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@lavishmeup
sylvie 𝄢 ་༘࿐ 18 she her
She spends hours on the riverbank.
She smoked cigarettes and had midnight swims
infj-t | #lovebaking | Challengers (2024), my beloved ᥫ᭡.
this is where i shitpost and yap to my heart's content about shows, films & or things on my mind!
Current Song
Dark and Long (Dark Train) by Underworld
Current Obsessions
movie theaters | pinterest | The Big Bang Theory (tv) | napping | josh o' connor
hearing shawn hatosy whimper like a fucking loser from a KISS while explicitly describing how bad he wants to fuck you just gave me 10 more years of life HE IS A WHOREEEEE YOUR HONOR
Shawn Hatosy release me from wtv it is you have over me
HE COULD HEADLOCK ME AND I WOULD THANK HIM
This scene is going platinum in my room 😩
LOOK AT THOSE HANDS. UGHHH
HOPELESS
PARING(S) — dennis whitaker x fem!reader
SYNOPSIS — he has a thing for you
CONTENT — fluff | pathetic!dennis, sexual innuendos & kissing
WC — 7.5k
NOTE — coming out of my hibernation because im so obsessed with the pitt
MASTERLIST
Dennis Whitaker had only been at PTMC for a few hours before he saw you. In the staff lounge, you stood by the counter, brow furrowed, fingers tugging at a stubborn little packet of protein powder.
Dennis couldn’t explain it, not really. There was just something about you that made his chest tighten. He had seen plenty of people in his life, but none had made him feel like this—like he actually wanted to introduce himself, right now, without hesitation.
“Need a hand?” he blurted out before he could stop himself, stepping a little closer than necessary. His heart was pounding, and suddenly the packet in your hands seemed more like a reason to stay by your side than a snack.
You glanced up at him, startled, and for a second, Dennis thought he might have misjudged the situation—but then he saw the faintest flicker of a smile tug at your lips.
“Oh—uh, maybe,” you said, stepping back just slightly. “It’s being… stubborn.”
Dennis’ smile widened, more out of nervous excitement than skill. “I’ve got this. First day, but I’ve learned a thing or two about… opening things.” He leaned in, trying to look confident, like he wasn’t about to make an utter fool of himself. “Here, let me—”
The packet exploded in his hands. A cloud of white powder shot into the air, coating your hands, his scrubs, and half the counter. Dennis froze mid-apology, eyes wide, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Oh—oh no! I—I didn’t—sorry!” he stammered.
You blinked through the haze, a mix of shock and amusement on your face. “It’s… fine,” you managed, trying not to laugh. “First day, huh?”
Dennis swallowed hard, brushing powder off his hair and scrubs. “Yeah… first day. And apparently, I’m making a memorable first impression,” he said, sheepishly, though a grin was tugging at his lips. “I’m.. uh.. Dennis Whitaker…”
You shook your head, laughing despite the mess. “Well… you’re definitely memorable. Messy, but memorable.”
Dennis’ eyes lit up, and he straightened. “I can make it up to you. I—uh, I’ll get a towel, or—maybe help clean up?” He gestured vaguely at the powder-covered counter, a little too quickly, and in the process knocked over a cup of pens, sending them clattering across the floor.
You winced and bent down to pick them up. “Whitaker, it’s okay. Really.”
“No, no! I can fix this, I promise!” He scrambled to grab a paper towel, only to knock the packet of protein powder itself over, sending another small cloud puffing into the air. His face fell as he froze, completely mortified.
You sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Whitaker… stop. I really do need to get back to my patients.” You gave him a small, forgiving smile before slipping out of the lounge, leaving him standing there, a little hunched, dusted in white powder, and utterly dejected.
A couple of hours later, you were sitting at one of the computers, reviewing patient charts beside Dana. You were focused, tapping through files, when a shadow fell over the keyboard.
“Hey… um, excuse me,” came a hesitant voice.
You looked up to see Dennis standing there, holding up a finger that was smeared with blood. His expression was a mix of sheepishness and worry, and he kept glancing at you like he wasn’t sure he had permission to stay.
“Oh!” Dana gave a small laugh. “Looks like someone got into trouble.”
Dennis flushed and stepped closer. “I—uh, yeah. I just… a gurney got dropped on my finger. It’s not bad, but… Doctor Robby told me to come see you?” His words tumbled out fast, too many at once, like he was worried he’d overstay his welcome.
You blinked at him for a moment, then nodded, reaching for a bandage from the small first aid kit nearby. “Sure. Let me see.”
Dennis held out his hand like it was fragile glass. You carefully cleaned the cut and wrapped it, trying to suppress a smile at the way he was watching every movement with wide, anxious eyes.
“Sorry…” he started again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know I’m probably wasting your time, and I—uh, I really didn’t mean to bother you after the whole… powder incident…” His voice trailed off, but his fidgeting hands and nervous glance at Dana made it clear he was genuinely uncomfortable.
You shook your head gently. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind helping.”
He exhaled, a little relief softening his tense shoulders, but he couldn’t help letting another nervous string of words tumble out. “I just… I don’t want to be that guy who keeps making a mess or… or bothering people. I—uh, I really appreciate you helping me.”
As your hands worked, his gaze wandered—first to the careful way you handled the dressing, then up to your face. He found himself utterly captivated by the curve of your smile, the focus in your eyes, the way your hair caught the light. His heart was hammering, and all of a sudden, the world shrank to just you.
“Okay… all done,” you said, snapping him back from his trance.
Dennis blinked, realising he had no idea what you’d just said. “Uh… yeah. Right. Done. Perfect… thanks…” His voice came out rushed, awkward, entirely betraying how utterly entranced he still was.
You gave him a small, reassuring smile. Dennis cleared his throat, still holding his bandaged finger, but now his eyes wouldn’t leave your face.
He tried to sound casual, but it came out a little too breathless. “You know… you have, uh… really steady hands. Very… professional. Makes it kind of… impressive.”
You glanced at him briefly, smirking just a little. “Thanks. I’ve had a lot of practice.”
Dennis leaned in slightly, a little too eagerly. “Not just practice… it’s kind of… mesmerising. How you, uh… focus like that.” He ran a nervous hand through his hair, clearly aware he was rambling, but unable to stop. “I mean, wow… you’re, uh—really something.”
You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Whitaker, it’s just a finger.”
His smile faltered just a touch, the flush creeping higher up his neck. “Oh… right. Of course. Yeah… totally.” He tried to push a casual grin, but it came out more like a pout. “Well… I just thought maybe… uh, never mind.”
You gave him a polite, kind smile, returning your attention to the computer screen. “Don’t worry about it. Just… focus on not cutting yourself again.”
Dennis huffed softly, a little put out but trying to hide it. He shifted from foot to foot, clearly disappointed that his flustered, awkward charm hadn’t really landed. “Yeah… okay. Got it,” he muttered, looking down at his bandaged finger, then sneaking a quick glance at you before stepping back.
—
It has been a couple of weeks since you first met Dennis and it was pretty safe to say that, since then, he has made it his mission to be around you as much as he can. Your locker groaned open the way it always did—a long, metallic complaint that echoed faintly off the tiled walls. The hinge caught halfway before giving in with a reluctant clunk, like it needed convincing every single shift.
Inside was the usual controlled mess. A half-crushed granola bar wedged in the corner, a pen you could’ve sworn vanished three weeks ago, and your emergency chocolate stash. Your shoes carried you on autopilot toward the heart of the department—the nurses’ station, command central, the brain of the chaos. You could already see the giant patient board glowing from halfway down the hall, rows of names shifting in real time like a living thing.
You adjusted your stethoscope as you approached, your pace slowing to a stop at the desk. Dana stood planted at her usual post behind the desk, tablet balanced in one hand, reading glasses perched low on her nose. A paper cup of coffee sat dangerously close to the edge of the counter, one accidental elbow away from disaster.
You stepped beside her, resting a hand lightly on the desk as you tipped your chin up toward the board. Your eyes tracked automatically—room numbers, sats, colour-coded priority flags.
“Morning,” Dana said without looking up.
“Morning,” you murmured, already scanning.
“Mr Tom Allen in room five has been waiting for a check up,” Dana said, tapping her screen. “He’s all yours.”
“Perfect, thank you,” you nodded, pushing yourself off the desk.
You turned, and walked straight into someone solid.
“Oh—apologies,” you said quickly, steadying yourself as your hand landed gently on Dennis Whitaker’s arm.
“It’s okay,” he said with a sheepish smile that didn’t quite know where to land.
Up close, he stood a little too straight. A little too close. Shoulders locked like he was bracing for impact that had already happened. He cleared his throat awkwardly and gestured downwards with a jerky nod of his head. You followed the motion and glanced down at what he was holding.
A muffin. Carefully wrapped in a napkin. Chocolate chip, if the faint sweet smell was anything to go by.
“Oh! Thank you, Whitaker,” you smiled, gently taking the muffin from him.
“Dennis,” he mumbled, gaze dropping instantly to the floor.
Across the nurses’ station, Santos didn’t even pretend not to watch.
“Hey, where’s my muffin, Huckleberry?” she called out.
Dennis straightened. “In the staff lounge,” he said quickly, shooting her a stern look that carried absolutely no threat.
Her grin widened and she pushed off the desk with a quiet laugh, walking past him and shaking her head. Just before turning the corner, she mouthed dramatically: pathetic.
You broke the muffin in half, a few crumbs dusting your fingers as you popped a piece into your mouth, humming under your breath at the sweetness.
“Okay, wow,” you said around the bite. “That’s really good.”
You swallowed, offering the other half to Dennis. He blinked, looking at the muffin, then at you, and back to the muffin. He accepted it carefully, both hands for a second before remembering that was weird and quickly switching to one.
Smiling, you brushed your hands together, a few crumbs sprinkling onto the floor before you grabbed one of the tablets and turned on your heel, heading down the corridor toward room five.
Dennis watched you go with a small, helpless sigh. His shoulders slumped and his gaze drifted down to the muffin in his hand. Dana didn’t even try to hide her smirk as she leaned her elbow on the desk.
“You gonna frame it or eat it?” she asked, one brow arching.
He opened his mouth to protest when from the hallway, you called, “Whitaker? You coming?”
Panic surged through his body. He shoved the muffin into his mouth in one deeply unwise decision. He was filled with immediate regret as he tried to chew. His eyes went wide, cheeks puffed as he attempted to swallow.
Dennis thumped his fist lightly against his chest, attempting dignity while very clearly losing a battle against baked goods. He gave you a frantic thumbs-up that absolutely did not reassure anyone.
“Yeah!” he tried to say but it came out as, “Mmff—yeah!”
He stumbled into motion, nearly tripping over his own feet before catching himself on the edge of the desk. As carefully as he could, Dennis hurried down the corridor after you, still chewing the muffin.
You glanced back at the sound of hurried footsteps. “You good?”
Dennis nodded vigorously, still working through the mouthful, one hand raised in a strained all good gesture. A heroic swallow. A tiny cough. A recovering breath.
“All good,” he croaked, falling into step beside you like nothing had happened.
He tried, and failed, to look casual. His hands shoved into his pockets. Then out again. Then one back in. He adjusted his badge. Smoothed his hair. Checked his reflection mid-walk.
You slowed as you reached room five and Dennis came to an abrupt halt beside you—nearly colliding with your shoulder. He straightened instantly, clasping his hands behind his back like he was reporting for inspection.
“You’ve got crumbs,” you said casually, trying to bite back a smile.
“I do?” he asked, his voice already betraying him.
You stepped closer without thinking twice about it, lifting your hand toward his chest. “Yeah—right there.”
Time slowed to a medically concerning degree. Your fingers brushed lightly over the front of his scrubs, sweeping away a scatter of crumbs clinging to the fabric. The contact was brief and innocent.
But to Dennis, he stopped breathing. His brain short-circuited so violently it was almost audible. Your hand moved again, softer this time, brushing near his collar where one last stubborn crumb had lodged itself.
“There,” you said, satisfied. “All good.”
Dennis’s face had turned a shade of red that did not occur naturally in hospital settings. From his ears down to the collar of his scrubs—bright crimson.
“You—uh—thank you,” he managed, voice half an octave higher than usual.
You gestured politely toward the door. “You can go in first.”
He stepped forward confidently and walked directly into the closed door. Thump. He froze with his forehead against the glass for half a second, soul briefly departing his body.
“Careful of the door,” you said gently.
“Yep,” he replied, already recovering. “Saw that.”
He reached for the handle this time, opened it like a normal human being, and walked inside with forced composure that fooled absolutely no one. You followed a step behind, lips pressed together to hide a smile.
The end-of-shift chatter buzzed softly through the corridor as you and Dr McKay collected your things from your lockers. You were laughing about a minor mix-up with a patient’s chart, the two of you leaning casually against the cool metal doors.
Dennis came skidding around the corner a little too fast, eyes wide, and nearly ran straight into the lockers beside you. He grabbed the edge of the nearest door, doubling over and trying to catch his breath.
He straightened, brushing an invisible layer of dust off his scrubs, clearly flustered. “Oh—hey,” he said, still panting slightly. He glanced between you and McKay, looking a little uncertain. “So… uh… what were you two talking about?”
You exchanged a sly look with Cassie, who raised an eyebrow and grinned knowingly. “Oh, nothing much,” McKay said casually. “Just… plans for the weekend. You know how it is.”
Dennis tilted his head, suspicious. “Plans? The two of you? Uh… together?” His tone was incredulous, and his cheeks were beginning to tint pink.
You suppressed a giggle, leaning just a little closer to him. “Well… since we both have the weekend off, we were… talking about getting laid,” you said, letting the words linger in the air.
McKay snorted softly, playing along, nudging you with an exaggerated wink. “Yeah, it’s, uh… very top secret. Classified weekend operations.”
Dennis froze mid-step, eyes darting between the two of you. “Wait… wait, are you… a couple?” His voice wavered, equal parts scandalised and mortified.
You shrugged innocently, letting Cassie add a dramatic nod. “Could be,” McKay said, smirking. “Who’s asking?”
Dennis’ jaw dropped, and he instinctively straightened, trying to hide how flustered he was, but failing miserably. “Uh… I… no… I mean… what? I—uh… I just wondered…” He stumbled over his words, cheeks now a deep, unmistakable crimson.
You leaned against the locker again, grinning. “Relax, Whitaker. We’re just teasing you.
Dennis let out a defeated huff, running a hand through his hair and trying to regain some semblance of composure. He rocked back on his heels, clearly debating whether to retreat or attempt a recovery. Unfortunately for him, determination won.
“So,” he said, pointing awkwardly between the two of you, “these… classified operations—do they require, like, backup? Support staff? I’m very team-oriented.”
Cassie let out a short laugh. “Oh, he’s trying to enlist.”
You crossed your arms, pretending to assess him. “Hmm. Qualifications?”
Dennis straightened instantly. “Right. Yes. Qualifications. I’m… punctual. Mostly. I bring snacks. Morale’s important.” He gave a hopeful nod, then added, “I also make a mean bowl of pasta.”
“Tempting,” you said, tapping your chin thoughtfully.
“What… uh… what are you really doing this weekend?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, probably nothing,” you shrugged, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
Dennis hesitated, gathering every ounce of courage he had. “Would you like to come around mine?” he asked, hope written all over his face. “As a friend thing?”
You tilted your head slightly. “Do I have to do anything?”
“Nope,” Dennis said quickly, shaking his head a little too fast. “Just… enjoy it, I guess?”
“You guess?” you teased, smiling at the way he immediately tripped over his confidence. “You know what—okay. I’ll come.”
Dennis blinked. “Wait—really?”
“Yeah.” You held out your hand expectantly. “Phone.”
He stared at your palm for half a second before scrambling to fish his phone out of his pocket, nearly dropping it before catching it against his chest. “Right—yes—phone. Here.”
You took it gently from his hands, thumbs moving quickly across the screen. Dennis watched like the moment was happening in slow motion—the soft furrow of your brow as you concentrated, the faint glow of the screen lighting your face, the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“There,” you said, handing the phone back. “Now you’ve got my number.”
Dennis looked down at the screen like it was the most important thing he’d ever held. He had your number. He smiled to himself, soft and a little dazed, clutching his phone like it was something precious.
You laughed softly and started down the corridor with Cassie, calling back over your shoulder, “Text me, Whitaker.”
The day finally caught up with you sometime after ten. You stood in your bathroom, toothbrush in hand, staring vaguely at your reflection as mint foam gathered at the corner of your mouth. The quiet hum of the extractor fan filled the room—steady, peaceful, the first real silence you’d had all day.
Your phone buzzed on the counter and you glanced down. A small, automatic smile tugged at your lips as you nudged the screen awake with your knuckle. The message was sent by an unknown number but you knew who it was straight away.
[ Unknown Number ]
Hi. Hello… Sorry… I hope this isn’t too late.
Another buzz.
[ Unknown Number ]
This is Dennis by the way… I was just wondering what time works best for you tomorrow? Morning? Afternoon? Evening? I’m flexible.
You snorted softly, toothbrush still in your mouth.
[ Unknown Number ]
Also… food. Important question. What food do you like? Any allergies? Favorite snacks? Sweet? Savory? Both?
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
[ Unknown Number ]
And movies! Do you like comedies? Action? Rom-coms? Documentaries? Is there a movie you’ve seen a million times and still love? Or one you refuse to watch ever again?
You quickly spat into the sink, laughing under your breath as another message appeared.
[ Unknown Number ]
Sorry that was a lot of questions. I just want it to be… nice.
You wiped your mouth and picked up the phone, quickly adding his number into your contacts.
[ You ]
You’re very enthusiastic for “just a friend thing,” Whitaker.
The typing bubble appeared instantly. Disappeared. Reappeared.
[ Whitaker ]
Professional enthusiasm. Clinically appropriate levels of planning.
You leaned back against the counter, smiling.
[ You ]
Afternoon works. No allergies. I’ll eat most things. Snacks = yes. Movies = surprise me.
[ Whitaker ]
Surprise you in a good way or a “we never speak again” way?
[ You ]
Dealer’s choice. I’m brave.
The typing bubble lingered longer this time.
[ Whitaker ]
Okay. Good. Great. Excellent. This is excellent.
You could practically hear his nervous energy through the screen.
[ Whitaker ]
I’ll text you the time tomorrow morning. And I’ll handle food. And movies. And snacks. And… logistics.
You shook your head fondly.
[ You ]
Relax. It’s just hanging out.
[ Whitaker ]
Right. Just hanging out.
A beat.
[ Whitaker ]
Looking forward to it though.
Your smile softened.
[ You ]
Me too. Night, Whitaker.
This time, the reply took a moment.
[ Whitaker ]
Good night :)
Dennis had been ready for twenty minutes. Not almost ready. Not finishing touches ready. Ready-ready. The apartment looked like a furniture showroom that had been warned about a surprise inspection. The cushions on the couch were plumped into perfect symmetry, their corners sharp and deliberate.
The coffee table sat centered with mathematical precision over the rug’s pattern. A bowl of snacks rested in the middle like a museum exhibit—chips sorted by size, candy lined up in colour order, not a crumb in sight.
It was suspicious. Unnaturally so. The kind of tidy that screamed someone is trying very hard. Dennis, meanwhile, was pacing a narrow track into the hardwood floor.
“Okay,” he muttered, dragging both hands down his face. “Normal greeting. Casual. Friendly. Like a person. Just… be a person.” He stopped and turned toward the TV screen, using his reflection like a rehearsal partner. A small wave. A tentative smile. “Hey. Hi. Come in.”
He grimaced instantly. “Too stiff. That sounded like I’m hosting a corporate meeting.” He shook out his arms like he could fling the awkwardness off his fingers. “Hey! You made it.” Finger guns. Dennis froze mid-pose, stared at himself, and slowly lowered his hands.
“Nope. Absolutely not.”
He exhaled hard through his nose and resumed pacing, heart already beating like he’d run a mile without moving an inch. A knock sounded at the door and Dennis froze. His heart launched into a full sprint as he rushed to open it. His sock slipped slightly on the floor and he windmilled an arm to recover, dignity barely intact.
He yanked the door open and there you were. For a moment, he just stared. Brain completely blank. Every practiced line vanished.
“Hi,” you said, smiling softly.
Dennis opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried again. “Hey—hello—hi. You’re—here. Which—good. That’s good.”
Brilliant. Incredible. A linguistic masterpiece. Dennis thought, mentally slapping his own forehead.
You laughed gently. “I’d hope so.”
The sound should’ve reassured him. Instead, it twisted into panic. Were you laughing politely? Was he already being a lot? He stepped aside too quickly, nearly bumping the doorframe.
“Yes. Come in. Please. Enter.” Dennis smiled, Enter? Who says enter?
You walked past him, amused, taking in the suspiciously tidy space. “Wow. You cleaned.”
“I always clean,” he said automatically. A beat. “I panic-cleaned.”
He shut the door and exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead against it for half a second and trying to reset his face into something that didn’t scream social catastrophe. You turned with a grin when a shrill beep cut through the silence.
Dennis’ eyes widened in horror. “The oven!”
Of course. Of course he forgot. The one thing he’d timed perfectly. The one thing he’d practiced like choreography. Temperature, minutes, plating—planned down to the second. Yet, the moment you arrived, his brain had unplugged itself. He spun on his heel and bolted toward the kitchen. There was the clatter of a pan, a muffled yelp, and the frantic shuffle of oven mitts.
“I meant to not forget—this was planned—I swear!” he called out, voice tight with panic.
You followed at an unhurried pace, leaning against the kitchen doorway, one shoulder resting on the frame. You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. Dennis wrestled with oven mitts like they were sentient. Finally victorious, he opened the oven and carefully pulled out the tray with exaggerated caution, like he was defusing something explosive.
He stared at it for half a second, watching as a thin ribbon of smoke curled upward. That is not what food should look like.He straightened slowly, shoulders sinking as reality settled in. Turning toward you, face flushed pink, he held the tray out stiffly like evidence in a courtroom.
“Recovered,” he announced with a wince. “Mostly.”
You leaned forward and glanced down at the tray. The contents were charcoal-black. Beyond saving. Possibly fossilised.
“Looks delicious,” you hummed, teasing warmth in your voice.
Dennis let out a small, defeated breath. “I’m sorry.”
And he didn’t just mean dinner. He meant the awkward greeting. The verbal nonsense. The spiraling panic. The way every moment he wanted to get right kept slipping sideways like a scene from a blooper reel. He’d wanted to seem put-together. Effortless. Someone easy to be around. Someone worth choosing to spend an evening with.
You stepped closer, your voice gentler now. “Perhaps we should order take-out?”
Dennis looked up, hopeful but sheepish. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, that… that sounds safer.”
He carefully set the ruined tray down with exaggerated care, the metal clinking softly against the counter. Dennis reached for the dish towel beside the sink. He wiped his hands once. Then again. Then folded the towel in half with precise edges and wiped them a third time, buying himself a few steadying seconds.
“This way,” he said, gesturing toward the living room like a host trying very hard to recover his dignity.
You followed him down the short hallway. The kitchen light faded behind you, replaced by a warmer glow. The lamps in the living room cast soft amber pools across the walls, turning the carefully controlled neatness into something gentler, almost cozy.
The couch sat centered like a stage set. A knitted blanket was folded over one arm with suspicious precision, its edges aligned so neatly it looked professionally styled. Decorative pillows rested in symmetrical formation, their seams facing inward like they’d been coached.
The coffee table was a study in preparation. Coasters spaced with geometric accuracy. Napkins stacked into a perfect square. Bowls of snacks arranged in tidy rows—salty, sweet, savory—like categories in a very anxious buffet. Dennis hovered near the arm of the couch, suddenly unsure where to put his hands.
“I didn’t, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Overdo it, did I?”
“It’s cute,” you said lightly, one shoulder lifting in a small shrug.
He blinked, caught off guard. “Cute?”
“Thoughtful,” you corrected with a small smile.
The word landed gently, and something in his expression loosened. Dennis pulled out his phone like he’d just remembered an important mission. “I’ll order. My treat.” He nodded once, decisive. “What are we thinking? Pizza? Thai? Something healthy so we can pretend we tried to be responsible adults?”
You laughed softly, the sound warm and easy. “Whatever you’d like.”
He nodded like you’d entrusted him with a state secret and sat down on the very edge of the couch cushion. Back straight. Knees together. Phone held with intense focus. You sat beside him, close enough that your sleeve brushed his arm. Dennis immediately went statue-still.
You tilted your head, amused. “Whitaker.”
“Mm?” His voice came out tighter than intended.
“You can relax,” you teased.
“I am relaxed,” he insisted, shoulders hovering somewhere near his ears.
You nudged his arm lightly. “I don’t bite.”
He paused, eyes wide, “I—right—no—I didn’t think you did—I mean not that it would be bad if you—I just—”
You laughed, and leaned back into the couch. “You’re safe. Promise.”
Dennis released a slow breath through his nose, like he’d been holding it since the front door opened. His shoulders lowered by a fraction. Small, but noticeable. Dennis cleared his throat softly and looked back down at his phone, grateful for something to focus on.
“Okay… food,” he murmured, scrolling with intense concentration. “Safe options. Crowd-pleasers. No culinary incidents.”
You watched the small crease form between his brows—the face he made when he was trying very hard to get something right.
“Ooh—this place is good,” he said, a little more confidently. “They do great noodles. And dumplings. And—oh—these crispy things I can’t pronounce but fully support.” He risked a quick glance at you. “Sound okay?”
“Perfect,” you nodded.
He tapped decisively, relief flickering across his face like he’d just passed an exam. “Done. It says… about twenty minutes.” He gave a small, satisfied nod. “See? Competent. Efficient. Minimal disaster.”
You laughed quietly. “Gold star.”
He set his phone down on the coffee table and rubbed his palms on his knees, nerves slowly bleeding off now that the big decisions were handled.
“So,” he said, a little softer, “movie?”
Before hesitation could catch up, he reached for the remote and turned toward the TV. The screen flickered to life, washing the room in cool shifting light. The soft murmur of a streaming menu filled the space. Dennis leaned back—just slightly at first—testing it, then he sank a little deeper into the cushion. He scrolled through titles, posture loosening with each click.
“Terrible action movie?” he offered. He tilted the remote toward you like a presenter revealing a prize. “Comfort rewatch? Something neither of us has seen so we can judge it together?”
You leaned closer to see the screen better, your shoulder brushing his. “Whatever floats your boat, Whitaker.”
“Oooh—” Dennis brightened. “Classic comfort.”
On screen WALL·E popped up and he hit play before the universe could interfere. The opening scenes rolled, gentle and quiet, filling the apartment with soft mechanical whirs and sweeping music.
Somewhere along the way, without either of you really noticing when it happened, the space between you quietly disappeared. Dennis only became aware of it when he felt the faintest shift of warmth at his side—light, steady, and unexpectedly comforting. Your thigh rested against his. Just there, close enough to be unmistakable, but gentle enough that it felt almost natural.
For a second, Dennis went perfectly still. His mind, of course, did not stay still with him. Was it accidental? Had you leaned over without thinking? Were you comfortable? Should he move away a little? Stay exactly where he was? Say something? Pretend not to notice? Disappear through the floorboards out of pure social panic?
He didn’t move at first, worried any reaction might make it awkward. His mind raced through possibilities. Was it accidental? Were you comfortable? Should he shift? Stay still? Evaporate?
He glanced sideways with painstaking care, trying to do it subtly enough that it wouldn’t look like he was checking. You seemed completely at ease. Your attention stayed on the screen, your posture loose and unguarded, one hand resting lazily near your lap. No sign that the contact meant anything except what it was.
The tension in his shoulders eased by degrees, and after a moment he allowed himself to settle back into the couch again. He stopped hovering at the edge of himself and let his leg rest naturally where it was. The contact stopped feeling like a question.
Dennis finally stopped analysing every tiny movement long enough to just be there with you.
Then he swallowed, a thought forming slowly enough that it almost felt brave. He turned his head just a little, about to say something—anything—that might keep this calm, comfortable closeness going.
“Hey, I was just wondering—”
The door bell rang and the both of you jumped. Dennis blinked at the door like it had personally betrayed him. “Oh—food!”
He scrambled upright a little too fast, remote slipping from his hand onto the cushion. “I’ve got it!” he added quickly, already moving.
His sock caught the edge of the rug—the rug he had meticulously straightened earlier—and his foot snagged just enough to ruin his momentum. There was a graceless half-stumble, half-hop as his arms windmilled for balance.
“—whoa—!” He threw out a hand and caught himself against the wall just before he could fully crash into it, the impact making a dull thud against the plaster.
“I meant to do that,” he called back, voice tight with embarrassment as he pushed himself upright and tried to salvage what remained of his dignity.
He ran a hand through his hair as he hurried the rest of the way to the door, this time moving with much more caution, as though the floor might try to betray him again. He took one deep breath before opening it, then pulled the door wide with what he hoped looked like calm, competent adulthood. The delivery driver stood there with the order in hand.
“Hi—yes—thank you,” he said, accepting the warm paper bags like they were precious cargo. The rich smell of take-out instantly filled the hallway.
He nodded at the delivery driver with an earnest little smile, reached for his wallet, and tipped him a little too generously in the process, as though that might somehow make up for everything else he had already fumbled tonight.
“Have a good night,” he called, shutting the door gently with his foot.
He lingered for half a second in the quiet hallway, the soft click of the door settling into silence behind him. Warm paper bags hung from his fingers, their folded tops rustling faintly as steam slipped out in gentle breaths. The heat seeped into his palms, grounding him, as he turned back toward the living room.
When he returned to the living room, you looked up as he approached. He crossed to the coffee table and knelt slightly to set everything down, moving with careful precision. Containers were placed one by one, aligned without him even realising he was doing it. Plastic lids popped softly as he opened them, releasing fresh waves of warmth and savory fragrance into the air.
“Here,” he said quietly, sliding one container toward you and offering a pair of chopsticks. His fingers brushed yours for the briefest second during the handoff—quick, accidental, but enough to make him acutely aware of everything again.
He took his own container and settled back beside you. This time, he didn’t perch on the edge like a guest afraid to wrinkle the furniture. He still carried a hint of nervous energy—a slight tightness in his movements, a carefulness in how he held himself—but the rigid formality from earlier had softened. He even managed a small, genuine smile as you both started eating, the movie playing quietly in the background while the room filled with the warm smell of food.
It felt natural. Comfortable. Dennis found himself relaxing again, shoulders loose, posture easy as he leaned back into the couch. Mid-bite, you said something he didn’t quite catch, and he glanced over, then paused. There, faint but unmistakable, was a small streak of sauce near the side of your mouth.
“Uh—hey,” he said gently, tapping his own cheek in demonstration. “You’ve got a little…”
You paused, touching the side of your face. “Here?”
“No, a little—” He leaned in slightly, then stopped himself, suddenly aware of how close he was. “Sorry. I can—uh—”
His words tripped over themselves. Dennis hesitated only a moment longer before lifting his hand carefully. His thumb brushed gently against your cheek, the pad of it wiping away the sauce in one slow, careful motion. It was so light it barely felt like anything at all.
“There,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Then he pulled his hand back like he’d just realised what he’d done, blinking once and going just a little pink.
“All good,” he added quickly, voice softer now.
You looked at him, a small smile resting easily on your face. “Thanks.”
The movie’s quiet soundtrack filled the small silence that followed. And Dennis suddenly found it very hard to focus on anything except the warm, fluttery feeling in his chest. He tried to focus on his food again.
He tried to act normal but only three seconds had passed before he cleared his throat and blurted, “Sorry.”
You glanced over. “For what?”
“That. The—face thing,” Dennis gestured vaguely toward his own cheek, then yours. “I should’ve asked first. I mean, I kind of did? But not officially. Not clearly. And I don’t want you to think I just—assumed—or invaded your space or—”
“That. The—face thing. I should’ve asked first. I mean, I kind of did, but not officially, and I don’t want you to think I just—assumed—or invaded your space or—” He stopped eating entirely now, words picking up speed. “I just don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable. Or anyone. Especially you. And sometimes I misread situations and then I try to fix it and make it worse and—”
He stopped eating entirely. Chopsticks hovered midair before lowering slowly back into the container. His words, meanwhile, did the opposite — picking up speed, tripping over each other in their rush to get out.
“I just don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable. Or anyone. Especially you. And sometimes I misread situations and then I try to fix it and somehow that makes it worse and then I overcorrect and that’s worse too and—”
He inhaled sharply through his nose, like he’d run out of runway. The container made a soft thk as he set it down on the coffee table with exaggerated care, aligning it with the edge like neatness could compensate for nerves.
“I overstepped, didn’t I?” He mumbled and before you could answer, he was already on his feet. “I overstepped.”
Dennis began pacing in front of the television, the movie’s soft glow washing over him in shifting light. His hand dragged back through his hair, leaving it slightly mussed.
“I knew it,” he muttered. “First the greeting, then the cooking, then the rug, and now this. There’s like a—” he gestured in a loose circular motion “—a pattern. A sequence of avoidable disasters.”
“I’m really sorry. I just—sometimes I try to be helpful or normal and it comes out…” He made a vague, helpless motion with both hands. “Too much. Too fast. Too… me.” His shoulders slumped slightly. “And you’re being so nice about everything, and I don’t want to make the night weird.” He gestured between you, like the space itself needed careful handling. “Or make you feel weird. Or pressured.”
He resumed pacing, but the distance shortened — smaller steps, tighter turns, restless energy with nowhere to go. His socks whispered softly against the floor with each pass.
“I can absolutely sit back down and create, like… a respectful buffer zone,” He nodded once, convincing himself.
He stopped mid-ramble, blinking like he’d just caught himself on a security camera of his own thoughts. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again.
“I just don’t want you to regret coming.” The words landed softly. He didn’t dress them up. Didn’t rush them. They just sat there, honest and unguarded.
Dennis stood there in the middle of the room, anxious and sincere and more open than he probably meant to be. Then he started pacing again.
“And it’s just—” He exhaled sharply, the breath shaky on the way out. “I really like you. Like… really like you.” His voice softened, vulnerability threading through it. “Which probably makes this worse, because now every tiny thing feels huge and I don’t know what the right move is supposed to be. There’s a script somewhere, I’m sure, and I did not get a copy.”
A soft, self-conscious laugh slipped out. “I don’t even know if I’ll ever have a real chance with you. I mean—look at me tonight.” He gestured helplessly at himself. “I’m basically a compilation reel of awkward decisions.”
“But I wanted this to be good. For you.” His eyes flicked up, steady despite the nerves. “Because you deserve good.”
Through all of it, you just watched him—quiet, warm, an unmistakable smile slowly growing as his nervous honesty spilled out in tangled threads. Dennis kept pacing for another moment, words still half-caught on the edge of another apology, another explanation, another attempt to make sense of everything he was feeling.
You stood, taking two calm steps forward. You reached for his wrist, and the restless motion of him came to a stop all at once. Dennis looked down at your hand, then slowly back up at you, as if the whole room had gone beautifully, impossibly quiet.
Your fingers stayed warm around his wrist, steady and grounding. Your thumb rested lightly over the quick beat of his pulse, fluttering beneath his skin with all the leftover nerves he hadn’t quite managed to hide. You took another step closer until there was almost no space left between you.
Up close, Dennis looked wonderfully undone—cheeks faintly pink, hair falling a little messily over his forehead from all the anxious hands that had run through it, eyes wide and bright with worry and hope. He seemed to forget, for a second, what he’d been about to say.
“Dennis,” you said softly, your voice low and gentle. You lifted your free hand and rested it lightly against his forearm. Your voice wasn’t loud, but it cut cleanly through the noise in his head. “Breathe.”
“You called me Dennis,” he said faintly, as if that alone had short-circuited his brain all over again.
A tiny, fond smile touched your mouth. “Breathe.”
He drew in a careful breath. It trembled at first, then steadied. The tight line of his shoulders began to ease, tension loosening thread by thread. The restless energy that had been humming through him softened into something quieter, more manageable. His gaze steadied, focusing on you instead of everything that could go wrong.
Dennis swallowed, his voice smaller now, worn thin by honesty. “I… I do really like you.” His fingers twitched slightly at his side, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure he’d earned that yet. “And I know tonight’s been kind of a mess. I know I’ve been…” He gave a tiny, helpless shrug. “A lot. But… I really want a chance.”
You lifted your hand slowly from his arm to his forehead, brushing that loose strand of hair back into place. Your fingers moved carefully through the soft fringe, smoothing it away from his eyes.
He went very still at the touch, like even breathing might interrupt it. His mouth parted slightly, like he’d forgotten what he was about to say. Before his thoughts could catch up—before another apology or nervous spiral could form—you leaned in. You gave him time to pull away if he wanted but he didn’t and your lips met his in a soft, quiet kiss.
For a second, he didn’t move at all. Then all at once, his shoulders loosened completely, and the tension he’d been carrying seemed to dissolve under the quiet warmth of it. His hands found their way to your waist, clumsy but determined.
Then you pulled back just enough to look at him. Dennis blinked, a little dazed, but trying to act casual. He pushed his chest out, squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin like a man who’d totally handled this. “Yeah. That. Fine. No big deal,” he said, feigning confidence, his voice just a little too sharp, a little too deliberate.
You gave him the tiniest smile and before he could fully convince himself he was composed, you pecked his lips again. And again. And again. Dennis went rigid for half a heartbeat. Then he melted. Completely.
He cleared his throat, voice quieter now, a sheepish little quaver escaping. “Was… was that—uh—to shut me up? Or… because you, you like me?”
He bit his lip nervously, glancing at you like the answer might somehow change if he looked long enough. You shrugged, casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Both,” you said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips.
Dennis’ jaw slackened slightly. He blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His entire body seemed to be trying to decide whether to collapse into the couch, leap up in relief, or melt entirely—and, truthfully, he probably wanted to do all three.
Finally, he gave a tiny, helpless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh. Both. Okay. That’s… good. Really good.” he swallowed, voice low and hesitant, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt almost unconsciously.
“Um… do… do you think we could… maybe… do that again?” he asked, sheepish and awkward and completely endearing all at once. His eyes flicked up at you, wide and hopeful, like he’d just confessed a terrible secret.
You rolled your eyes, a teasing curve of your mouth, pretending to consider it like he’d just asked a very difficult question. “Hmm… let me think about it,” you said, dragging out the words in mock deliberation, tilting your head just enough to make him squirm under your gaze.
Dennis’ shoulders twitched. His hands fiddled nervously at his sides. “I… I think it would be… nice. Maybe. If you want to,” he added quickly, trying to cover the way his whole body was practically vibrating with anticipation.
You smiled, that faint, knowing smirk that made him go weak in the knees, and leaned in without another word. Dennis’ world narrowed to you again, and the second your lips met his, he melted completely.
Gimme Some Love *:ꔫ:*
Dennis Whitaker x Fiancée!Doctor!Reader
You and dennis woke up late this morning, but you miraculously now have a few minutes to kill before your shift. What could possibly happen in 10 minutes?
wc: 1,642
warnings: dry humping—semi public (they’re in the car but in a parking garage), r is a freak who js wants her man (real), getting caught, hickies, pet names (angel, baby, love) santos n langdon getting along??? (sort of)
an: HI GUYS!! NEW CHARACTER UNLOCKED!!
i have another whitaker fic in the works in case y’all fw him. s/o to my gf for inspiring me to make this bc she loves whitaker (me tew). more abbot coming soon too :p
feedback is always welcomed! feel free to send requests as well :]
Imagine making out with Dennis in your car, parked in the PTMC parking garage.
The pair of you had woken up late, so there was absolutely no time for your pre-shift, morning quickie—much to your dismay.
Luckily, though, traffic was q—not bad, which gave you and your fiancé about 10 minutes in the car.
He parked towards the corner, which is out of the ordinary for him, but there was no way he’d be able to survive a 12 hour shift without getting his hands on you.
And you felt the same way, so it worked out.
Dennis kisses you passionately as you straddle him in the driver’s seat. His hands glide from the back of your neck to your spine, and then eventually the curve of your ass.
You can’t help but moan in delight once he gives you a firm squeeze—almost as if he needed to in order to breathe.
Between your shared kisses and Dennis’ light panting, you’re sure the windows are starting to fog up. Barely any light enters the car between the dimly lit parking garage and the sun that is slow to wake. He can’t see all of your lovely features because of the shadows’ influx—but what he can see makes his heart skip a beat and his pants start to twitch.
Eyelashes tickle his cheeks as your closed eyes flutter ever-so slightly. Your urgency brings your brows to furrow; Dennis’ hand goes to caress the side of your face then lightly brushes the lobe of your ear. His touch reminds you of a dandelion that sways through the sky: both gentle and faint.
Your hands grip his scrubs tightly, as if your world were crumbling and your icy-blue-eyed man was your only salvation.
Once Dennis feels you start to pull away, he lets out a noise akin to a whine, murmuring a soft ‘no’ against your lips.
“Time check?” You ask breathily with a love-struck grin and a twinkling gaze before diving back into the enchanting pool that is Dennis’ lips.
He peers over your shoulder at the digital clock, blinking simultaneously as it shines the numbers ‘6:55’.
Dennis parts briefly to murmur, “Five minutes.”
You scan his face, eyes glinting with something Dennis reckons is far from innocence. “Think I can get you off in five?” You ask with an experimental roll of your hips. The doctor that sits beneath you groans and immediately places his hands on your hips, halting you from moving any more. “Jesus—” he huffs. “Y-you and I both know you can—oh god…” A gasp rips from his parted mouth.
He clears his throat sharply. “Angel, I cannot be two minutes i-into my shift and already change my scrubs..!” Dennis sighs as your tongue licks the side of his neck. “They’ll—mmn! They’ll know, baby,” Dennis whispers, because he knows that anything louder will display his growing need for you.
Your grinding stops and it takes everything in Dennis not to whine. You take your index finger and drag it down the slope of his nose, watching as his slightly glossy eyes follow your movements carefully.
“If you want me to stop, then I will, love.”
Dennis swallows, taking another peak at the clock.
6:57.
Three minutes until the two of you had to waltz into the ED and pretend as if you weren’t dry humping in the car.
Dennis knows his boner isn’t going away without a little help in three minutes.
“Oh fuck—please—” Dennis grits through his teeth before rolling your hips on his lap. You sigh and let your head tilt back for a second. Dennis grinds up into you with hurried movements; his chest rises and falls quickly as he pants.
“Fuck,” you whisper with an inhale. One of Dennis' hands lightly presses on your back, pushing you to the crook of his neck. “Oh god…” Dennis groans, voice oozing with rasp.
You lean back into him, kissing his lips with feverish intent. You’re starting to lose where you stop and where Dennis begins, but you wouldn’t want it any other way.
That is, until the harsh rocking of your hips results in your ass hitting the steering wheel.
Specifically the horn.
“Holy—”
“Jesus chr—”
Teeth clash into each other; foreheads bump; curses leave mouths in flurried strings.
You’re quick to raise from Dennis' neck, gasping for air as you look down in shock. He looks equally as perplexed, but his stare bores over your shoulder.
You glance back and your eyes widen to the size of a saucer.
The corner of the parker garage is now being illuminated by the hazard lights on Dennis' car, which somehow turned on in your panicked frenzy.
You whip your head around the opposite way, nearly giving yourself whiplash as your finger scrambles to the button.
You feel Dennis sit up beneath you, and the two of you sigh in relief once the lights stop their blinking. You pinch your eyes shut, and when you open them, you take a second to look out of the windshield.
That’s when you realize that it didn’t matter how quickly you turned the hazards off—because the damage had already been done.
In front of you stands none other than Frank Langdon, who completely fails—though you don’t think he’s trying—to mask his state of pure and utter disbelief.
His shoulders are wound up tight; his palms face outwards, as if his astonishment won’t allow him to even close his fists; and if it were possible, his jaw would be completely on the floor.
You feel Dennis stiffen underneath you, and all you can do is gape at Frank like a fish out of water. The car is dead silent—you and Dennis can’t even let out a peep through your bated breath.
The brunette’s eyes flicker between you and Dennis before a mischievous smirk fixes its way onto his chiseled face.
“No—no,” you exclaim worrisomely, holding your hand out to the glass for Frank to ‘wait’ as he starts to walk backwards. You fumble to gather your bearings before opening the driver’s seat door.
Dennis sputters, “Wait! Baby—” but before he can finish, you’re hopping out of the car, trekking after the senior resident with ferocity Dennis has never seen you exhibit.
He sighs, running a hand over his face before adjusting his scrubs as he listens to the sound of your ranting grow faint.
Dennis comes in at 7:02 with his head down and an unusual pep in his step.
“Running from the cops, Huckleberry?” Trinity snorts when he passes by, but he doesn’t have the will to respond.
Despite the wave of doctors rolling in, Dennis finds himself relieved when he makes it back to the central hub without another question thrown in his direction.
“Hey, Prince Charming!” Frank chirps.
You hiss in Frank's direction. You want to walk over to Dennis when you hear him groan, but you decide to look at your clipboard for the upteenth time—you totally weren’t re-reading each word on the page waiting for Dennis to walk in. absolutely not!
Frank crosses his arms, glancing at his watch before setting his sights on your fiancé. “Few minutes late, Whitaker. Everything alright this morning?”
“Just fine,” Dennis mutters with annoyance.
Trinity muses, “Doesn’t sound fine.”
Frank suddenly laughs—it’s both loud and obnoxious. “Holy shit, Whitaker! Doesn’t look fine either, look at that!”
Both you and Dennis freeze as if the world had stopped. Your eyes shoot up to him and the two of you quickly discover the red-ish mark that adorns the side of his neck.
You’re too far away to see the teeth marks as well, but Trinity isn’t.
She’s quick to exclaim, “No fucking way!” This causes a few heads to turn, including Robby's as he looks over quizzedly for a beat. Dennis immediately shushes Trinity with a finger to his lips and a hand shooting outwards.
“Both of you keep it down, please!”
Frank hums. “Bet you couldn’t keep it down in the car with Sunshine, huh, Dennis?"
Trinity guffaws, “Oh-ho, this is good!” She leans in—which is an unusual sight for you all.
Frank murmurs, despite Dennis' protesting, “Saw those two getting frisky in the parking garage like 10 minutes ago.” he points between you and Dennis, and suddenly you’re fascinated by the boring paint color of the Pitt. “Clumsy asses honked the horn,” he adds with a snicker.
Trinity has a cocky grin on her face. “Y’know, this is the first time you’ve proven yourself useful,” she says, watching as the smirk on Frank's face dim slightly whilst he tilts his head at her.
“But you two,” she whips her head around in your direction since Dennis had gradually gravitated towards you, her ponytail swishing with her every move. “You two—are bad,” she huffs a laugh.
Frank hears his name called from the opposite direction and starts to head over, but not before grinning and saying, “Next time you decide to bring your sexcapades to work, bring some concealer, yeah?”
You clear your throat instantly, looking down at your clipboard. Dennis' face beats cherry red, making Trinity laugh once again before pulling her phone out from the pocket of her scrubs.
She then takes a picture of Dennis' face before he can stop her. “This is laugh of the week, Huckleberry! Oh my god!” She then struts away with a newfound sense of joy.
“So,” Dennis whistles, rubbing the back of his neck—a nervous tick of his that stemmed from Robby. “It could be worse…”
Dana then makes her presence known, peering over her glasses. “Kid, nothing could be worse than getting caught in a supply closet.” She then walks away with a small smirk gracing her lips, leaving both you and Dennis to stutter out in defense.
Yeah, next time, you’ll leave the quickies for the mornings at home.
Maybe.
dennis just said “fucking” so imma go scream in a corner.
how locked in dennis looks when giving me my daily pelvic exam.
sometimes he gotta go back and check a few times to make sure everything is okay
SPRING HEADERS (requested by anonymous)
2 AWAE 4 HOWARDS END and 2 SANDITON (with and without ripped paper texture)
650 x 350
like/reblog if you use
please don't claim as your own
"little white hearts" - d.w
pairing: dennis whitaker x roommate!er!reader
wc: 2.5k
summary: a pair of your panties ends up in the dryer, much to the dismay of your roommate
warnings: all-male POV, dennis is a fucking simp
a/n: had the thought of a roommate!er!reader series, possibly? haven't seen a lot of whitaker on my feed though so if people aren't into him lmk (which would be crazy) | beautiful divider from @strangergraphics
Since he moved into your spare room, both you and Dennis have shared the exact same work schedule. To the point that, over the past couple of months, your separate orbits have slowly merged into one.
By the time your third alarm goes off each morning and you lug your cranky, night owl's body out of bed, Dennis has coffee ready for you so neither of you will be late. In the evenings, when it's Dennis's turn to be completely useless and, inversely, you're wired on adrenaline, you start dinner while he's in the shower.
A mutually symbiotic relationship would be the best term for it, Dennis supposes. It's actually kind of jarring to think about functioning without you in his peripheral. The two of you even go to the gym together. He can't afford a membership right now —a fact that is at the very bottom of the laundry list of consequences regarding his financial status— and yours allows for a guest.
One boundary you do have, though, is laundry. Your unit miraculously came with a washer and dryer, and you're pretty particular about your clothes. You insist on washing them yourself, and asked that he leave your clothes in the washer until you are able to switch them to the dryer. It's not that weird, Dennis thinks, that you don't want his clothes mixed in with yours. With all the other facets of your life he's managed to squirm his way into, your desire to have your laundry separate from his is totally fair.
A weight of guilt perpetually sits upon Dennis's shoulders when he thinks about all that you do for him. You offered him a place to stay at the end of your very first shift together, cutting him a huge deal on rent and bills because of his crushing student loan debt. You always buy extra groceries that you claim come from 'shopping while hungry', but in reality he's pretty sure you're selecting them especially for his benefit.
You're a golden light of a person, and most of the time he feels like a parasite, leeching all your extra resources. Not from anything you've said or done, of course, just the narrative he's spun in his own head.
The least he can do is make you coffee every morning, wash the dishes after dinner, and respect your laundry preferences.
You've gone out with some friends for the first time in weeks, getting drinks at a bar not too far from your apartment building. Dennis has the apartment to himself, which is a rarity considering the nearly codependent orbit the two of you have fallen into.
He could have met Santos and Garcia for a drink, or Victoria and Emma for a movie, but Dennis decides to enjoy the apartment alone. Take a long shower, start a new TV show, eat the last of the spaghetti leftovers in his pajamas, and catch up on his laundry. It's been weeks since he's started a load, which he attributes to his time at the hospital. His residency at the PTMC emergency department takes up more time than the allotted twelve-hour shifts, what with staying late to chart and his volunteer work on the street team. It'll be nice to decompress for a while tonight, sit in silence and breathe without worrying about taking up someone else's air.
Dennis is glad you're out tonight, and not just because it means he can have the communal space to himself. Emergency medicine takes its toll on all its practitioners, and he's noticed the shift in your gait lately. The bags under your eyes, the way you're even more unresponsive in the mornings than normal. Robby always tells him not to take his work home with him, and Dennis does his best. But he wonders sometimes if you never got the memo.
Still, space is healthy, even between two roommates who live mostly intertwined lives. Space from the hospital, space from each other. Space from his own thoughts. His mind usually wanders when he tries to sit and watch a TV show, or read a book that isn't a medical journal, or sit with himself and try not to find thirty different things to panic about.
But tonight, Dennis's mind sits blissfully empty. A sitcom provides for background noise as he chows down on the last of the spaghetti you'd made a couple nights ago, hunched on the couch with his plate perched on his palm, two inches below his chin.
Just as he cleans his plate, the washing machine buzzes obnoxiously from the hall closet. He sets his plate down, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and pauses the TV all in the same breath, then flips open the top of the washing machine to examine his now-clean clothes.
He opens the front-load dryer too, the metal door creaking on its ancient hinge, then bundles the wet, clean clothes in his arms. He squats, poised to shove his armful of clothes into the dryer, but freezes when he sees them.
Golden light halos around a pair of red bikini panties, clinging to the air holes at the back of the dryer's interior.
Dennis Whitaker, M.D, loses his balance and falls flat onto his ass. In fact, the entire world slows down.
The clothes in his arms land in a jumpled heap in his lap, and Dennis swears his mouth goes dry.
All he can think is underwear, underwear, this is your underwear.
Suddenly he's more panicked than he's ever been with a critical patient, than he's ever been presenting a case to Dr. Robby, than he's ever been in the emergency department — in a place designed to house emergencies.
Your panties are in the dryer, and it's all Dennis can do not to think about them on your body.
Your body. Your perfect, generously plush body, that he's admonished himself time and time again for thinking about. Under those baggy black scrubs that hide your figure is a set of delicious hips and luscious thighs that house these panties.
Dennis's pajama pants suddenly feel a little tighter. His jaw tenses like he ate a handful of sour candy.
It should be so easy to reach in to the dryer, pull out what a normal person would refer to as a pair of perfectly clean underwear, and place them in your room. On your bed, maybe, or even folded neatly in your underwear drawer so a discussion won't even be prompted.
But they feel radioactive to him right now, as he maintains eye contact with the lacy elastic band around the top. He can't touch them, can he? They're your underpants. And you're so particular about your laundry. This has never happened before in the three months he's lived with you. This isn't outlined anywhere in the I Moved in with a Coworker I Find Attractive Handbook.
Dennis lifts his palms to his face, then inhales and exhales with a great, concerted effort, resolving to do something about the underwear. This cannot — and he doesn't think he's being dramatic by thinking this — be the thing that breaks him. He's maintained such a strong sense of self-control the entire time he's been your roommate.
He hardly notices the mole on your collarbone anymore, or the way you stick your tongue out when you're really trying to concentrate. It's not as much of a scintillating, meticulous torture to watch you pull your hair into a clip anymore.
He barely spares a glance when you swallow the coffee he prepares for you every morning, your throat bobbing up and down slowly. Or when you laugh at one of Santos's stupid jokes, or when you refer to his judgment on a case, trusting his opinion in the process of your own decision-making.
I'm so fucking fucked, he thought that first night when he stepped into this apartment with you and you showed him to the spare room, when he realized he'd have to occupy close quarters with someone he thought was deliriously beautiful. And brilliant.
He can do this. Dennis drops his hands, shoves all his clothes off his lap, and squares his shoulders. He's a farm boy, for Christ's sake, and an ER doctor. He's birthed calves and reset bones and drank real, homemade country moonshine. He killed a rat with his bare hands on his first day in the pit. He can remove your underwear from the dryer.
Dennis blows all the air out of his lungs, then shifts back up into a squat. He narrows his eyes, and stretches his hand into the dryer with a surgeon's precision.
Then, upon further inspection, he comes to the devastating realization that your red bikini panties are dotted with little white hearts.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, his hand hovering in the empty dryer drum that separates his person from the panties. Both of Dennis's hands then shoot up to hang on to the top of the appliance, bracing himself in a squat not unlike the devastated subject of a Renaissance painting.
Another sharp breath cycles through him, and he gives himself a mental countdown.
3…2…1…
In the swift swipe of a thief, Dennis snatches the panties from the back of the dryer and stands up, all in the same breath. He marches to your room purposefully, a renewed vigor backing each step. He comes to a screeching halt, however, when his nose is parallel with the closed bedroom door.
You're not an abnormally private person, but Dennis realizes that he can't recall a time he's been past the threshold of your bedroom. He's had no need to.
"Fuck," he curses beneath his breath. He clutches the panties tightly, about two inches of fabric dangling from the bottom of his closed fist.
"Okay," he whispers to psych himself up. "Okay, Whitaker, you can do this." He huffs out a quick, round breath, and opens the door.
Your bedroom is so inexplicably you that he could fall to his ass a second time. Your bed is a wrinkled heap of sheets and blankets, your walls bare save for a small cluster of photos taped beside the dresser.
Dennis drags himself to the dresser, panties still undoubtedly wrinkled in his closed fist. Good luck prevails when he finds the top drawer dedicated to your underwear, folded in neat little stacks of four or five pairs high. Something twists in his stomach as he realizes he's staring at your collection as a whole. Most are like the pair in his hands — solidly colored or patterned, bikini-style with a band of elastic around the top. But as he folds the pair in his hand and places them gingerly on top of the pile closest to him, he spots a stack of… lacier pairs.
Lacier, in that, they appear to be made entirely of lace. There's only four pairs or so, tucked in the back corner in such a way that suggests disuse, but still. The rock in Dennis's throat falls to the pit of his stomach. He can't tell the shape since all the pairs are folded, but the thicker, stringy bit in the middle gives away enough.
The thought of you, bared before him in nothing but these lacy panties that leave little to the imagination does something damaging to Dennis's psyche.
He averts his eyes from the drawer as if he were on display, then closes it. His gaze lands upon the photographs taped on the wall just above the top of the dresser. Most are of people he doesn't recognize — family, probably. Maybe a few friends from college, judging by a sweatshirt in one of them. But then, right on the edge, bordered by two short pieces of scotch tape, is a photo of you and him.
It was taken at the bar closest to the hospital — Shirley's. PTMC workers often frequent the sticky, dusty establishment after a long shift, and, about a month ago, Dennis found himself there with a small group of coworkers. Santos, Mohan, Mateo, Donnie, and you.
His arm is slung around your shoulders in this photo, which he barely remembers posing for. In his hand is a bottle of beer, and you have both palms wrapped around a vodka cranberry. The smile on your face, lit brighter by the flash —necessary for any photos taken in the poorly lit bar — is blurry, but undeniable. Your shoulder is pressed in to the space under his arm, and the calm glow of your eyes indicates a comfort he's never noticed.
You feel safe with him. You must, otherwise why would he still be living here? You see him as a friend. You must, otherwise why would this photo be tacked on your wall? When did you even have time to print it off?
God, Dennis thinks. I'm a fucking idiot.
He exits back into the hall. He closes the door with a pointed thud, punctuating to himself and whichever universal deity is listening that he will never touch your underwear again.
Even if they are as soft as how he imagined clouds would be as a kid.
Because it would fuck everything up. His dynamic with you at work, his friendship with you outside of work, his living situation, all of it. It would fuck everything up.
If he even so much as admitted to himself that he wanted to touch your underwear.
The bubbling feelings in his chest threaten to spill out, like an overpoured glass, so Dennis shoves them down. It isn't fair to you to think this way about you, not when you've been so generous to him. Not when you have your own shit to worry about. Not when you view him as someone safe and comfortable and worthy of allowing in your space.
He returns to his own laundry, gathering all the scrubs and boxers and t-shirts and socks from the floor, the heaves them all into the dryer. He slams shut the metal door, twists the dial and punches the start button harder than necessary.
As the rumbling of the appliance drowns out the pounding between his ears, Dennis rubs his hands over his face, dragging his fingers over his cheeks, as if he's trying to pull off his own skin. He busies himself with the dishes, then sweeps and mops the kitchen floor, then scrubs the toilet clean, all in a cloying, desperate attempt to shove you into the deepest, most untouchable recesses of his mind.
His quiet night alone at the apartment to quickly transforms into an evening of distraction and self-admonishment, for thinking he had any right to look at you the way he had been. You deserve to feel safe and to have someone to come home to —even if he is just your friend— that understands your every expression and tone.
He can be that for you, Dennis decides. But he can't do that and pine after you at the same time.
He's laying on his back in bed by the time you get home, and it takes everything in him not to check on you when he hears you stumbling —presumedly buzzed from your night out— in and out of the bathroom, and into your bedroom. He folds his forearms over his face and blows out another long, tired, breath.
His last conscious thought before drifting off to sleep —much to his dismay— is of the little white hearts dotted all over those panties. And, subsequently, that he's totally fucking fucked.
IM SO CRAZY 4 U <3
a dennis whitaker x reader smau!
✮ summary — when he left nebraska to begin a new life, dennis was forced to give up a lot of things that he held dear to his heart, including his emo phase… he couldn’t risk being bullied at college too. he doesn’t know how, but he made it. he’s an adult now, an employed adult, working as a doctor at the PTMC. but what happens when the cute new nurse looks a little too much like the online girlfriend he ghosted a decade ago?
✮ content warnings — nurse!reader who works the day shift, mostly crack, swearing, some nsfw mentions so mdni pls, dennis and reader dated for a couple months when they were seventeen, timeskip of 10 years, both of them are just down bad idk..
✮ taglist — @pascalquinns @cosmosnkaz @darkphantommagazine @oh-my-beel @bumbl3-b33z @dr3obsessed @27-awesome-ham-sandwiches @my-whole-brain-is-crying @silovicbaird @starstruckllama @kammustdie @localsams @twistedwondrland06 @aimmias-blog @daydreamsareallineed @imaikido @lazysymphonyvirus @pinkitty97 @maviscone @flawedissector @mewmew222 @asparklysoul @flwries @lakanspot @queen-kays-world @gennywennypenny @fawns-filed @amandjslpz @ihyperfixatetoomuch @piscesfairyyy @3-smi @girlokarina @dimetrodonhadrosaurlover @greykit9 @9-4equals5 @yixo3 @eternalmentelila @wonyuuku @bunnytricklovr28 @herdarlin @kaylajerks @yuviqik @filthgf @teenwolfbitches28 @alllaboutangel @randomfandom-2 @jahmelat @peptox
CHAPTERS
⤷ update coming soon!
EMMA NOLAN NOOOOOOOO
im thinking of how abbot said “I’ll pay for it” so casually. im gonna squirt all over my room
i don’t ship anyone in the pitt except with me. dennis with ME. frank with ME. samira with ME. JACK WITH ME.
going home with huckleberry 𓈒 †๋
ೀ breaks were few and far between in the er. vacations even more so. of course dennis was going to soak up his time between rotations. coincidentally, his coworker happened to have the same slot of time off. dennis was never the kind of guy to bring his girl home to the family. but you’re not his girl. just a colleague. a friend. a friend who spends every night of the trip sneaking into his bedroom and cuddling up against him - because it’s so cold. a friend who he picks flowers for, and fixes up his old truck with, and introduces to his brothers, and who he contemplates kissing beneath honey crisp apple trees. a friend who makes the whole going home ordeal not so bad because she’s carrying his home in her heart.
