in which Dennis finds Noelleâs panties left in Robbyâs laundry while house-sitting. jealousy ensues.
in collaboration with and beta-ed by the lovely and dear @echo-is-bones <3 echo drew the beautiful stunning incredible art at the end of the post and the rest is history. this never would have gotten written without their art putting worms in my brain.
It shouldnât be a big deal.
So, Robby was hooking up with someone. And?
But Dennis was spinning out. Why didnât he ask them to house-sit?
Maybe it wasnât serious. Then why did they leave their panties here?
Stop it, Dennisâs brain repeated over and over again. He was just cleaning, just being a good housesitter. Doing laundry, cleaning the kitchen, et cetera, et cetera.
But the lacy panties in the laundry basket stuck in his mind like concrete. He threw them in the washing machine like any other piece of clothing, pretending he didnât notice the way the lace felt against his fingers.
When they were clean, though, that was an even bigger problem. Dennis tried to fold them and put them away in the dresser, next to Robbyâs boxers. He really did try.
But somehow, the panties lingered in his hands. Dennis felt filthy, holding the evidence of someone Robby clearly liked in his hands (liked enough, at least, to let them leave their stuff in his laundry basket).
If it was me- Dennis cut the thought off with a shake of his head.
If it was him Robby liked, he would have been invited over when Robby was actually present, not as a house-sitter when Robby was God knows how many states away.
Dennis settled down into the guest bed, not at all lamenting that the sheets smelled like no one had ever slept beneath them.
âDr. Robby, please,â Dennis keened, begging for mercy.
âIf you really wanted this, you would have dressed appropriately,â Robby said.
âOkay, okay, whatever you want, Robby,â Dennis moved to grab the panties from where they were hanging of the footboard and-
âFuck!â Dennis woke up from the same wet dream for the third time that month, his hand stretched toward the footboard, where nothing at all was hanging. The panties he had washed, folded, and put away a month ago were still haunting him. Does Dr. Robby like lace? Is it the color he likes? Is it just seeing the silhouette over hips? I have good hips.
Dennis shook his head hard, hard enough to dislodge his thoughts.
He rolled out of bed-Robbyâs bed- and sloughed off the several blankets heâd pulled out of the closet. Robbyâs townhouse was cold, so cold it was almost as if no one ever spent any time there, and Robby hadnât left behind any instructions regarding the thermostat.
Another day off, another breakfast, another couple hours cuddled up under whichever blankets still smelled the most like Robby. To be honest, Dennis was getting bored. He was running out of closets and drawers to snoop through, and had seen (and thrown out) more of Robbyâs hook-upâs stuff than he cared to admit. Maybe theyâre more than a hook-up; I mean, who leaves an entire jar of expensive hair mask in a casual hook-upâs shower? Dennis shuddered at the thought: not the hair mask (although the price of it was also shudder-worthy; he had looked it up) but the idea of Robby having an actual partner.
Dennis buried his face in a throw pillow and groaned. This line of thinking was getting him nowhere.
It had been two months and Dennis still hadnât stopped thinking about them: the navy blue panties left so casually in Robbyâs laundry basket.
Dennis had felt like he was on fire folding them and placing them in Robbyâs dresser.
Dennis took another sip of bourbon. Dr. Robby told me I could have anything in the kitchen. He had gotten very accustomed to eating and drinking whatever Robby left behind. He didnât particularly like bourbon, but Robby did. Maybe Robby would think I had good taste if he came home to me sipping bourbon out of a (out of his) rocks glass.
Dennis took another sip, ignoring his better judgement. He had been pointedly avoiding drinking Robbyâs liquor, pointedly avoiding drinking or eating anything he knew Robby liked. What if he came home and was upset that his favorite food or liquor was gone?
Several more sips came and went in the haze of comfy couch blankets and Breath of the Wild. No matter how many lizalfos he turned into purple smoke, he couldnât get the panties out of his head.
Dennis shuffled out of his nest of blankets and stood up. His feet led him toward the master bedroom and Robbyâs dresser before he could stop them.
He was holding the panties in his hands again. For the second, third, fifth time in two and a half months. Why canât I just forget about them?
Because I would look better in them, Dennisâs brain supplied, unhelpfully.
He took another sip of bourbon, larger than the others, to steel himself. He slipped his plaid boxers down, around his ankles, and stepped out of them.
Why are you doing this? his brain supplied. Because I want to, he answered.
Dennis slipped the panties over his thighs, over his hips, up until they sat perfectly against his dick.
Dennis took another sip for courage and looked down at his tighs: he liked what he saw.
His cock, pressed flush against dark blue lace. His thighs, slightly too muscular for the slim holes in the fabric, pressing against the seams.
He needed to see himself in them. Another sip. For courage, his brain echoed.
He closed Robbyâs bedroom door, revealing the floor-length mirror screwed to the back.
Dennis fell to his knees. Heâd never seen himself in something so revealing. Sure, he had seen himself naked in the bathroom mirror post-shower a million times, but never in something so purposefully revealing.
His chest was bare, something he wasnât particularly used to seeing, and his dick stood, hard and dripping against the dark lace of the panties. When did I even get hard?
Dennis grabbed his phone off the bed, against his better judgement, and took a couple pictures: one a close-up on his cock, straining against the fabric, one a shot of his full body, with his face obscured by his phone.
I can do better, Dennis thought, hoping his thoughts wouldnât win.
They did. One more picture: the phone to the left of his face, his full body on display. Back arched, panties perched perfectly around his hips.
There was only one thing left to do: sip for courage, send to Robby.
Dennis opened Robbyâs contact in his phone (if Robby ever texted him he would be pinned in his messages) and pressed Photos.
All four of the photos appeared in his iMessage blurb.
iMessage notification: Dr. Whitaker.
Robby hadnât dared to change Dennisâs contact name. Being interested, romantically, in a first-year intern was so inappropriate Robby didnât dare to pursue it, even on his sabbatical.
Regardless, Robby opened the message. And gasped:
He expected a broken bathroom sink, kitchen grout coming unglued from the wall, anything but a picture of Dennisâs cock, hard and beautiful against dark lace.
âDennis, did you mean to send this to me?â Robby hoped against hope that Dennis did mean to send it to him.
âyes Dr. Robbyâ the grey blurb immediately replied.
âDennis, are you sober right now?
ânot really,â Dennis replied.
âThen weâll talk in the morning.â
The period at the end of Dr. Robbyâs text felt a gunshot to the chest.
I fucked up, Dennis thought. I fucked up so bad.
Another sip. Maybe a better picture will make it better.
Dennis sent another picture: leaning forward, the camera angled over his shoulder, showing off the curve of his ass.
Robby nearly choked on his sip of beer. The roadhouse he sat in wasnât even close to his style, the crowd far too young for him to feel comfortable.
âDennis, are you sure you want me to see these pictures?â Robby replied, expecting a long silence, or, at least a âno.â
âyyesâ Dennis replied.
Robby drained the last of his pint glass. âThen keep going.â
It took Dennis a full two minutes to reply, but it was absolutely worth the wait: Dennisâs cock in his hand, just barely, the tip peeking out over the dark blue lace, his hand clearly wrapped around both lace and skin.
âFuck,â was all the reply Robby could muster, hoping quietly for a video or something even better.
Dennis woke up with his head pounding and his stomach in his throat. He rolled over to check his phone and saw a message from Dr. Robby.
âI was hoping for a video, baby.â
âSorry if thatâs too far.â
An hour later: âSorry, Dennis, that was inappropriate. Howâs the house?â
Baby. Dennis read the message over and over and over again. He called me baby.
Fuck, I should reply, Dennis realized through his sleepy, hungover haze.
Through the same haze, he realized he was still wearing the panties, half-hard from whatever heâd dreamed about. Dennis pulled the covers down and took a picture. He hoped it was good enough.
âsorry, i passed out last nightâ
Robby replied immediately: âDonât worry.â
Then, âYou look just as pretty this morning.â
Dennis thought he might pass out. He wasnât drunk. He wasnât dreaming.
âdo you still want that video?â
Robbyâs reply was instant. Dennis shoved a hand inside the panties and hit record.
Robby had watched the video on repeat for the last four nights. Holed up in shitty motels, wherever he could find a bed on 20 minutesâ notice, heâd slid a hand under the waistband of his boxers and hit play. He should probably text Dennis back at some point.
After the eighth night of repeating the same routine, he decided it was time. He took another sip from his bottle of bourbon and started typing:
âI wish I was there with you.â
No, way too personal, too intimate. He hadnât even asked the intern to dinner. He couldnât just sext him while he was thousands of miles away and expect it to go over well.
âHow is everything, Dennis?â
âFuck,â Robby swore into his bottle.
âIâm coming home in a couple weeks.â It wasnât much better than either of the previous drafts, but if Robby didnât send something now, he never would.
âyouâre coming home early?â
The reply was faster than he expected after a week of radio silence.
âYeah, just a bit. I think Iâve seen everything I set out to see.â
âgood ! hope you had fun :)â Dennis replied.
Robby took another sip, against his better judgment.
âThe most fun I had this whole trip was seeing those pictures you sent.â His text pointedly ignored the video Dennis had sent him from his own bed, hand sliding up and down his lace-covered cock without a hint of urgency, just showing himself off.
âmaybe you should come home thenâ
That was all the encouragement Robby needed. He switched back to the tab heâd had open for the past couple weeks and hit order, hoping that if he left now he would beat the package home.
Robby arrived back in Pittsburg a week and a half later, having driven faster than the speed limit or anyone with a sense of self-preservation would recommend. The package was supposed to be delivered today, in a couple hours. Instead of heading directly to his townhouse, Robby swung his motorcycle into a coffee shop parking lot. If heâd been in his truck, he would have just waited in the parking lot, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, but out in the open with nothing but a helmet and a padded jacket to protect his identity, he figured he should probably go in and order something, pretend this was a normal errand.
Robby took off his helmet, hanging it from a handlebar, and walked inside, ordering a large black coffee. When his order was ready, he sat down at a corner table, taking up as little space as possible. He had a couple hours to kill.
Robby was coming home today. Fuck.
Dennis cleaned the kitchen counters for the fourth time, rearranged the couch blankets. He made sure all the laundry was folded and put away, all except for the lace panties, which were tucked under his pillowâthe pillow he had called his for the last couple months at least.
He made sure fresh coffee was brewed and the plants were watered. When he ran out of chores to redo, he sat on the couch, attempting to play games on the Switch that had been docked by the TV when heâd arrived two and a half months ago.
The knock on the door nearly had him jumping out of his skin. Dennis stood up, smoothing down the old t-shirt he had stolen from the top dresser drawer.
He unlocked the deadbolt and swung open the door.
Robby was holding a box in his hands.
âYouâre wearing my shirt,â Robby replied.
âOh shit-I mean- uh, sorry,â Dennis stuttered. âI didnât think you would mind, but I can definitely go change if you want.â
âNo, I think it looks nice on you.â Robby stood in the doorway, as if it wasnât his own house.
âThank you. Uh, come in?â Dennis offered. âI made coffee.â
âThank you,â Robby smiled, finally stepping into the foyer. âI, uh, bought you something. Itâs more than okay if you donât want it. Or even like it.â The words came out nervously, all at once.
âThank you!â Dennis certainly wasnât expecting a gift. He was barely expecting Robbyâs presence.
Robby toed off his shoes, leaving them beside the door. He held the box out to Dennis, pictures sent thousands of miles apart flashing through his mind. âSorry itâs not wrapped or anything.â
âOh, please,â Dennis took the box and started peeling back the tape. âMy birthday presents werenât even wrapped when I was growing up.â
When he unstuck the tape and pulled back the cardboard flaps, the tension finally broke:
âJust âRobby,â kid,â Robbyâs voice sounded raw.
âRobby,â Dennis was breathless. The pink tulle and lace inside the box was mesmerising. âYou didnât have to do this.â His big blue eyes met Robbyâs.
âI wanted to. Do you⊠like it?â
Dennis struggled not to wrap his arms around Robbyâs neck and kiss him viciously. âOf course I do.â
âThen go put it on,â Robby said.
It took Dennis less than a second to bolt for the bedroom, open box clutched in his hands.
A few minutes later, blond curls peeked out from the doorway. âRobby?â
He sounded shyer than before, less confident than he had been when Robby was miles and miles away. âDo you want to see?â
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