Work Text:
Bedsheet nestled in his quiet corner of the linen closet. Today had been laundry day and while he enjoyed the snark bouncing between Washer and Dryer, it was still hellish on his surface. Yes, it felt good to be clean, but he didn't like it when the artificial springtime perfume covered up the scent of his owners. Bedsheet pondered for a moment. Had he gotten spoiled? No, of course not. Well, perhaps a little. The masters did dearly love to rub themselves against his soft fibers. So much so that Bedsheet never minded the wet spot, not even when it dried leaving behind its stiff, crusty remains.
Bedsheet sighed because this is what had prompted an unscheduled laundry day to begin with. A horrid thought crossed his mind. Was his cotton weave wearing too thin, too soon? Oh, no, he was too young for this!
As the minutes passed, Bedsheet began to worry. Surely it was time to remake the bed. What was taking so long? Typically, the masters took turns pulling him from the closet and smoothing him over the flat surface of their bed. Always with warm, sure hands, even when they were in a hurry to fall onto the bed together.
He didn't like to brag, but Bedsheet could always tell his two masters apart by the way they handled him.
One would always tuck his edges in very firmly. It was quite restraining but he's used to it now, and could admit, somewhat shyly, that he'd even grown to like it.
His other master was quick and efficient, but always took an extra second to run a hand over his surface, and Bedsheet tried to make his fibers puff up with extra softness.
But he'd been sitting here undisturbed for what felt like hours now. Bedsheet had a very bad feeling.
A red, silk, sheet couple had moved onto the shelf next to him last week. So far, they'd never been used, but terrycloth towels—the worst gossips ever—had heard that those silk sheets were destined to become the new favorites. Could it be true? Were his days on the bed numbered? His thread count might be high, but he was still plain, soft cotton.
A hand reached into the closet and plucked the silk set off the shelf. Hopes dashed, Bedsheet's folds became listless and prone to wrinkles. Frown lines. He was going to have frown lines. Bedsheet could have wept.
Before he could dwell on that tragedy too long, he heard yelling coming from outside the closet. Bedsheet pressed one corner to the door and listened.
"God-damn it, Rodney. I don't want to offend Jeannie's feelings, but I'm getting up and dumping these sheets into the garbage. At this rate, I'm going to throw my back out trying to fuck you. Every damn time I thrust, you slide away!"
"How do you think I feel, John? I almost landed on the floor last time!"
As he listened to the bed being stripped, Bedsheet's folds curled up in a happy smile.