i'm actually about to BLOCK the fucking jack abbot tag like don't make me do that i love that man. and it's not the (i'm sure) talented writers' fault, BUT why is it that the jack tag is all jack, and the samira tag is.... ALSO ALL JACK!
perv!roommate!dennis x perv!roommate!trinity x med school!roommate!reader nsfw headcanons | highly nsfw mdni
you donât think much of it when you answer the roommate ad posted in the online classifieds. for all you knew it could be a front for a serial killer but at this rate, youâd take anything to save on rent. thankfully itâs just a resident and an intern needing to fill an extra room and they didnât seem creepy at all, the three of you bonding fairly quickly as you settled into your routines.
you werenât accounting on the summer heat when you picked your move in date, and you were positive that there were better outfits for moving than a tight tank top and short denim cutoffs, but anything was better than heatstroke. dennis didnât mean to let his eyes linger as he watched the beads of sweat disappear past your tank top or the way your lips perfectly circled the rim of the water bottle he offered you, and trinity couldnât pretend that she hated the sight of you bent over because your tiny shorts would ride up just right.
itâs a night where youâre conveniently out that you come up in conversation. dennis and trinity are on the same page about a lot of things when it comes to you; you always clean up after yourself and respect boundaries, you were an amazing fucking cook, and that they both wondered what your pussy would look like stretched around a fat cock.
late at night dennis usually finds himself stroking his cock and wishing it was your warm mouth taking him to the back of his throat, coming up for air as you swirl your tongue around his tip. short, hurried strokes of his hand as he visualizes your head bobbing as you suck him, hands stroking and twisting what couldnât fit in your mouth. he always comes with a shudder and your name on his lips.
trinity fingers herself to the thought of her tongue exploring your sweet cunt, getting tangled between your folds as her middle fingers curl and stretch you open. circling her clit to the visual of her face and chin covered in your slick, not stopping until youâre clenching around her fingers for a third time, clenching around her own fingers with your name on her lips.
thereâs one day that you happen to shower with the bathroom door cracked, airing out the steam to prevent the mirrors from fogging up. itâs how he catches a glimpse of you in the mirror with the shower head pressed between your legs. he has to swallow the lump in his throat as his feet were suddenly weighted to the floor, jaw going slack at the whimpers leaving your throat. trinityâs rounding the corner and before she can even ask dennis why heâs just standing in the hallway like a weirdo, she catches the same glimpse of you thatâs got her roommate frozen in time. she canât stop the throbbing in her pussy just as much as dennis canât stop the bulge in his pants from forming. they know itâs wrong to be spying on their roommate like this, but fuck if it isnât the hottest thing theyâve seen in a while.
trinity damn near chokes on her drink when you randomly ask her if she owns a strap-on. you reassure her that youâre not asking just because sheâs a lesbian, but out of genuine curiosity and a result of late night porn searches. trinity doesnât outright confirm or deny if she does and reader has to pretend like the thought doesnât go straight to her core. itâs a random night when dennis is out helping amy on the farm that trin admits that she was bluffing about the strap on, and how as soon as dennis gets in his car to head back to the apartment that he finally opens his texts from trinity and is met with not one, not two, but five videos of you bent over the couch as your ass bounces on trinityâs strap as she fucks you from behind.
dennis noticed a pair of baby blue lace panties in the corner of the bathroom that can only belong to you because you were just in the bathroom not just 10 minutes ago and he can tell because when he picks them up he can feel that theyâre still damp and the scent of your pussy is still lingering on the fabric and he barely noticed how heâs full on got his nose buried in them and his dick is suddenly in his hand and maybe he puts them in his mouth so he can get an idea of what your pussy tastes like and before you know it heâs cumming all over the bathroom sink yet doesnât notice you peeking through the crack in the doorframe because you intended to come back for them before the sight of his cock stopped you in his tracks
itâs late when trinity quietly sneaks downstairs for a midnight snack and she doesnât think much of it when she sees dennis on the couch and the tv still going but she swears she can hear slurping and the sound of dennisâ groans and her mind wanders to the possibility that you could very well be sucking his dick in the living room right now and her suspicions are confirmed when she catches a glimpse of dennis holding your head in place as he fucks your mouth and despite the fact that dick does nothing for her sheâs so fucking tempted to set her wallpaper to the photo he sent last night of his cock in her mouth
the three of you finally come to terms with your unspoken arrangement after months of dancing and fucking around it and soon the roommate group chat expands from texts about rent and chores to now include pictures and videos of you getting stretched open by dennisâ fat cock or trinityâs strap halfway down your throat and at this point itâs normal for trinity to walk in the kitchen and see you on your knees and sucking dennisâ dick in front of the sink or for dennis to come home to you riding trinityâs strap on the couch and sometimes heâll walk over and put his cock in your mouth and sometimes heâll plop down in the lounge chair and stroke his cock to the sight and sometimes youâll just walk into trinityâs room and start eating her out and maybe sheâll text dennis to come fuck your cunt while you eat her but most of the time she just wants to cover your face in her juices
i havent gotten high in forever and i miss it so listen to me when i say getting high and needy with trinity
*****
You know that your girlfriend is a stoner. Well, as much of a stoner as one can be while still being a successful resident. You don't mind at all. Usually when she's getting high, you'll drink, cracking open some ciders or a bottle of wine.
It's not that you're against weed or anything. You've just never tried it. Well, you did once in college. You took an edible, and while it was fun, you never really felt the need to keep going. Now though, after spending so many nights seeing Trinity unwind, getting giggly and soft as the THC hits her bloodstream, you're starting to see the appeal.
Tonight is one of those nights, you're sprawled out on the couch with Trinity, resting against her side while a movie plays. Though, while he's taken a hit or two, you haven't touched the unopened cider that sits on the coffee table. Instead, you're eyeing the pen in her hand.
Eventually, you decide to just go for it.
"Baby," you say, hand trailing up her bare thigh, toying with the hem of her boxers. "Could I try some?"
She frowns, pausing with her pen halfway to her mouth. She points it at you, "My vape?"
You nod, biting your lip, "Yeah."
"Why?"
"Uh," you shrug, "I'm just curious, I guess."
Trinity makes a face, clearly thinking it through. She eventually shrugs, handing the vape over, âKnock yourself out.â As you lift it to your lips, she quickly clarifies, âBut, like, only a few hits for now. I donât want you greening out.â
Thirty minutes later, it's safe to say that you are high. You hit the pen only a few times, but youâre feeling fucking great. Youâve melted into the couch, laying almost entirely on top of your girlfriend.
The movie is still on, but youâre only half paying attention. Thereâs a much more present issue making itself known between your legs. With every stroke of Trinityâs hand up and down your back, you can swear you feel more wetness flood your panties.
Eventually, it becomes too much. You squeeze your legs together, biting your lip to stop yourself from whimpering. Unfortunately, youâre not as subtle as you think. Trinity sits up, despite her own high, sheâs clearly worried. You smile as you stare at her face.
"Are you okay? Hungry?" She asks, "I can go grab you something to eat. Or waterâ shit, yeah, you're probably thirsty."
Your smile somehow stretches wider. "No," you hum.
She tilts her head, "You sure? I don't mind getting you something."
Truthfully, you could eat and you could go for some water, but the thought of Trinity leaving you even for a moment sounds awful.
"Baby," you confess, "I'm horny. Like really horny."
Trinity laughs, but before you can get embarrassed she pulls you closer until youâre face-to-face. âReally? Getting high gets my girl all needy?â She teases.
Heat rushes to your face, you find yourself nodding as her words go straight to your pussy. âYeah,â you whine. âI think so.â
Trinity chuckles. You lean forward to kiss her, but your girlfriend stops you with a hand on your chest.
âBefore we do this,â she starts, voice soft but serious. âNo sex tonight.â
You pout, âButââ
âNope,â Trinity clicks her tongue. âNo sex. This is your first time getting high, you need to ride it out and get used to it before Iâll even consider it.â Before you can get too disappointed, she adds, âBut making out is fair game, babe.â
âReally?â
âReally.â
âFuck yeah.â
Trinity laughs, she lets her hands wander to your ass, squeezing lightly. âCome on, babe, show me what you got.â
Hierarchy
Dennis Whitaker x Chief of General Surgery!reader
synopsis: Age is never a factor when considering love.
Tags: Age Gap, Older Woman/Younger Man, Secret Relationship, Power Imbalance, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Fluff and Angst, Soft Dennis Whitaker, first Kiss.
A/n: Thank you all for liking and reblogging my previous fics. This one had been in my drafts for quite some time, so I decided to post it. enjoy!!!
A blood draw was unnecessary.
Dr. Y/n L/n knew this with the same certainty she knew her own name, knew the exact pressure required to clamp a bleeding aorta, knew that her twins were probably still awake in their dorm rooms three hundred miles away, ignoring her goodnight texts.
The patient on 4 West wasn't crashing. His labs from six hours ago were perfectly stable. But the night intern had panicked, and Garcia had humored him, and now here she was, Chief of General Surgery, twenty-three years into her career, standing in an empty hallway with a clipboard she didn't need, watching Dennis Whitaker fumble with a butterfly needle.
She should have sent a junior attendant. She should have stayed in her office, catching up on paperwork. She should not be standing here, at 3:17 AM, noticing the way his brow furrowed in concentration.
Stop it, she told herself. He's a child.
He wasn't a child. He was twenty-eight. Her sons were eighteen. The math worked, technically, but it also didn't work at all, because she was Chief and he was first year and Robby would laugh himself sick if he ever found out she'd had this thought even once.
"Sorry," Whitaker muttered, adjusting the angle of the patient's arm. The patient, elderly, dehydrated, veins like wet noodles, didn't respond. "Justâone second."
(Y/n) said nothing. She watched.
His hands were steady. That was the first thing she'd noticed about him, months ago, during the mass casualty event. Everyone else had been chaos and noise, and Whitaker had been quiet and competent, his voice low as he talked to a terrified med student through a chest tube. She'd made a mental note that this one had potential.
She'd watched more than she should have since.
"There," Whitaker breathed, as the flash of blood appeared in the tubing. He taped it down with quick, precise movements, then finally looked up at her. "Sorry for the wait, Chief. His veins areâ"
"I know what his veins were." Her voice came out sharper than she intended. "The draw wasn't necessary."
Whitaker's face did something complicated, maybe embarrassment, or defensiveness, who knows. The exhaustion of a resident who'd been awake for twenty hours. "Dr. Patel was concerned about his potassium levels. He had an EKG that showedâ"
"I saw the EKG. It was fine." She handed him the tube. "Next time, use your clinical judgment. Patel's a good intern, but he's scared of his own mind. You don't have to be."
Whitaker blinked at her. "Yes, Ma'am. I meanâthank you. I think."
Something in his expression shifted. A small tentative smile, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed.
Y/n felt her stomach do something she refused to acknowledge.
"Dismissed," she said, and turned on her heel.
She made it exactly four steps before he spoke again.
"Dr. L/n?"
She stopped. Did not turn around. "What?"
"I justâ" A pause. Footsteps, closer. Then his voice, lower, meant only for her: "You didn't have to come down here yourself. For the blood draw."
Y/n closed her eyes. Walk away, she told herself. Walk away now.
She turned.
He was closer than she'd expected. Close enough that she could see the exhaustion etched under his eyes, the faint hint of stubble near his mouth, the way his Adam's apple moved when he swallowed. Close enough that she could smell him, the hospitalâs sanitizer and coffee and something underneath that was just him.
"Patel's scared of his own mind," she said. "You're not. But you're tired, and tired residents miss things. I came down because I wanted to see for myself that you weren't missing anything."
Something flickered in his eyes. Not fear. Not deference. Something warmer, more curious.
"And?" he asked softly. "Did you?"
The hallway was empty. The patient behind the door was asleep. The monitor beeped steadily, a quiet rhythm in the dark.
(Y/n) held his gaze. "You didn't miss anything."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Whitaker's lips parted slightly, and Y/n felt the air shift between them, felt the impossible weight of everything that wasn't being said, A Senior attending and resident, twenty years between them, God, when was the last time anyone looked at her like that?
"Dennis," she said.
His name. Not "Dr. Whitaker." Not "Intern." His name.
His breath caught.
And Y/n L/n, Chief of General Surgery, mother of two, woman who had not been looked at like that in longer than she cared to remember, took a single step backward.
"Get some sleep," she said. "And that's an order."
She walked away before she could see his face fall. Before she could change her mind. Before she could do something that would get them both in trouble she didn't have the energy to explain.
Behind her, Whitaker didn't move for a long time.
In the elevator, alone, Y/n pressed her forehead against the cold metal wall and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Twenty-three years, she thought. Twenty-three years building this career. Twenty-three years becoming someone people respect. Twenty-three years, and one exhausted resident with kind eyes and steady hands almost undid everything in a hospital hallway.
The elevator dinged.
She straightened her spine, smoothed her scrubs, and walked out into the fluorescent glare of the surgical floor.
Behind her, three hundred miles away, her sons were probably still awake. Ahead of her, twelve more hours of shift, and a king sized bed at home that felt too big for two years now.
She did not think about Dennis Whitaker's hands.
She absolutely did not think about them.
Dennis Whitaker stared at the closed elevator doors for a full thirty seconds after she disappeared.
"Dude."
He flinched. Turned. Found Trinity Santos leaning against the nurses' station, a bag of chips in one hand and a look of pure mischief on her face.
"No," he said immediately.
"I didn't say anything."
"You're about to."
Santos crunched a chip loudly. "Was that the Chief of General Surgery you were just having a moment with in the hallway, or did I hallucinate about it?"
"It wasn't a moment. She came down to check on a patient."
"Uh huh." Santos drew the syllable out like she was eating toffee. "And that's why you're standing there looking like a golden retriever who just saw his owner come home?"
Whitaker rubbed his face with both hands. "Go away, Santos."
"Absolutely not. This is the most interesting thing that's happened all shift. Waitâ" Her eyes widened. "Wait wait wait. Dr. L/n? Medusa?"
"Stop calling her Medusa."
Santos's eyebrows shot up. "Oh my God. You like her. You actually like her."
"I don'tâ" Whitaker lowered his voice, glancing around the empty hallway. "I donât like her, I just respect her. She's an incredible surgeon. Who came down here to make sure I wasn't missing something with a patient. That'sâthat's just good leadership."
"Sure. And the part where she called you Dennis?"
Whitaker's face went red. He could feel it, the traitorous heat spreading from his neck to his cheeks. "You heard that?"
"I heard everything. I was getting ice for Dr. Mohan's wrist and I heard everything." Santos leaned in, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. "She looked at you like she wanted to eat you alive, Whitaker. And not in a 'you're incompetent and I'm firing you' way."
"You're insane."
"I'm right. There's a difference." She crunched another chip, thoughtful now. "You know her kids are our age, right? Twins. Robby did her C-section like eighteen years ago and won't shut up about it."
"They're not our age." The words came out before Whitaker could stop them. "It's a ten-year age gap. Minimum."
Santos froze mid-chew. Her eyebrows climbed slowly toward her hairline.
"Oh," she said, drawing it out like chewing a taffy. "Oh. So you've actually done the math."
Whitaker's face went red. "Iâno. I haven'tâthat's notâ"
"You've done the math, Whitaker." She pointed her chip at him accusingly. "You sat there and calculated the age difference between you and her kids."
"I made a rough estimate! There's a difference!"
"Sure there is." She grinned. "Keep telling yourself that."
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. What was the point? Santos was like a shark with blood in the water, the more he flailed, the more she'd circle.
The truth was, he hadn't meant to do the math. It had just happened, late one night when he couldn't sleep, his brain supplying the useless information: She was in med school when you were born. She was already a surgeon when you were learning fractions. Her children are adults and you still call your mother every Sunday.
Not that he'd thought about it. Much.
He didn't know anything else about her personal life, really. Just the details that had accumulated without his permission: no wedding ring. Office light on when he left at night. Sometimes still on when he arrived in the morning. The way she said his name that one time in the hallway, like she was testing how it felt in her mouth.
That last one he tried very hard not to think about.
He failed regularly.
"I'm going to finish my shift," he said flatly. "And then I'm going home. And I'm going to sleep for twelve hours. And when I wake up, this conversation never happened."
"Sure thing, Dennis." Santos grinned.
He didn't sleep.
Of course he didn't sleep.
He lay in his bedroom, too small, too quiet, still smelling faintly of the curry Santos had made them eat three nights ago, and stared at the ceiling, replaying the hallway on a loop.
Dennis.
She'd said his name like a lover would.
Stop it, he told himself. She's the Chief. She's fortyâ
Actually, he didn't know how old she was. Late forties? Early fifties? It didn't matter. She was out of his league in every way possible, professional, personal, chronological. She had kids who were adults. She had a career he could only dream of. She had a presence, the kind that made residents straighten their spines and attendings lower their voices.
And she'd looked at him likeâ
No. She hadn't looked at him like anything. He was projecting. He was exhausted. He was lonely, maybe, if he was honest with himself, which he tried not to be because loneliness in residency was nothing new, everyone had it, no one could fix it, and complaining just made your mouth drier.
His phone buzzed.
He grabbed it, heart doing something stupid, something hopeful, then saw the name and wanted to throw it against the wall.
Santos: u up thinking about her
Santos: bc same
Santos: not in a gay way. in a this is hilarious and im never letting u forget it way
Santos: she called u dennis
Santos: DENNIS
Santos: im going to put it on a t shirt
He turned his phone off.
Three days passed.
Three days of avoiding the surgical floor. Three days of taking the long way to the cafeteria. Three days of pretending he wasn't scanning every face in every hallway for (h/c) hair and a blue scrub and that particular way she had of looking at people like she could see straight through them.
It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic. He was a grown man with a medical degree, and he was hiding from his boss's boss because she'd said his name once.
On the fourth day, the universe decided to punish him.
"Dr. Whitaker." Dr. Robby's voice came through the trauma bay, calm and unhurried the way it always was. "To Trauma Two. Stat."
Whitaker moved. That was what you did when Robby called, you move.
He pushed through the double doors and stopped.
Dr. Y/n L/n was already there.
She stood at the head of the gurney, gloved hands pressed firmly against a wound pack on a patient's abdomen, her face utterly composed. A trauma nurse was cutting away clothing. Someone was starting a second IV. Robby was at the foot, evaluating something Whitaker couldn't see yet.
"Motor vehicle versus pedestrian," (L/n) said, not looking up. "Thirty-two weeks pregnant, ejected ten feet. BP is eighty over forty and dropping. Fetal heart rate one-twenty and thready. I need ultrasound and I need it now."
Whitaker was at the machine before she finished speaking, wheeling it into position, handing her the probe.
Their fingers brushed.
His heart stopped.
Hers, as if the complete lack of reaction was any indication, did not.
"Fundal height is thirty-four centimeters," she continued, voice steady as she pressed the probe to the patient's belly. "Placenta appearsâ" She paused. Frowned. "There's free fluid. Significant free fluid."
"Placental abruption?" Robby asked.
"Possible. I needâ" She looked up, and for the first time, her eyes met Whitaker's. "I need you to hold pressure here while I prep for an emergency C-section. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Chief."
Her gaze held his for one beat longer than necessary. Then she stepped back, and his hands were on the patient, pressing down with exactly the right amount of force, and the moment was over.
Or it should have been over.
But as she moved past him to scrub, he heard it. Quiet enough that no one else could possibly have caught it. Soft enough that he almost thought he imagined it.
"I know you've been avoiding me."
His hands didn't slip. His face didn't change. But something inside him flipped over and lay there, exposed.
He didn't respond. Couldn't respond. Not with a patient bleeding out under his palms, not with Robby three feet away, not with the entire trauma team watching.
But when she came back, gloved and gowned and ready to cut, she stood beside him for just a moment before she began.
And her shoulder pressed against his.
Deliberately.
He was sure of it.
The baby cried.
It was a small sound, reedy and frightened, but it was alive. Whitaker watched as the NICU team whisked the tiny, squalling infant to the warmer, watched as (L/n)âs hands moved with impossible speed to repair the uterus, watched as the patient's BP slowly, finally, began to climb.
"Good work, everyone," Robby said, when it was over. "(L/n), that wasâ"
"Nothing." She stripped off her gloves. "Someone page OB for follow-up. Whitaker, walk with me."
He walked.
She led him out of the trauma bay, down the hall, into the small, windowless supply closet where no one would think to look for them. The door clicked shut behind him and suddenly they were alone, surrounded by boxes of gauze and tubing, close enough that he could see the pulse beating in her throat.
"You've been avoiding me," she said again. No question this time.
"Iâ" He swallowed. "Yes."
"Why?"
Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because you looked at me in that hallway and I forgot my own name. Because you're the Chief of surgery and I'm a first-year and this is insane.
"Because I don't know what I'm doing," he said.
Something shifted in her expression. Softened, almost. "Welcome to medicine. None of us know what we're doing. We just get better at pretending."
"That's notâ" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "That's not what I mean."
"I know." Her voice was quiet now. "I know what you mean."
The silence stretched between them, thick and electric.
"Dennis." His name again. His knees went weak. "I am forty-six years old. I have two children who are your age. I am your boss's colleague. I amâ" She paused, and for the first time, he saw something vulnerable flicker across her face. "I am not looking for a complication."
"I'm notâ" He stepped closer before he could stop himself. "I'm not looking for anything. I wasn't looking. I justâ"
"You just what?"
Looked at me, he wanted to say. Saw me. Made me feel like I wasn't invisible.
"You called me Dennis," he said instead.
Her lips parted.
"And I've been thinking about it ever since."
For a long, terrible moment, she didn't move. Didn't speak. He could feel his career crumbling around him, could see the HR complaint forming in her eyes, could already hear Santos's I-told-you-so.
Then Y/n L/n reached up, very slowly, and touched his face.
"You're too young for me," she said.
"I know."
"I'm your superior."
"I know."
"This is a terrible idea."
"I know."
Her thumb traced along his jawline. "I don't care."
And she kissed him.
Twenty minutes later, Whitaker walked out of the supply closet with a box of IV tubing in his hands and a expression on his face that Santos clocked immediately from across the trauma bay.
"Oh my God," she said. "You have got to be kidding me."
Whitaker kept walking.
"You justâin a closetâwith herâ"
"Dr. Santos." Robby's voice cut through her delighted shrieking. "Patient in Bay Three needs a lac repair. Now."
Santos went, but not before shooting Whitaker, a look that clearly promised we are discussing this later.
Whitaker ignored her.
He had a patient to see. A shift to finish. A career that was either about to soar or crash spectacularly into flames.
And a text on his phone, from an unknown number, that read simply:
Y/n: Dinner. Tomorrow. My place. 8 PM. Don't be late.
He saved the number under "DO NOT ANSWER IN PUBLIC" and smiled like an idiot for the rest of his shift.
stormborns
blakekathryn
germansingergirl
pixelskylines
baratheonpilled
