to lie to him, you nod. "Go. Right now."
You squeeze your eyes shut and try hard to obey despite the fact that you're half hard, biting your lip. He likes it, you remind yourself. He wants it. His hand is on you, and it's like he's trying to drench himself in as much of your piss as he possibly can.
After you finish, you open your eyes. He looks totally blissed out—head tilted back, eyes shut, mouth open in a quiet sound of pleasure. He looks entirely satisfied. He pulls you against him, his body soaked from his mid-thighs to the upper part of his stomach. He's still hard (maybe harder than before) and the fact that he's getting off on this is starting to turn you on.
He reaches into his boxers through his fly, pulling his cock out and pressing it against your hip. Then he pulls back a little, starting to pump himself, and you work your hand between your body and his, fingers lacing with your dad's around his dick. His skin is damp and warm with your piss and he bucks his hips forward, his fingers tightening around yours.
You kiss him on the lips, trying to coax him into using his tongue with yours, moaning and sucking his tongue into your mouth when he lets you. He moans hotly against your lips, tangling the fingers of his free hand into your hair, tugging you closer to him until he can brush his knuckles along the length of your cock. His teeth graze your lip and he lets go of your hair in favor of grabbing onto your dick.
His hand moves teasingly slow, and then he leans in and kisses your forehead.
"Son," he says, continuing to pump at the slowest pace he can. "Roll over for me?"
You do, your back pressed to his chest as he pushes up against you, sticky-wet skin sliding slowly against yours, his dick pushed between the cheeks of your ass. You squeeze around him and he sighs contentedly against your hair, his hands resting on your hips and pulling you harder against him.
Eventually, you whine and he pats your hip. "John. Some patience, maybe?" You bite your lip and close your eyes, pushing back against him to try and get him to move some more. Touch you. Do anything. Anything but just lay there and tease you.
You're rewarded for your patience (even though you really aren't being patient) with a hand around your dick, squeezing tight around the base and then moving up slowly. He's still being a tease, but you don't say anything because if you do he'll just tell you that you need to be more patient even though he's taking his sweet time doing anything. His hips move at the same pace as his hand, though, so at least he's teasing himself, too.
You push your ass against him and he moans into your hair as your cheeks squeeze around his cock, like you're silently begging for him to pick up the fucking pace.
It takes him a moment longer, but he gets the picture, his fingers tightening around you and his hips speeding up as his hand does. You turn your face into the pillow, moaning, gripping at the sheet beneath you with both hands as your dad touches you, willing yourself not to touch, too.
You've got a weak will, though, and your fingers slide down your front (which is as damp with piss as your dad is) to lace with his around your dick, squeezing and moving faster than he is. He doesn't give you shit over it (for once) and speeds his pace up, too, hips and hand moving always at the same speed.
You're hardly even paying attention to anything but the feeling of his fingers laced with yours, of your hand moving with his along the length of your dick and his thumb sliding across the slit every so often and his other arm wrapped around your middle and holding you against him. Everything is moving quickly and you feel warm from the tips of your ears to the bottoms of your feet and he knows that you're close. His fingers tighten and he starts to move faster. He mouths at your neck and sucks at your earlobe and whispers that he loves you and he quietly lets you know that he's close, too.
Your dad is the first to finish, his hips rocking against yours and his arm tightening around you as he comes, warm and sticky, mostly on your lower back. You don't last much longer, spilling onto his hand and the sheets, and then you're panting and pressing your face against the pillow, trying hard to catch your breath.
His grip on you disappears and he moves to wrap both arms around your waist.
"I'd suggest us going back to sleep," he mutters, "but we're laying in a puddle of your urine." When he puts it that way, what you just did seems really disgusting, and your head is clear enough that you can smell it, and you're paying enough attention to feel gross about it. "You are doing the laundry, by the way." You sigh and pout just a little. "You can't just come in here and pee in my bed and expect to get away with it, young man. Even if we did both enjoy it."
You lay still a while, trying to ignore the fact that most of your body is resting on damp sheets, but eventually pulling away from his arms and out of his bed.
"Yeah, okay, well, why don't we shower first?" He looks skeptical because showering is mostly an excuse to touch him more, but you roll your eyes. "Fine, then, lay here in a puddle of pee while I go clean myself up." He rolls his eyes right back at you, but gets up and gestures toward his bathroom. He drops his pants and pulls his shirt off, leaving them on the bed, then going and climbing into the shower. He turns the water on just as you're getting your pants off, and you leave them in the same place as he left his.
Your dad's arms wrap around your waist as soon as you're in the shower and you relax into his touch as he cleans you, squirm against him as he gets really thorough about it. Part of you thinks it's supposed to be sexy but another part of you thinks it's not supposed to be sexy at all. You're pretty torn about it.
He doesn't end up touching you at all over the course of the shower, which is a little unusual.
"That was very intense," he whispers to you, explaining your thoughts away as if he can read them. "I haven't been so... so absolutely turned on since college."
"Good to know I don't usually turn you on," you laugh, turning to face him and kissing him on the lips.
"Now, John," his tone is scolding, "don't be like that. You always turn me on! I just—I haven't done anything quite like that since college, and that was absolutely wonderful."
You close your eyes, leaning against him a little. "It was supposed to be an April Fool's prank," you tell him.
He starts to wash your hair, then, staying silent but smiling at you.
You feel like a dumbass.
"I had fun, though," he tells you, "and I think we should do it again sometime."
"Will I have to do the laundry again?"
"Only if you don't take precautions to avoid soaking my good sheets."
You frown at him, leaning into his touches and then frowning when he pushes you away from the water.
"You leave this conditioner in for a while, then wash it out," he says, showing you where it says just that on the bottle.
"Cuddle with me for a while, then."
"Standing up?"
"Yes."
He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, leaning down and kissing your shoulder, then your back, then your shoulderblade. He keeps kissing you, kisses his way down your arm and then grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss your knuckles.
"Gay," you whisper, and he just shrugs.
"I can't say I'm any less."
He keeps kissing you until you forget about the conditioner entirely. By the time he pulls you underneath the ongoing stream of warm water, at least ten or fifteen minutes have passed.
"I got you," he says, and you're confused for a second—he didn't get you.
Except...
"Dad! That's such a dumb prank!" You untangle yourself from his arms, stepping out of the shower and grabbing his towel to wipe the mirror off with. "You're a jerk!" You're laughing, because it's really funny. Why did you trust him with your hair on April Fool's? You're dumb and he's dumb and you have blue hair.
"I had to get you before you got me," he says simply, chuckling and stepping out of the shower himself a few minutes later. "You've gotten the floor wet."
You pout at him, handing him his towel and grabbing yours so you can dry the floor off, then dry yourself off.
"At least you picked a good color."
"Oh, next year I'll have to pick something else."
He's crazy if he thinks you're going to fall for it next year, too.