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Laundry Day

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The coin-operated washing machine on the second floor thumps so loudly against the wall that it has to register somewhere on the Richter scale. Normally this would be a bad thing when it’s late-night laundry time and the other tenants are trying to sleep. But tonight? Tonight it’s perfect, because the sound of it is loud enough to drown out Billy moaning like a goddamn porn star.

Steve’s got him bent over the washer, dick trapped against the white metal, knees spread as wide as he can with his pants tangled around his ankles. His shirt is rucked up his chest as Steve gets a hand between them, groping at Billy’s nipples and pressing a possessive palm against his throat. Billy groans, trying to fuck back into the frantic snap of Steve’s hips despite that he has no room to move. He ends up grinding his hips into the edge of the washing machine, instead, until the vibrations of it set his teeth on edge and make his eyes sting. It’s too much, the kind of too much that makes Billy feel unhinged, a little feral — like he’s riding the razor’s edge of something dangerous.

But it’s good, so fucking good, because Steve is just as riled up as he is. And when Steve gets riled he forgets how to shut up. Starts to say a bunch of stupid shit that still manages to get Billy’s dick dripping.

“You’re driving me crazy, baby,” he says, huffing the words against Billy’s ear so he can hear them over the slap of skin and the thudding of the washer. “Can’t get enough of this ass of yours, so perfect and tight and— fuck. Someone could just walk in right now.”

That’s the point, Billy thinks. He’d say it out loud if Steve didn’t choose that exact moment to grab him by the hips and start laying it into him until Billy goes non-verbal, because Steve is hung like a fucking horse and has this knack for hitting Billy’s sweet spot. He probably couldn’t miss it if he tried.

When Steve traces two fingers along Billy’s mouth, Billy doesn’t hesitate to wrap his lips around them, getting drool down his chin because he’s already salivating. He should probably throw his shirt in the wash when they’re done here. He’s making a mess. Is a mess. Same difference.

Fuck, Billy.” Steve is pounding into him harder now. Between the vibrations working his cock and the constant pressure against his prostate, Billy doesn’t even need a hand between his thighs. All it takes to tip him over the edge is the sound of Steve’s heavy breathing against his ear, and the sweet utterances of his name that Steve keeps repeating like it’s his new mantra.

Billy cums with his dick still pinned against the washing machine and Steve’s fingers in his mouth. He’s pretty sure he cums a second time when Steve doesn’t stop fucking into him, when the wet slide of his cock against the edge of the washer and the violent juddering muddle some pain in with the pleasure.

Steve follows him soon after, face buried underneath Billy’s jaw and panting muffled nonsense against Billy’s throat.

The washing machine keeps pounding against the wall while they catch their breaths. It takes Billy a minute to gather himself, to blink the tears out of his eyes and shake some of the numbness out of his limbs.

When Steve pulls him back against his chest and peppers kisses all along the side of Billy’s face like an overeager puppy, Billy doesn’t complain. He just goes with it. Lets Steve pull his boxers and sweats back on even though his cock and thighs are sticky with spend. He can’t help but grin when Steve spins him around and crowds him against the edge of the washing machine again so they can make out until the spin cycle ends.

Steve’s got this dopey smile on his face when he breaks away from the kiss. He really is like a fucking puppy, all sweet and dumb and affectionate. Billy isn’t sure when that got to be so endearing, or when he stopped getting agitated about it.

But these days, when Steve smiles at him like that, it makes Billy’s heart feel like its melting into his stomach.

“I love laundry day,” Steve says. It sounds like some kind of heartfelt confession. Billy just snorts. Grabs Steve by the collar of his shirt. Yanks him close so they’re nose-to-nose.

“You better have more quarters for us, Bambi.”

Then they’re kissing again, all slow and sloppy, and Billy thinks an argument could be made to bump laundry day up to a weekly affair.


It’s early one morning. Steve has miraculously allowed Billy to drag him out of bed to grab a coffee at the doughnut shop next door. They run into Nancy and Jonathan while they’re waiting in line; as per usual, Billy sidesteps any small-talk while Steve politely engages them in conversation.

Billy tunes them out. At least, until Steve says: “Yeah, we were going to do some laundry today, too.”

Billy zeroes in on the word, feeling his dick twitch in some kind of Pavlovian response. He glances over at Steve and sees that Steve is grinning cheekily back at him.

“We’ve got a couple loads to put in, right Billy?”

And that’s how Billy winds up hiding a half-chub in the middle of a fucking doughnut shop. Steve knows, because his eyes drop down and then back up again. Billy isn’t sure if he wants to throttle him or kiss him for being so shamelessly diabolical.

“Yeah,” he says through a clenched jaw. “Think that’s gonna be our afternoon.”

When Nancy and Jonathan step up to the counter to put in their order, Steve leans into Billy’s side and drops his voice to a whisper. “You want one of the cream-filled ones, babe?”

Billy bites his tongue to keep from laughing and gives Steve’s shoulder a gentle shove.

“Don’t push your luck,” he whispers back. Steve just shows off his most winsome smile and widens those big doe eyes like he thinks it makes him look innocent.

Well, it kind of does. Billy just happens to know better.

“Don’t worry,” Steve says, with a pat to Billy’s back and a peck on the cheek that’s too quick for anyone in the shop to notice. “I’ll take care of you, baby.”

Billy already knows the walk back is going to be spent holding a bag of doughnuts in front of his dick.

He also knows the wait will be worth it, so.

He smirks and runs his tongue along his lips. Watches as Steve tracks the movement with his eyes. Says, in a low, rumbling purr that makes Steve’s cheeks go a little pink:

“Fuckin’ better.”