SLASH BACKSLASH ONE-SHOT CONTEST

Story Name: Dirty Laundry
Pen name: queenofgrey
Pairing: Edward/Jasper
Disclaimer: Rated M for homoerotic material – obviously.
To see other entries in the "SLASH BACKSLASH" contest, please visit the C2:
www[dot]fanfiction[dot]net/c2/68069/3/0/1/

Gay men like ass. It's a fact, common knowledge. We like them in all shapes and sizes – flat, round, of the bubble variety, et cetera. There's a lid for every pot, or so the saying goes, but it's more like there's a man for every can. I, personally, am a big fan of the well-toned derrière – the kind that comes with dimples in the lower back and the nice, cut curves of muscle along the sides. That's the kind of ass I could really sink my teeth into. Unfortunately, that's also the kind of ass that my brother, Emmett, has, and I only know this because it is out, and it is flexing, and the hips that move it are also moving his penis into some drunk chick on top of our washing machine. It makes me want to vomit, and to never look at an ass – toned, flabby, whatever – ever again. Or, use the spin cycle. Jesus.

And I say it aloud.

"Jesus, Emmett! That's a device of cleanliness!" I shield my eyes and wave a hand in the air, flailing a pointed finger in the general direction of where they are – as if Emmett's actually paying attention. Then, I find the handle of the door, and I'm so glad that it's not something else, and I slam the laundry room door. "And for the love of Christ, you'd better make sure you disinfect that shit! I don't want a damn snail trail near my whites!"

It's really my darks I'm worried about, though. Namely, I fear for the life of my favorite T-shirt – a perfectly crafted and cozy black V-neck, which I found in Goodwill ages ago – which is currently in the washer. And, I sit in my room and I try to tell the shirt through telepathy that it'll be okay, that her roast-beef-curtains will soon be shut, that we'll be reunited soon – maybe after a go with the color-safe bleach, though. I frown and sit on my bed and I wait for the moaning and spinning and the bile rising in my throat to stop. When it does, I also hear the latch on the front door slide out and in again – which makes me think of thrusting-brother-penis, which makes me want to vomit – and then the apartment is quiet.

I just wanted to put my clothes in the dryer. I thought the moans were coming from Emmett's bedroom. I didn't ask for this trauma. I need a hug.

I wait a few minutes longer, to make sure they're not coming back for Round Two, and then I pad across the apartment to the kitchen. There, I arm myself with Lysol wipes and a silicone oven mitt, and frown as I head for the laundry room. Call it over-cautious, call me Edward the Prude, call it me feeding the stigma that gay men hate vaginas, call it what you will; I just don't know where her vagina has been, and while Emmett may or may not have wrapped it up, I certainly am. I fit my fingers into the mitt and grab a disinfecting wipe, vigorously scrub the top of the machine and a bit of the front, and then I set all used items into a plastic grocery bag for later incineration – or medical testing. One can never be too careful.

I make quick work of transferring my clothes to the dryer – pausing to give my T-shirt a tiny, little snuggle – toss in a sheet of delicious-smelling fabric softener, and retreat to my room. I'll let Emmett deal with the bag of bodily fluids later, so I set it by his bedroom door. I really hope he doesn't think it's a present.

In my room, I put on some music, some mix from some guy that has a lot of mellow, sans-lyrics songs on it, and I close my eyes. Ass is all I see. Normally, this would be a blessing, fodder for paying a bit of attention to my nether regions; it is no such thing, now. I crank the music up louder and fist a pillow over my eyes and, at some point, everything fades to black and not even the buzz of the dryer can wake me.

– O –

As I awaken, I notice that all's quiet on the apartment front. It's the middle of the night – 3:32 AM, my alarm clock reads, pitching a red sheen around the room – and I'm still in my clothes. The clothes that may or may not have gotten vagina all over them as I cleaned up after that oaf and his midnight snack. I need a shower, and I long for my V-neck – my soft, supple, slight-holey T-shirt that will lull me back to sleep with its warmth and comfort. A cotton hug; I'm still a little traumatized. I rub the sleep from my eyes and wait just a moment, making sure the coast is clear – I won't make the same mistake twice – and that's when I hear it. The slight whirr of the spin cycle and a clear-as-day groan.

Damn it.

I'm enraged; there's no other word for it. Like, I'm almost cartoonish-mad, with full-on red face and steam billowing out of my ears. It's fucking late, too late for fucking on top of the damn washing machine, and I just want my damn shirt, and a fucking shower. Fucking damn it. I quit my internal whining, with the added final flourish of a stomp of my foot, and pull open my bedroom door, head straight for the laundry room. I sneer at the closed door – at least, he had the decency to close it this time, even if he's being indecent behind it – and then with my eyes closed and breath held, I grasp the handle and fling the door inwards, ready to give him a piece of my mind.

"What the—ouch. Fuck." I open my eyes at the sound of a man, a man who is not Emmett, at the sound of what resembles pain in the laundry room, instead of pleasure. He's halfway through pulling up a pair of boxers, his bare back to the door, like he knew someone might come barging through it, and he rubs his back where the door hit him while I stare, shamelessly, at his ass. It's the pretty, toned kind, and it's one I don't mind seeing at all. He, however, seems to mind, because he hurries to get the boxers over his plump rear and to his waist, and clears his throat. "See something you like?" And the humored tone in this voice, it's like he's giving me permission to stare. So, I take another look, and I do see something I like; he's wearing my boxers. I quirk a brow and point a finger in the same direction that I'd like to point my mouth – at his pelvic region – and it's like I've forgotten how to speak. "Emmett said I could—he said we have the same body type."

Body? Type? Yes, I like his body. It is definitely my type.

I'm a little quick on the draw, maybe, because I've only seen his ass – his glorious, bitable ass – and I take about a second to look him over fully, starting at his bare feet. They're big and that excites me; I don't care if it's a myth or not. His legs are lean and I can see the faint, pale hairs in the sparse light of the room. Legs lead to boxers – my boxers, which are unfairly fondling his package – and they lead to his stomach, which is taut and defined, but not in an I-spend-40-hours-per-week-in-the-gym kind of way. Then, it's gone, covered with a shirt, and I'm too busy internally pouting over losing sight of his stomach, that it takes me a moment to realize which shirt it is.

What's the most polite way to ask a man to strip?

"Any shirt, but that one, okay?" I say quickly and he pulls it back off, hands it to me without question. "It's, uh, it's my favorite. I'm a little crazy-protective over it."

"I know what you mean. My favorite's in your washer right now. I'm a little sad."

It's then that I stop being a complete pervert and look up to find a wry smile on his face – his bloodied, bruised face. I have to squint to see that his eyes are green beyond the purple bruise that circles one of them. It's not fair, something that nice being ruined, and I can't stop the gasp that comes from my mouth. He's beautiful, even with the black eye and the blood caked in his hair. I want to tenderly prod his skin, cover it with peroxide and soft gauze. I want to run my fingers through his curly blonde hair, shampoo out the blood. Then, when he's clean and healed, I want to do horribly amazing things to his dick. Ugh. Mostly, I want to stop staring, but I can't.

"What—uh—your face—"

"I was on the wrong end of a fist, but you should see the other guy." He pulls another of my shirts from the dryer and I almost whimper as he uses it to cover his skin again. It's not fair that my clothing gets to fondle this man, and I don't. Yeah, I'm definitely on the verge of a sexually frustrated whimper. "My clothes were pretty bloody – the other guy's blood, not mine – and, yeah, Emmett said you wouldn't mind."

"About that; I, um, I'm sorry for hitting you with the door. I am, clearly, not the smoothest guy in the world. I mean, I thought Emmett was using the spin cycle to impress some girl, again," I say, casually pointing to the rumbling machine to my left, as if it explains everything. Then with an awkward laugh, I add, "He has a tendency to get vagina all over everything."

"So I've heard," he retorts, a wrinkle to his nose, and it's almost as if he's as disgusted by the notion as I am. I hope he is. I can't tell. Usually, Emmett's pals are always pals of the pussy. I don't know. But, I know he's smiling at me, kind of in the same manner that I'm smiling at him. Then, he says, "Disgusting," all conspiratorially-like, and I nearly sigh in relief. I settle for nodding at him. It's almost too enthusiastic of a nod, too. "I'm Jasper, by the way," he says, stopping me from nodding my head right off. I blame the bloodied, rugged look and his smile, and that ass. He's making a fool of me. "Edward, right?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Edward." And then, it's like we have nothing else to say. He's dressed in my clothes and I have my shirt and no Emmett to yell at, and I toe the tile as the silence grows heavy. "Well, um, I guess I'm going to go grab a shower. You should—you should, too. There's—you've got blood in your hair."

"Thanks, I'll be sure to do that," Jasper nods, his right palm smoothing over his stomach, over my T-shirt which is located over his stomach. Then, he winks, and I'm fucking goo, and Emmett may need to clean the entire laundry room, because I'm melting all over it. Jasper brushes by me in the doorway, his hip touching mine as he moves, and I'm sure of it. Emmett should probably get the hose, or a mop. Jesus.

I don't leave the room until he's tucked safely inside of Emmett's room with the door shut. My erection won't let me. Then, I sprint to the bathroom, because I don't want my jizz anywhere near a vagina-covered surface. That would be morally wrong.

Before the water even gets warm, I throw myself under it, dick in hand, and come in record time.

"Jasper," is the only noise I make, and part of me hopes he can hear it.

– O –

It's 4:56 in the morning and I cannot for the life of me find sleep. One scalding hot shower, with two glorious self-inflicted orgasms included, and, really, nada; one would think that would've done the trick. Alas, I'm tossing and turning, and I'm thinking about Jasper and his near-nudity, his long and lean muscles… his distaste for vaginas. But, really, it was just a wrinkled nose and one word: disgusting. Perhaps, Jasper and Emmett just have different taste in women. Emmett likes blondes; maybe, Jasper doesn't. I hope he doesn't – I'm a near-redhead, almost-brunette. Or, maybe – and I'm praying to Jesus, God, and Buddha that I'm wrong – just maybe, this homosexual thing is a common trait me and Emmett share and, well, he does like blondes. No. Not possible. Emmett has let far too much vagina taint our apartment for that to be feasible. Then, I think of the wink Jasper gave me, of the obscene way our hips scraped against each other – which I may or may not be overdramatizing. And, I think maybe – and I'm praying to Zeus, Allah, and whoever invented anal lube that I'm right – he really isn't so fond of the pink taco, or of my brother, and he's just some random friend of Emmett's who ended up naked, then in my clothes, in the laundry room. I mean, stranger things have happened. Not in my laundry room, but they have definitely happened. But, well, nothing happened. And nothing will happen, because I'm here, and he's out there on the couch, and ugh. I groan and fist my hands into my pillow, turn over onto my side with a huff. Yeah, definitely not sleeping.

A quiet, almost inaudible knock sounds through my bedroom door and I feel like I'm going to have a heart attack. It's late, so late, and, Oh-Sweet-Anal-Lube-God-Jesus, what if it's him? Then, the door opens, and I don't have to wonder. I just have to keep from throwing myself at him – at him and his exposed torso. He used my shampoo; I can smell it. It makes me want to lick his beautiful blonde hair. I gulp down a breath, swallow the saliva that has pooled in my mouth, and try to casually ask, "What—um—what's up?"

"Can't sleep." Jasper shrugs and clasps a hand around the edge of my door, his thumb stroking the surface. I've never been so jealous of a piece of wood – and I mean that in every single way that it sounds. "I heard you grumbling and figured you were up. Mind if I—" He just lets the words hang there, and I can't think of a single thing that I would mind him doing, especially if he was doing something to me. So, I shake my head and sit up, prop a pillow behind my back as he comes in and closes the door behind him. "Thanks," he says, and moves to sit at the bottom of my bed. We just kind of stare at each other in the grey-red light of my room, and I don't know what to do. So, I do nothing, and I wait for him. Finally, he says, "Emmett's snoring like a freight train."

"How do you know Emmett, exactly?" I ask, because it's the only common ground that we have – I think – and I don't feel awkward asking. What I really want to ask is if I can put his penis in my mouth; that would be awkward. "I've never seen you around before."

"I don't—I don't know him at all, really." He shifts on the bed, turning so that he's sitting cross-legged and his knees are bumping my feet beneath the covers. I briefly wonder if knee fetishes exist and if I have one. Then, I notice the way my boxers ride up his legs and how smooth his thighs look, and I have to scrunch the blanket up over my cock so he doesn't notice the way it's jutting out, practically screaming, Hey! Look at me! I'm an erect penis that wants to get acquainted with your tight, toned ass! Pick me! Pick me! Jasper clears his throat and my cheeks burn red as I look up from my lap. If he noticed, he's sure not saying he has. "So, yeah, I met him tonight at this party. One minute some guy was punching me, then he wasn't, and Emmett was standing there, instead."

"Ah, the age-old hero routine," I laugh, getting back on track. "He's pulled that for me at least a million times."

"Yeah, so he said. I mean, right after he said, BAM! Take that, fucker! And then, he kissed my sister. You might have met her. She was going on and on about a washing machine tonight."

My cheeks flush again, and we laugh a little. Then, there's tension, but not from the mention of our siblings saddling up in the Maytag rodeo. It's roundabout five in the morning and I don't know him and he doesn't know me and we're both atop the same bed. And, at least one of us is gay. Every move I make – from the twitch of my toes beneath the covers, to the depth of my breathing – is calculated, and I fear that anything too sudden might scare him away. But, then, he stretches out across the bottom of my bed, and yawns, and he looks like a little kitten, only, you know, six-foot-something and with a penis I want to fondle. Bestiality? Really, Self? Jesus. Then, Jesus, I feel it. I feel the fabled penis that I want so badly to fondle pressing right into the heel of my foot, and I wonder if he's the one with a leg-and-or-foot fetish, after all. First, his hip on my hip, then his knees on my toes, now this. I really don't care how weird it seems. He can hump my leg like a dog in heat, if he wants. I just want him out of those clothes and under me, on top of me, whatever. Or, you know, I can swing a footjob. Whatever.

"Jasper," I say quietly, and I notice the waver in my voice, but I don't think he does. It's questioning, looking for an out or an in – I'm not sure which. I gulp down saliva that isn't really there, my mouth going dry with anticipation, and I press my heel ever so softly against him. He moans at the contact and I can see and feel the slightest shift of his hips – towards me, not away. All systems are go. "Are you–"

"Enjoying this?" he interjects quickly, a smile to his parted lips. He grabs my foot and presses against it, again. "Yes. Yes, I am." Then, he gets onto all fours and the bed dips with his movements as he crawls up the bed to me. Briefly, I wonder if I have fallen asleep and this is all a dream. His lips on my neck are too real, though, and I fist a hand into his hair. "You like that, huh?"

I groan in reply; it's all I can manage. Jasper licks a line up my neck, then softly lets his teeth nibble my ear, and there's that long-overdue sexually frustrated whimper. It barrels out of me and it's in the air between us, and, somehow, I almost feel proud of it. It's like a declaration of want, and my terribly throbbing cock agrees. Yes, I want this man.

"I heard you, you know," Jasper whispers into my ear, his breath hot and heavy. "In the shower." He kisses the hollow there beneath my ear and I pant out a moan. "I liked it."

"Did you?" I ask, my voice an octave lower than normal. It's his lips on my neck; they make me do odd things, like thrust my hips shallowly into the air, or pant like a dog, or nearly imitate Barry White. I clear my throat and tighten my grip on his hair, regaining a semblance of control. I turn us so we're both on our sides, facing each other with our dicks nearly bumping between us, and I press my lips flush against his. It's just a taste, though. I want this to go slow, so painfully slow that it almost hurts, because that's when it's the best. I like to savor my sexual experiences, because, unlike my brother, I don't have an endless supply of holes to shove my dick into, atop appliances or not. I lick Jasper's lips and then rear back, asking, "What exactly did you like about it?"

"The way you—you said my name," he admits, his eyes closed and his chin tilted up toward mine. It looks like he's begging. I almost think it's funny, because moments ago, I was the one willing to beg. I grant him a kiss to his mouth, just lips on lips, and then glide my hand down his bare chest, laying my palm flat over his stomach. "Yeah, and that, I like that," he groans, his eyes fluttering open. "Can I touch you?"

"Touch me where, Jasper?" I ask, deliberately using his name because I now know he likes it. "Where do you want to touch me?"

"Everywhere."

"Only if I can touch you."

He places his hand atop mine on his abdomen and curls his fingers over mine, presses until we're both sliding down, down, down, and then he thrusts up into my hand. He keeps his hand over mine for a moment, waiting until my fingers curl around his shaft and begin pumping, and then he moves his hand to my dick and does the same. We're groaning and grunting, and his dick is so hard in my hand and his hand is so soft on my dick, and I have to stop him before I cum all over the place. Really, you'd think that a third orgasm in one night would be easier to keep at bay; it's not. Regardless, I still his hand with my other, free hand and press him onto his back. He doesn't complain, and I slide down his body until I'm eye-level with his cock.

"You clean, tested?" I ask, my mouth mere inches away. He nods and I nod, and I feel safe with him for some reason, or maybe it's just blind want. Either way, I'm not waiting for the results on paper; his word will have to do. I deftly slide my tongue along the underside of his dick and he practically purrs my name. "Good boy," I chide, enjoying the sound of my name in his mouth. "I can see why you liked it so much. Say it again." And, he does. He says my name as I slide the tip of his cock between my lips and back until it bumps against my throat. Then, he groans it, grunts it, and fists his hands in my hair.

"So worth—" He moans and shifts his hips up, his dick entering my throat. I take it like a champ, then back off to breathe, and he continues with, "the black eye."

Now, I'm a man. A horny, gay man. One with a perfectly sizable and beautiful cock against my lips. But that, that right there, intrigues me. I quirk a brow and ask him, "What's a blowjob got to do with your face?"

"Put my dick back in your mouth," he almost whines, but I'm not moving. "I'll tell you later."

"No." I lick the tip of his dick so softly, then sit back on my heels, begin to stroke myself through my boxers. "I can wait."

"Let me help you with that," he says, sitting up and reaching for my dick. I bat his hand away and laugh. This feels comfortable, like a game, like something I could get used to, instead of someone I could use. He pouts and I kiss his mouth, but then lean back and continue stroking. "If I tell you, what do I get?"

"Well, you won't get another black eye." I slow my hand, enjoying the sight of Jasper, his pout pinned between perfectly white teeth, his hair tousled from my hands, and then say, "Come on."

"Come on? As in c-u-m on? What do I get to get my cum on? Or in?" I laugh as he wiggles his eyebrows, and it's so easy. I think I like him, and for more than just his gorgeous ass and his fucking beautiful lips. He's funny. "Make me an offer I can't refuse." I don't, though. I just continue stroking my dick, pulling harder when I get to the head, and I keep my eyes locked on him. I like the power struggle nearly as much as I like him, I think. Either way, this is going pretty well. It is, until, "I'll tell you, if you let me bust one on your precious shirt." My eyes grow wide, then it's my turn to pout, and I look down at it sadly – after all that I went through tonight for this thing. I look back up at Jasper, and his eyes are dark, and not from the bruise. There's mystery there, plotting and planning. "I want you to think of me and how good I'm going to fuck your face, every time you wear that shirt. Think of it as a reminder."

His words are nearly a growl, and, fuck, my hands just not doing it for me anymore, so I eek out some sort of positive reply, and throw myself at him. But, I stop, remembering why he's going to paint my shirt white. I grind my hips down against his, the friction feeling so good, the upper-hand feeling even better, and I pant, "Tell me," into his ear.

"Rose was—shit, I can't talk about this with you doing that." I still my hips, but I don't move off of him. Instead, I pin his hands above his head, my fingers holding at his wrists, and I kiss his mouth softly. When we part, he smiles. "Well, see, Rose was talking about Emmett – about Laundrygate 2010 – and I'd yet to meet him, even though we were all at the same party. You know how that goes. Whatever. So, I played it all coy and asked what he looked like, 'cause I wanted to deck him in the face a little. She's not the best or brightest, so she thought I just—you know—she thought I wanted to check him out. Anyway, she had his phone in her purse, so she whipped it out to show me a picture from it. It was of you two – you and him – like, down at some beach." I smirk, because I never expected any story he could tell me to involve me. And, I know the photo he's talking about; it's me and Emmett relaxing on First Beach at the very end of last summer – I looked fucking hot back then. Hell, I guess I still do – what, with the way Jasper's cock is throbbing against my thigh and all. "And, well, I couldn't stop myself from blurting out some shit about wanting to bend you over a washing machine." Holy shit. I involuntarily grind my cock against his hip and bite his shoulder. "Hey—hey, stop it, if you want to hear the rest of this." I can't stop myself entirely, so I just kind of rock my hips against his and sigh gently against his neck. He doesn't seem to mind and rocks back against me. "Anyway," he says softly, "some prick with daddy issues or whatever, well, he called me a bunch of derogatory names, then decked me in the face."

"All 'cause you said you wanted to bend me over a washing machine?"

"All because I said that, yeah." He kisses my neck, and whispers, "Emmett brought me here as, like, a consolation prize. Like, in exchange for getting my face beaten, he gave me a chance with you."

"Aw," I say softly, and release his hands. They immediately go to my hips and grip tightly, pull me against him, push him against me. They feel more meaningful, his hands and his thrusts, knowing that the blood on his face, on his clothes had something to do with me. "And, to think, if you'd done this in there, it would've almost been a self-fulfilling prophecy. So close, yet so far."

"Yeah, well, what with the vagina and all – especially, since it belongs to my sister."

"I disinfected," I say seriously.

"Shut up," he commands, and from there, it's a full-on assault.

He licks and nips and I kiss and bite, and our hips dig, and dig, and press. Then, we're moving, turning, and his dick's in my mouth and mine's in his. I suck him hard and fast, using my hand to pump his shaft when his mouth and tongue and teeth on my dick break my concentration, when I need to moan. He does the same and I'm so close, so close. I can't hold back – damn impatient third orgasm – and I let go, and he takes it, swallows it down. And, that's what it takes to push him over, or so it seems, because as I come, he comes, and then there's cum all over my fucking T-shirt, and I can't feel bad about it.

"You should really wash that," he whispers, after we've come down from our glorious post-coital highs, and points at my T-shirt with a tired finger. I give him a lazy smirk and lean over to kiss his mouth. The kiss starts out polite, but soon we're panting, and when he says, "Just how well did you clean the laundry room?" I know exactly what he means.

At sunrise, he bends me over the machine and we're skin on skin and loud moans. The spin cycle kicks into high gear and I can feel it everywhere within me as I lean against the machine and Jasper thrusts into me. And, I get it. I get the appeal. And, I'm not sorry when I jizz all over the front of the appliance. After all, Emmett never even said he was sorry. But, fuck, bringing Jasper home was better than words, anyway.

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