laundry, meanie

Flirt

Mingyu, ready to knock his head on the dryer that was taking way too long to puke his clothes out, stands staring numbly at the machine whirring and vibrating in front of him. Even the little toothpick he toys with in his mouth is starting to get boring, and he can nearly feel the tiny splinters of wood beginning to scrape against his tongue — that's how overstimulated he is.

The past week has been a wreck, and Mingyu could empathise with his clothes rolling and rumbling inside the dryer. He has flunked a quiz, come in late for another one and snapped at one of the professors before his brain could think — all within a span of one hundred and sixty-eight hours, with too many more shenanigans he can't even bear to describe.

Plus with the term evaluations coming up, Mingyu's sure as fuck he's already gotten into most of his professors bad books until the term ends, and his laundry is taking too fucking long to dry out and get ready for him to bring it back. He's shirtless and just in a pair of boxers too — because of his own dumbassery, since he'd forgotten to do his laundry for the past month and a half, and all of his good clothes are in front of him, beyond the pane of the dryer. Since when do clothes take so long to dry? That too in a fucking machine?

At some point, he falls asleep, growing tired of the seconds ticking by, with his forehead leaning onto the dryer rumbling next to his, shoulders caving in to the laughable warmth the machine gives off. All Mingyu wants is a good, snug sleep — which could probably last for a good whole week. The bags under his eyes have gone darker than his hair, and he hasn't had a haircut in the past six months, making him grimace as he's on the verge of passing out with the support of a dryer. Fuck you, dryer, he thinks, knowing well enough a machine can't be fucked.

The continuous, annoying buzz of the dryer soon switches to an irregular rhythm, and Mingyu heaves a sigh of relief; he could finally snatch his clothes and get going — the laundry room is getting way too cold, biting at his skin with the absence of layers on him. His dick isn't spared either.

He opens his eyes, met with a bunch of greys and whites in front of him, making him squint. He doesn't own a single piece of white in his clothing, so where did that T-shirt come from? A sound of realisation escapes from his mouth when he recalls that this isn't the dryer his clothes are in. He pushes himself back with force from his shoulders, and grips the handle of his dryer to open it, letting his warm clothes fall into the hamper he'd set underneath. Gods, he wishes he could curl up in the hamper like a carefree dog, and let the warm clothes lull him to sleep. Unfortunately, Mingyu is no carefree dog; instead, he's the most normal fucking university student, struggling because of his lunatic Professor Hong who haunted him in his sleep — although Mingyu wouldn't say it to anyone. Imagine how weird it would sound to admit that he dreams of his professor.

The last of his clothes had fallen into the hamper, and Mingyu readies himself to pick it up and be on his way. That is, until a horrifying sight catches his attention, and his hamper is ignored at his hip in an instant as his gaze is fixed on a lump of clothes in the dryer next to his — huge splotches of blood on a bright white T-shirt and the leg of a yellow pair of sweatpants pushed along inside the dryer, mirroring the spot on the T-shirt he'd just seen. What the fuck?

A pair of feet come pounding into the laundry room, just as the second dryer beeps and comes to a stop. Freakily immaculate timing, but Mingyu's more concerned about the bloody clothes that are going to be plucked out by the other boy who has just entered.

"Ah fuck me," he mutters, gingerly pulling at the stained pieces of clothing, and Mingyu nearly takes it as an invitation because damn, the guy's cute as fuck. From where Mingyu sees him — observing his side profile — the boy has the perfect, plush-looking pair of pouty lips; the kind Mingyu always fantasises about. And Gods, don't even get him started on his lithe fucking frame — his waist looked like it had been hand-sculpted to be squeezed in someone's grip.