Chapter Text
The worn leather squeaked as Dan shifted his weight. He stared at his reflection in the dusty microwave door, tugging at his faded shirt collar. Dinner dishes clattered in the sink behind him – leftover spaghetti sauce crusting on plates like dried blood.
Out in the hall, heavy footsteps thudded. The front door slammed. "Fuckin' bench press killed me today!" Luke's voice boomed, followed by Magnus' higher-pitched laughter. Dan flinched, hurriedly wiping sauce splatters off the counter. The humid scent of teenage sweat preceded them into the kitchen.
Luke slumped onto a chair, his damp basketball shorts clinging to muscled thighs. Magnus dumped his gym bag by the fridge, the strap landing inches from Dan's feet. "We stink worse than that leftover pizza you forgot last week, Dad," Magnus grinned, peeling off his sweat-sodden tank top. Dan's knuckles whitened around the damp dishrag as he stared at the discarded shirt, the potent musk like a physical blow.
Luke kicked off his sneakers with a groan, thick socks bunched around his ankles. His bare feet, broad and dusted with dark hair, slapped onto the cool linoleum. Dan's gaze snagged on the tendons flexing beneath Luke's skin, the faint dirt smudges tracing the arches. Magnus followed, peeling his own socks off; twin clouds of adolescent exhaustion filled the cramped kitchen. Dan swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry.
"Shower. Now," Dan managed, voice rough. "Your laundry's piling up." He gestured toward the overflowing hamper in the corner, a mound of damp fabric emitting a sour-yeast tang. He couldn’t help but stare at Magnus' discarded socks, the heel stained grey, imagining the heat trapped inside.
The boys groaned but shuffled toward the bathroom. Luke tapped Magnus' shoulder. "Race you for hot water." They shoulder-barged through the doorway, laughter echoing off the tiles. Dan heard the harsh squeak of taps wrenching open, then the sudden roar of water hitting porcelain. Steam billowed instantly, carrying the sharp bite of cheap soap and the humid, earthy smell of their exertion.
Dan stood frozen at the laundry basket. His fingers brushed Luke's discarded basketball shorts—damp, heavy fabric clinging to his palm. Beneath lay Magnus' rumpled tank top, dark sweat stains blooming under the armpits. The scent wasn't just sourness; it was layered—musky adolescent skin, faint traces of gym rubber, and something uniquely *them*. Dan inhaled sharply, the air thick in his lungs. His pulse hammered against his ribs as he lifted Luke's sweat-stiffened socks. The grey heel patch felt rough against his thumb pad.
In the bathroom, the shower roared like a waterfall. Through the steam curling under the door, Dan heard Luke's playful shout—"Dude, stop hogging the damn nozzle!"—followed by Magnus' spluttering laugh. Dan closed his eyes. The wet socks in his hands warmed, phantom heat bleeding into his skin. He imagined Luke's broad feet flexing against slippery tile, water sluicing over thick tendons. Magnus' leaner frame dripping, steam painting his flushed skin. Jealousy coiled low in Dan's belly—a sharp, sour ache beneath the forbidden thrill. He was a ghost at their feast.
He forced himself to drop the socks onto the pile. Turning, he nudged the overflowing hamper toward the bathroom door. The scent intensified: stale sweat, teenage musk, damp cotton. He paused. Underneath Luke's muddy basketball shorts, a flash of grey cotton peeked out—Luke’s briefs, bunched and stained with dried sweat at the waistband. Beneath Magnus’ discarded shirt, Dan spotted the elastic edge of the boy’s boxers, darkening where fabric met skin. His throat tightened. The roar of the shower drowned out his shaky breath.
The boys’ muffled voices echoed—Magnus complaining about cold water, Luke’s teasing retort. Dan seized the moment. He slipped into the humid bathroom, steam stinging his eyes, clinging to his skin like wet gauze. Wet towels littered the floor; discarded underwear lay discarded near the shower curtain—Luke’s grey briefs in a damp heap, Magnus’ striped boxers tossed carelessly aside. The air was thick with cheap shampoo and adolescent bodies. Dan snatched them quickly, his fingers trembling against the damp fabric, Luke’s briefs still radiating residual warmth.
He retreated into the cramped laundry room, closing the flimsy door behind him. The roar of the washer filled the tiny space, drowning out his ragged breathing. Under the harsh fluorescent light, he unfolded Luke’s briefs first. The worn cotton was soft, almost velvety inside, stained faintly yellow at the front pouch and deeply grey at the waistband where sweat had seeped in over hours pressed against skin. He pressed the fabric to his face. The scent was overwhelming—musky, pungent, distinctly Luke—sweat and skin and the ghost of sharp teenage hormones. A needy groan escaped him before he could stop it. His other hand fumbled with his own jeans.
Magnus’s striped boxers followed, still damp from shower mist. They smelled sharper, earthier somehow—like freshly turned soil mixed with the metallic tang of exertion. Holding both pairs against his nostrils, Dan inhaled greedily. His cock strained against his underwear, already slick with pre-come. He leaned back against the humming dryer, knees weak. His mind flooded with images: Luke’s smirk as he flexed barefoot on the couch, Magnus’s careless sprawl in dirty socks kicked off mid-video game. *They’re gods*, he thought bitterly, *and I’m just the servant wiping their sweat*. Yet shame dissolved into dizzy heat as his palm slid down his stomach.
He tugged his jeans open, freeing his aching erection. Rubbing Luke’s briefs against his cheek, he imagined the older boy’s contemptuous laughter, those thick fingers tightening in his hair. “Smell it, fag,” Luke’s phantom voice sneered in his ear. “That’s what real men leave behind.” The fabric was dense with salt and musk, scraping his lips as he moaned into it. Below, his fist worked furiously, slick with spit and sweat. Magnus’s boxers pressed to his nose intensified the fantasy—Magnus’s bare foot shoving his face into the laundry pile, the humiliation twisting deliciously inside him.
Each thrust of his hips synced with the rumble of the washing machine. He pictured Luke’s calf muscles flexing as he kicked off his socks onto Dan’s lap, Magnus leaning close to whisper, "Worship it, loser." The scents merged—Luke’s deeper, sour-cream sweat, Magnus’s grassy adolescent tang—flooding his senses until he saw stars. His thighs trembled; shame burned his throat, but the fantasy overpowered it: their sneering faces, the echo of their footsteps above him, forever superior.
A sharp rap on the laundry room door made him freeze—Luke’s voice muffled through the thin wood. "Yo Dad, where's my clean hoodie? Gym tomorrow." Dan’s heart hammered against his ribs. He shoved the underwear deep into the laundry pile, fumbling his jeans up with slick fingers. "Almost done!" he croaked, voice strangled. Outside, Luke snorted. "Hurry up, smells like ass in there." The footsteps retreated, leaving Dan slumped against the dryer, the phantom musk still clinging to his nostrils.
He stared at the tangled pile—Luke’s grey briefs half-buried, Magnus’s boxers peeking out like a taunt. His own cock throbbed, neglected and wet against denim. Shame washed over him, cold as the tile floor beneath his socks. *Pathetic*, he thought, the word echoing Luke’s imaginary sneer. He traced the waistband of Magnus’s boxers, the elastic stretched from countless workouts. The scent still lingered—sweet hay and iron—making his stomach clench. He imagined Magnus shoving him aside after practice, damp cleats tracking mud across his clean floor. *Wouldn’t even notice if you licked it off,* whispered the fantasy, sharp and cruel.
Grabbing Luke’s briefs again, he rubbed the damp pouch against his cheek. The salt-stiff fabric scraped his skin. He pictured Luke fresh from the shower, water dripping down his calves as he tossed dirty socks at Dan’s feet. "Clean those, faggot," Luke’s voice growled in his mind. Dan’s breath hitched; spit slicked his palm as he stroked himself faster. The dryer’s vibration thrummed through his spine, syncing with the pounding in his ears. Magnus’s phantom laugh joined in—"Smell good, don’t they?"—as Dan pressed the younger boy’s boxers to his nose, inhaling greedily. Sweat rolled down his temple.
The fantasy sharpened: Luke’s bare foot pressing down on his throat while Magnus stuffed dirty socks into his mouth. *You love our filth*, they sneered in unison. Dan’s hips jerked erratically. Pre-come slicked his fist. He muffled a whimper into Magnus’s waistband, the elastic digging into his nostrils, the scent of young male musk flooding his senses. Jealousy twisted into arousal—how effortlessly they owned him, how easily their careless stink brought him to his knees.
Dan’s imagination narrowed to Luke’s powerful thighs straddling his chest, pinning him to the laundry room floor. The older boy’s damp workout shorts rode up, revealing coarse dark hair and the thick heat beneath. *Smother him*, Magnus’s phantom voice urged. Luke grinned down, heavy and mocking. "This all you’re good for, fag?" His weight pressed Dan’s ribs. The humid scent of Luke’s crotch—salty skin and sharp sweat—drowned out detergent. Dan’s free hand clawed at Luke’s imagined calf, desperate. Below, his stroking grew frantic.
He pictured Luke’s bare soles planted flat against the chipped tile beside his head, heels crusted with dried dirt. The relentless pressure on his chest stole his breath. Magnus knelt nearby, peeling off his own sweaty socks—the wet slap of cotton hitting linoleum echoing Dan’s wet fist. "Choke on him," Magnus sneered. Dan gasped into Luke’s briefs still crushed against his face, tasting fabric-dust and salt. His hips arched off the vibrating dryer. Luke’s imagined laughter vibrated through bone.
Then Magnus’ fist slammed into his ribs—a phantom blow sharp as shattered glass. Pain exploded through Dan’s mind, twisting his groan into a sob. Another punch followed, lower this time, Magnus’ knuckles driving into his soft belly. "Pathetic," Luke spat, grinding his pelvis harder against Dan’s trapped face. The scent thickened—salt, iron, adolescent rage. Pain and shame liquefied into slick heat in Dan’s groin. His hand flew faster.
Luke’s imagined grip tangled in his hair, yanking his head back. Magnus’ foot stomped down on his thigh, pinning his jerking hand. "Beat the queer outta him," Luke snarled, breath hot and sour. Dan’s vision blurred. The dryer’s rumble became the thunder of their laughter. Each imagined blow—Magnus’ elbow cracking against his jaw, Luke’s knee driving into his ribs—sent shockwaves through him. His hips bucked wildly against the vibrating metal. Pre-come dripped onto his jeans, warm and sticky.
Magnus’ phantom fist slammed into his solar plexus. Air exploded from Dan’s lungs in a choked gasp. He saw stars—actual pinpricks of light against the laundry room’s harsh fluorescents—and tasted copper. *Weak*, Luke’s voice hissed inside his skull. *Disgusting*. Shame surged like bile, yet his cock throbbed harder, slick with need. He pictured Magnus’ knuckles scraping his cheekbone, Luke grinding a dirty sock into his open mouth. The humiliation was scalding. Perfect.
His hips jerked wildly against the dryer’s vibrating drum. Pre-come soaked his jeans, a dark, sticky bloom. With Luke’s briefs crushed against his nostrils and Magnus’ boxers tangled in his fist, Dan surrendered. Pleasure detonated—a silent, violent uncoiling that arched his spine off the humming metal. Cum pulsed hot over his fingers, dripping onto the discarded boys' laundry below like some shameful offering. His breath hitched, ragged and broken, muffled by the damp cotton. Stars swam behind his eyelids again—this time, a white-hot collapse.
For a long moment, Dan slumped boneless against the machine, shuddering. The scent of his sons still clung to his skin—Luke’s thick musk, Magnus’ grassy tang—now mingling with the acrid bite of his own release. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, harsh and exposing. Slowly, he peeled Luke’s briefs away from his tear-streaked face. The fabric was damp with spit and sweat and tears. Shame washed over him colder than the tiles beneath his worn socks. *Pathetic*, Luke’s phantom voice echoed again. He stared at the mess on his fingers, trembling.
He wiped his hand frantically on his jeans, smearing the sticky wetness deeper into denim. The boys’ underwear lay crumpled on the laundry pile beside him—Luke’s grey briefs stained darker where Dan had pressed them to his lips, Magnus’ striped boxers twisted into a knot. With shaking hands, he snatched them up and shoved them deep into the washer’s drum, burying them beneath dirty shirts and muddy track pants. He poured detergent like an alibi—too much, making foam bloom instantly. The scent of artificial lavender choked the air, a flimsy mask. He slammed the lid shut. The machine groaned to life, churning away the evidence.