i'm anushka/nini, and i'm 18, so please don't follow me if you're 15 below. my pronouns are she/her and i'm from south asia, particularly india. i'm an aspiring med student who will (hopefully) apply for student visa by the end of the year to go and live a college student life in europe.
my blog is mostly tony stark based, but i'm in a lot of other fandoms like riordanverse, supernatural, hannibal nbc, arcane, bridgerton, house m.d., desperate housewives, killing eve, brooklyn 99, the last of us, and harry potter, though my fondness for that one is reluctant these days (f*ck joanne zone here).
i love painting, reading fanfictions on ao3, going for a swim, travelling and writing what i want. i mostly write on wattpad, but i've posted a few short works on ao3 as well.
★ here's my ao3 and my wattpad.
what i don't like: mcu wanda apologists, team cap supporters, pro-lifers and stupid, ignorant people like tr*mpies. tony antis are not appreciated. so are jinx apologists. this is my personal blog, where i post tibits of my writing and things that interest me, so please don't bring your unwelcomed opinions here.
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what i'm currently working on:
The Dead Don't Lie, joel miller fic
Cloud Talk, harry potter au, oc x oc
Golden Avenger, tony stark fic
★ you can also send me a friend request on discord by the user irxnblade. my instagram is irxnblade.wp
A story about quiet things turning critical—and the person who refuses to let you go.
pairings: dennis whittaker x sick!fem!reader
synopsis: When you show up in his ER, it isn’t supposed to matter more than any other patient.
Whitaker knows the rules—distance, detachment, professionalism. He’s built his entire career on them.
But the second he realizes it’s you, something shifts. Lines blur. Protocol falters. And suddenly, the one thing he’s trained never to do becomes the only thing he can’t stop himself from choosing.
Because losing you was never something he planned for.
And definitely not something he can survive.
CONTENT WARNING: medical emergency, hospitalization, unstable condition, near-death experience, descriptions of illness/symptoms, brief medical crisis (heart rate/BP drop), emotional distress, breaking professional boundaries (doctor/patient), mild medical realism, kissing
word count: 2.2k
The first time you end up under his care, it feels like something has gone fundamentally, irreversibly wrong.
Not in the clinical sense—not in the way things go wrong here every day, contained and categorized and solved with enough time, enough hands, enough distance.
This is something else.
This feels like a line has been crossed without anyone meaning to cross it, like the world has slipped half an inch out of place and no one else has noticed yet.
Whitaker doesn’t realize it’s you at first.
He’s mid-shift, already stretched thin in that quiet, practiced way that doesn’t show on the surface. He’s operating on instinct and repetition, on muscle memory and training, on that version of himself that exists only inside these walls—stripped down, efficient, everything unnecessary carved away until there’s nothing left but function.
“BP’s dropping,” someone calls out, quick and sharp.
“Fluids up,” he answers automatically, already moving. “What’ve we got?”
“Unknown. Dizzy at home, near syncope, then—”
“I’ll take it.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He never does. Another room, another patient, another problem to solve before it gets worse.
He’s pulling gloves on as he walks, already scanning the monitors, already running through possibilities in his head before he’s even crossed the threshold.
He’s halfway through the assessment before he looks at your face.
—and then he does.
At first, it doesn’t register. Not fully. Your features are familiar in the way a hundred patients can be familiar when you’re this tired, when your brain is filing everything into categories instead of names.
And then something clicks.
Something shifts into place with a quiet, devastating certainty. And everything in him stutters. It’s not visible. Not in the way his hands move or the way his body carries across the room.
“No,” he says under his breath, the word slipping out before he can stop it.
It’s quiet enough that it shouldn’t be heard, but someone catches it anyway.
“What?” a nurse asks, glancing over.
Whitaker doesn’t answer.
Because it’s you.
Not just a patient. Not just another body on a bed.
You.
You who exists outside of this place in a way that feels almost unreal now that you’re here. You who texts him at ungodly hours with something simple like drinks? and waits for his half-coherent response like it matters more than it should.
You—who sits across from him in that dim bar two blocks away, the one that’s always half-empty and too quiet, where neither of you talks much but somehow it never feels like silence.
You—who knows how he takes his coffee without asking, who’s seen the version of him that exists when he’s not needed, not responsible, not constantly holding something together.
You are not supposed to be here.
Not like this.
Not laid out under fluorescent lights with your pulse stuttering on a monitor and your breathing too shallow to be anything close to okay.
“Whitaker?” someone prompts again, sharper this time, pulling at the edges of his focus.
You look wrong and not just sick—wrong in a way that his brain doesn’t like, in a way that makes something cold settle in his chest. Your skin is too pale, your lips dry, your body trying and failing to compensate for something it’s losing ground against.
He should step back.
The thought comes clean, immediate, clinical.
He should hand this off to someone else, put distance between himself and this before it becomes a problem he can’t control.
“Get someone else,” he says, low and controlled, forcing the words out past something that doesn’t want to let them go. “I’m not—”
Your eyes flutter open slow and unsteady, like it takes more effort than it should. But when they do—they find him immediately.
There’s no confusion, no delay. Even through the haze, even through whatever your body is doing to you, you lock onto him like instinct, like recognition is the one thing that hasn’t failed yet.
“Hey,” you breathe, your voice rough and thin, like it’s being dragged up from somewhere too deep. “You’re… working.”
It’s such a small observation. Something almost meaningless. But it hits him harder than anything else could have.
“Yeah,” he says, and his voice comes out steadier than he feels. “Yeah, I am.”
Your mouth shifts, the faintest hint of something like a smile. “Figures.”
You’ve said that before.
More than once.
Like he’s predictable in that way, like he’s something constant. Like no matter what else shifts, he’ll always be exactly where he’s needed.
He’s never hated being understood more than he does right now.
“Talk to me,” he says, stepping closer without fully deciding to, drawn in despite himself, despite the part of him still insisting he shouldn’t be here. “What happened?”
“Didn’t feel good,” you murmur, eyelids heavy, words slurring at the edges. “Thought it’d pass.”
There’s a pause, small but heavy.
It didn’t.
He doesn’t step away, feels the exact moment he could have—feels it like a door closing somewhere behind him.
There are rules for this. Clear, absolute, drilled in until they become instinct.
You don’t treat people you know.
You don’t let personal attachment interfere.
You don’t take risks like this.
But the ER is full. Every room is occupied, every set of hands already committed to something else. You’re unstable enough that even a small delay matters.
And Whitaker is already here.
Already involved.
Already too close.
“I can take over,” someone offers quietly at his side, reading the situation for what it is even if no one says it out loud.
Whitaker doesn’t look away from you.
Doesn’t even consider it.
“I’ve got it.”
His voice isn’t sharp or defensive. Just final in a way that leaves no room for argument.
“I can do it.”
———
You drift between being fully conscious, and fully gone—caught somewhere in between where everything feels distant and slow.
And every time you surface, every time your awareness scrapes back into place, your eyes find him again.
Like you’re checking.
Like you need to make sure he’s still there.
“Hey,” you whisper at one point, your hand lifting weakly, fingers trembling until they catch on his sleeve. “Don’t do that.”
He stills immediately, attention snapping to you in a way that feels too fast, too focused.
“Do what?”
“That face,” you murmur, your grip tightening just enough to be felt. “I’m going to be okay… you don’t have to worry.”
The words land clean.
He feels them settle somewhere uncomfortable, somewhere he doesn’t have time to deal with.
“I’m not,” he says, but it comes out thinner than he intends.
“You are,” you breathe, too perceptive even now. “You always do.”
You shouldn’t know that. That’s not something he shows here. Not in this place, not in this version of himself. At least not anymore.
That’s something you learned outside of it—in the quiet, in the moments where he doesn’t bother pretending.
“Focus on yourself,” he says, softer now, like he’s trying to redirect both of you at once.
“I am,” you murmur. “You’re part of that.”
It hits harder than it should.
Hard enough that he has to actively push it aside, force himself back into motion before it settles too deep.
———
The labs come back wrong.
The numbers don’t line up cleanly. They point in directions he doesn’t like, suggest something underlying, something that’s been building longer than today.
Whitaker stares at them for half a second too long before forcing himself to move again.
He should’ve noticed.
The thought comes uninvited and sticks.
Every I’m just tired.
Every brushed-off comment.
Every moment he let it go because you looked fine, because you acted fine, because you always do.
Because you always seem fine.
“Stay with me,” he says, sharper now, stepping back to your side. “Hey—look at me.”
It takes effort, but your eyes open again.
And they find him.
They always do.
“Dennis,” you whisper.
The name hits differently here. Too personal. Too close to something he’s been keeping tucked away for as long as he’s known you for.
He freezes for half a second, the sound of it throwing him off balance.
“Don’t,” he says, voice tightening despite himself. “Not right now.”
“Scared?” you ask, barely audible.
“Yeah,” he admits, the word slipping out before he can reshape it into something safer. “Yeah, I am.”
Everything else keeps moving—the room, the staff, the noise—but it fades at the edges.
It narrows down to this.
To you.
Your fingers curl more firmly into his sleeve, anchoring yourself to him in a way that feels instinctive.
“I’m okay,” you lie.
“You don’t get to say that,” he snaps, something raw cutting through his control. “Not when you’re—”
He stops himself.
Not when you’re like this.
Not when you matter this much.
Not when the idea of losing you feels like something he can’t even begin to process.
He swallows it down.
For now.
———
There’s a moment where everything threatens to tip.
Your heart rate spikes abruptly, the monitor jumping in a way that draws immediate attention. Your blood pressure drops, numbers falling fast enough to set off alarms.
The room shifts instantly, voices rising, movement tightening around you.
“Hey—stay with me,” Whitaker says, louder now, stepping in closer, one hand bracing against your shoulder like he can physically keep you here if he just holds on tight enough. “Don’t you—”
Your eyes open just enough to find him again.
And somehow—you smile. It’s weak, barely there, but it’s real. It hits him harder than anything else so far.
“Still here,” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he breathes, the word closer to a plea than anything clinical. “Stay that way.”
———
And you do. It’s not clean or easy. But you do, for his sake.
By the time things settle, the room feels different. The urgency fades, leaving something softer behind—something that feels like the aftermath of almost losing something you didn’t realize you couldn’t afford to lose.
Whitaker is still there. He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t even thought about it. To him leaving your side wasn’t an option.
You’re awake when the worst of it passes, your awareness steadier now even if your body isn’t.
“You stayed,” you murmur, your voice hoarse.
“Yeah.”
There’s no hesitation in it.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
He says it simply, but there’s something under it—something heavier than the words themselves.
You study him for a moment, your gaze quieter now, more focused.
“Thought you weren’t supposed to treat people you know.”
He exhales, dragging a hand over his face, the tension finally starting to show now that there’s space for it.
“Yeah,” he admits. “That rule got… ignored. I’ll be in shit for it later.”
You let out a faint breath of something like a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
For a second, something in his expression almost softens.
Almost.
———
The silence that follows isn’t empty. Tight with everything neither of you has said yet.
“You were scared,” you say eventually.
He doesn’t deflect.
Doesn’t pretend otherwise.
“Yeah.”
“For me?”
There’s no distraction left now. No alarms, no movement, no reason not to answer honestly. Whitaker looks at you—not as a patient, not as something fragile or temporary.
“Who else would I be scared for?” he says quietly.
Your breath catches, the sound small but sharp.
“Careful,” you whisper. “That sounds a lot like—”
“I know what it sounds like.”
“And?”
He hesitates—but only for a second. Not because he’s unsure but because saying it makes it real in a way he won’t be able to take back.
“Yeah,” he says, steady now. “It is.”
Something in your expression shifts—softens in a way that feels like relief, like something finally falling into place.
“Dennis,” you say again, gentler this time.
He doesn’t stop you.
“If this hadn’t happened… would you have ever said it?”
“Yes.”
Immediate. Certain.
You let out a quiet, breathless laugh. “You’re terrible at this nonchalant thing.”
“Only with you.”
You’re the one who moves first.
Slowly, carefully, like you’re giving him time to stop you if he wants to.
He doesn’t. Instead he leans in before you can second-guess it, closing the distance like it’s something inevitable.
The kiss is soft at first—not hesitant, just careful. Like he’s recalibrating around something that suddenly matters too much to get wrong.
You don’t pull away.
You’re warm under his hand when it comes up to your jaw, grounding him in something real, something solid.
When it deepens, it’s slight—just enough to feel like something that’s been building for a long time has finally found somewhere to go.
When he pulls back, it’s reluctant.
His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his eyes closing for a second like he’s trying to hold onto the moment before it slips away.
“You can’t do that again,” he murmurs.
“Almost die?” you whisper, faintly amused.
“Yes.”
There’s a small pause.
“I’ll try.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s honest.”
A quiet huff escapes him, something softer than anything he’s let himself feel all night.
“Yeah,” he says. “You always are.”
His hand slides down, finding yours, threading your fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
This time, there’s no hesitation.
No line left to worry about.
Just you—still here.
And him, finally allowing himself to acknowledge what that means.
a/n: yk for my first ever post after my revamp, I’m actually very proud of how this turned out! i’m fairly new to the Pitt fandom so I was really nervous about portraying Dennis wrong but I think I did a decent job at it, you guys let me know in the comments😭 this was me putting whitaker in the worst possible situation emotionally and then making him deal with it <3 i hope you liked it and tysm for reading!!
reblogs and comments are extremely appreciated, don’t be afraid to share your thoughts because I love hearing them!! sorry for any typos <3
borders & dividers made by these lovely people: @enchanthings @mieluno @luvuxa
“i do not know that side of you” is so fucking special to me. shane grew up with support. shane has brand deal after brand deal, his mum and dad are in his corner, he’s the Golden Captain, he led his team to the cup two years in a row. to have a man like shane hollander turn around and say this? the guy who has the kind of career that, yes you technically have, but not in the same nutured way turns to you and says “that side of you? that part of you your father resents you for? that he makes you think is all you are? i’ve never seen it.” you stock my ginger ale in the fridge. you made me dinner. you are not lazy.
a lazy person doesn’t put this much effort in. doesn’t give his brother mountain after mountain of money. doesn’t go back to a country he hates because his family needs him. needs, not wants, and yet he does it anyway. doesn’t put his all into a game that doesn’t support him. doesn’t put his all into the very game driving a wedge between him and his father. doesn’t learn english for a game. doesn’t sit and research alzheimers for so long a word like “genetic” comes out so naturally. doesn’t start 10 steps behind and end up side by side with Shane Hollander.
shane doesn’t even know any of this. he doesn’t know and yet he turns and says “i do not know that side of you”.
oh, ilya rozanov, of course you slipped up. of course you said shane. how on earth could you not when he sees through you so easily?
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And I just love Tony Stark so much okay… okay oh my god you’ve got this guy who puts his life on the line all the time just to keep people safe… you’ve got this guy who would flush his reputation down the toilet… you’ve got this guy who is so fixated on the future and ways that he could make it better for humanity because that’s who he’s fighting for, isn’t it? And he just wants to help people okay he just wants to make up for his mistakes… he painted his armor gold after seeing how children were scared by his initial appearance… he just… he just wants to help… and he’s so sad? All the time? And he doesn’t think that he’s enough? He beats himself up over everything, even things that weren’t his fault? He smudges a portrait of himself to make it look like he’s crying? He draws a heart on a window and laments the fact that he doesn’t have one? I’m going to cry right now immediately.
read this and remember it. read this and remember that she is going to use the profits of her fucking ego-stroking reboot to decimate trans rights. read this and remember that every time you pay into her IP, you are emboldening her to hurt us more.
our lives matter more than your fucking nostalgia.
trans lives matter more than your fucking nostalgia.
