Washday



It's rising, a thick cloud of it, billowing up to engulf him, and there's nowhere to go, nowhere to run, because it's his turn to do the laundry, dammit, and he can't see himself telling Sandburg he's getting used sheets back because the smell of them is too much for him to handle.

Thick and heavy, saturating the sheets he's holding -- gripping, now, knuckles white. It's not just the obvious; the pale streaks of dried come halfway down the top sheet. No. He can smell the drool on the pillowcase, the tang of sweat, everything Sandburg's rubbed onto his body to clean it, pretty it up… all there trapped in the cotton.

And a splash of strawberry ice cream, pinkly innocent, level with the come, but on the other side of the sheet, so he's picturing Blair eating it in bed, the dripping spoon raining cold kisses down on the hot, flushed skin beneath the thin sheet.

Maybe that cool wetness was what set him off. He pictures Blair setting the bowl aside and reaching down with a crooked finger, scooping up what he could of the spill and transferring it to the delectable, lush mouth Jim wants to bite red. He'd be smiling, probably talking to himself… Jim's heard him murmuring to himself when he's jerking off, listening for his own name with a shamed concentration.

And then Blair would watch his dick stir and fill, curious and expectant and peel back the sticky sheet… no. Jim reconsiders. There was come on it so he'd have had to --

God. There's something about the thought of Blair wrapping the sheet -- this sheet, the one Jim's holding -- around his erection and fucking up into the tunnel he'd made, the soaked, sticky cotton rough enough to hurt just a little so you'd have to make it fast, have to --

He leans against the laundry door and his zip comes down and his dick comes out and he's ready, he's there and it doesn't take long at all to get that sheet wet again, and he doesn't talk much, just one word, over and over as his world narrows, as Blair's must have done, to the feel of the fabric around the thrust of skin.

And when he's done, shaking, nearly sliding down that fucking door because his legs have lost the will to live, he can't smell strawberries and he can't smell shampoo, but he can still smell Blair.

He peels off the borrowed, too-tight T-shirt he was wearing, gives it one last, appreciative, wistful sniff -- not the armpits; the smell's too strong there, but along the hem, where the tucked in edge had rubbed across Blair's stomach, and throws it in with the rest of Blair's washing.

And tries to remember when he last felt clean.



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