DENNIS WHITAKER X FEM PRESENTING!READER
★ANALYSIS! Maybe he's bored, maybe he's lonely, maybe he just needs something to look forward to outside of work. When he overhears you talking a little bit intimately in the rec room with someone you're seeing, it's like his mind latches onto the thrill of possibilities that came with that tidbit of information. He'd never considered you a sexual being, and clearly there was a good reason for that.
★CW! masturbation, mention of oral sex, doggy style, pronebone, pillow humping, drooling, public masturbation, queer!reader, fingering, mention of public sex, mention of orgasms
★AUTHOR! masturbation part III RAAAAAH!! also sorry I'm not super active or anything I'm too nervous to start putting other fandoms on here and I'm running out of ideas for Dennis and The Pitt.
He’d never considered you a sexual being.
To Dennis Whitaker, you were a dedicated worker bee who he’d always heard speaking about work and only work. You were kind of like those teachers he used to believe didn’t do anything outside of the school walls. He wouldn’t have been surprised if you disappeared when your shift was over and reappeared outside of the hospital building when you had to clock in.
That changed one day when he saw you on the phone with someone while staring at the rec room’s vending machine. He’d come into the room and froze a few steps into the room.
You didn’t notice him, you were too absorbed with your companion over the phone. He stood there awkwardly, struggling to decide whether he should leave the room or make sure you knew he was in the room with you. He’d turned on his heels, deciding to leave—
“So, what, you wanna skip the date and go straight to hooking up?”
He stilled. The day was so hectic, a surplus of victims from a collision on the road had put him at the very edge an hour before, he’d almost forgotten the things normal people did.
Whitaker glanced at you. You were going on a date after your shift? You were beautiful, undeniably, but he’d never considered you someone who did anything like that.
His mind began to fill with speculative thoughts.
Did you go on dates often? Is the person you were on the phone with a person you usually went on dates with? Did you ever go on dates with anyone from the hospital? Did you have sex with your dates or did you prolong it for as long as you could manage? Have you ever had sex with anyone in the hospital, like Santos with Garcia?
Would you, if you got the opportunity?
He shook the thought from his mind just as you responded to the person you were calling. “You’ll have to take me out to a nice little dinner if you maybe want to see me in your bed.”
His heart raced and the fantastical image of you in a fancy little outfit, ruined mid-fuck. He pushed it away just as fast as it came. He had shit to do and what he was thinking about was horrendously childish of him. Was he 15?
He left the rec room as quickly as he could before you could see him.
The mystery of your life outside of the Pitt—more specifically, your romantic and sexual life—nestled itself into Whitaker’s mind for weeks. He could be in the midst of doing his charts and your figure would rush past him, standing beside a patient’s gurney, the speculation and wonder of your intimate life distracting him until Dana or Santos or Robby pulled him out of his own head.
It was an embarrassing and uncontrollable issue.
There was a time where you called for him to come help you with a patient. He was distracted the entire time, watching you work and command everyone else to specific things. It was made worse when he got so distracted that he dropped a utensil.
“I-I’m so sorry!” Whitaker dropped to the floor to pick up the scalpel. Before he could do anything, you took it from him as he popped back up.
“I’ve got it, Huckleberry,” you’d said in a quick, flat tone, “make sure her breathing is stable.”
His face burned. He’d seen you just about every day for most of the day; he’d gone a whole year without being flustered and consumed with the thoughts of you. What was the problem now? Why couldn’t he stop thinking about you putting your mystery date onto their knees?
“I can do it,” he’d said. His voice was shaking, coated with embarrassment. God, did he wake up with the mind of a 13 year old boy or something?
You stopped, only for a second. His heart skipped a beat and the fantasy ghosted back towards the front of his mind. Your eyes were round, calculated, not a hint of anything but the pursuit of the objective goal swimming in the pools around your pupils.
“I know you can,” you’d said in an intoxicatingly low voice. “But not right now. Understand?”
It was probably the most embarrassing moment of his career in the Pitt. He’d clocked out thinking about that, from the moment you called for him to come with you to the half a second you stared directly into his eyes. You were a mind-altering disease, he’d come to realize, and his life was being ruined by the mystery that was you.
It was so humiliating (in his head, at least) that he’d asked both Dana and Robby and even McKay to replace him if you ever called for him to work with you. It took a bit of vague convincing but they agreed.
It got worse after two full weeks of him avoiding even being in the same room with you. His thoughts hadn’t reached full on debaucherous perversions. It had gone as far as imagining you kissing and touching a mystery man’s body, running your fingers over his torso and kissing his chest. It was pathetic and weird, he knew that, but nothing to be entirely ashamed about.
Until you pulled him into the rec room—the silent, empty rec room—and trapped him inside by standing in front of the door. You folded your arms over your chest and stared at him with narrowed eyes for so long it put him into a mental spiral.
Did you know he overheard you talking about hooking up with your date? Did you know the things he thought about you? He knew you couldn’t read his mind but he was certain it was obvious on his face.
Finally, you spoke and broke the uncomfortable silence. “Do you have a problem with me, Whitaker?”
“Do you have a problem with me?” you repeated slowly. “You can tell me and we can talk about it, but only for a moment, so spit it out.”
He shook his head immediately. “No! No, I don’t have any problem with you. We don’t even talk that much, why would,” he chuckled nervously, “why would there be any problems between us?”
“See, that’s the issue. We don’t talk that much anymore.” You leaned on the door, your face falling a little bit. The look of the worker bee was starting to slide away.
“I…I just…,” he didn’t know how to explain himself, he barely knew how to explain to Robby why his charts were never his main focus!
“Did I do something?” you asked with a frown.
Whitaker blinked. “No, I promise, I’m fine. We’re fine.”
“Then why are you avoiding me? Every time I ask for you to come help a patient, I expect you to be behind me and instead I find Mel or just someone else. Are you asking other people to fill in for you when you have to work with me?”
He stammered like an idiot. His eyes roamed all over the room, from the tables to the walls to the crumbs on the smooth white floor. Every possible scenario was running through his head at the speed of light. Anything to—
You held out your hand at him, accusatory. “You’re avoiding admitting whatever it is that’s your problem with me! You can’t even look at me!”
Dennis ran his hands over his face, shaking breaths leaving his lips. What could he do that wouldn’t ruin his already weakening relationship with you? But he couldn’t admit that he speculated about your intimate life, that was far too peverted of him.
Either way he’d lose your friendship, even if it wasn’t that strong to begin with.
He sighed and sat at one of the round tables, putting his face in his hands. His entire body was hot with embarrassment. “I…I over…overheard…”
“What? Speak up. Please, Dennis.” A chill ran up his back at your words.
“I…overheard you,” he muttered a little bit louder. “When you were talking on the phone a couple of weeks ago, I heard you. I heard you talking to your date and it just…I got kind of embarrassed. I didn’t know how to approach you.”
You stared at him for a moment then broke out into laughter. He looked up at you from behind his hands, eyes wide. Were you laughing at him? His body grew hotter and he was beginning to grow irritated.
When you stopped laughing, you sat in the seat right across from him. “I’m so sorry, Whitaker, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have been talking about stuff like that in public.”
Huh? You hadn’t said much all those weeks ago. He wasn’t a prude or anything, it was just a couple of sentences.
“No, it’s fine. I should’ve just minded my business, or at least let you know I was there while you were calling,” he said hurriedly.
“No, it’s really not fine. I shouldn’t have been talking about sex positions and kinks where anyone could hear me. It’s inappropriate, it’s unprofessional, and, clearly, it’s bothersome. I’m sorry, seriously.”
He stared at you, dumbfounded. "It...it's...okay."
You left the rec room first and the infection took over almost every part of his mind now.
What positions were you talking about? What kinks were you...so vocal about in the rec room? His mouth was dry, but his mind was filled to the brim with disgusting fantasies.
He thought about you on your knees in front of some man, caressing his bare thighs while you teasingly kissed the base of Mystery Man's dick. That was the first fantasy, and it seemed to last for days, going through different variations.
He fantasized about you either laying on a bed prone or perked up in doggy, your ass on display for whoever would grope and lick and be inside of it.
He couldn't stop thinking about how you'd look full of your Mystery Man's cock, whimpering and moaning and drooling while he plunged his fingers into your mouth. Was it easy to make cum? When you squirted, did you shake?
It was humiliating how much he thought like this. At least he could keep it maintained. Unfortunately, his way of "maintaining" his debaucherous thoughts was less than ideal.
He'd go home with Santos, closing and locking the door to his room, again, the way a teen boy would. He always swallowed down the embarrassment that came with beginning the act, but he couldn't find any other way to solve his problem.
It had helped. He'd spent hours with the end of his shirt bunched up right at his neck. He'd pull off his pants and shovel his shaking hand into his boxers.
It was humiliating how easy it was. His hand gripped the shaft of his cock and massaged it. His thumb pressed and rubbed and moved almost like a machine.
It made him so sensitive. He'd whimper and moan, stuffing the bottom of his shirt in between his teeth so that Santos wouldn't be able to hear him losing his voice as he wiped the excess cum up and down the length of his dick.
When he thought about you and some new mystery man in the Pitt going to a closet to fuck like desperate, eager animals, he'd run off to the bathroom to swirl his fingers around the tip of his cock.
He'd take off his shirt, so as to not get anything from his scrubs in his mouth, and put his undershirt in his teeth, then eagerly stroke his cock rough and fast. And the cries of his orgasm would be muffled while his body shook in the stall, trying not to get caught by the suspiciously shaped Robinavitch shoes that entered the stall beside him.
When the dayshift Pitt crew went out for drinks one night, he'd seen you and some random woman talking. Were you flirting? A disgusting part of him hoped so.
For almost two weeks after that night out, he'd imagined you with a Mystery Woman, her hands reaching up into your shirt to grope your tits and going down into your underwear to touch you and sink into you.
He felt his most disgusting when this phase of fantasies passed through. He didn't even know if you liked women, not to mention his best friend was a lesbian. It felt incredibly disrespectful and every time he let his cock out to fap, he'd get a disgusting taste in his mouth.
But the idea of you experiencing some form of erotic, intimate pleasure had him excited, on edge, every nerve dancing right under the surface of his too-hot skin.
In his fantasies, if you were on your knees, stuffing some Mystery Guy's cock into your mouth or pushing your face in the wet heat of a Mystery Woman's pussy, he'd sit on the floor of his bedroom and masturbate so much his hand would be covered in cum.
If you were riding, he'd lay on his back with his hand around his neck, fingers pressing against his throat while he grinded against the tightness in his boxers.
If you were grinding, he'd do the same against a pillow, spilling loads of cum onto the pillowcases until it ruined the trance that the friction had put him into.
He had no clue how long he would be stuck stroking his dick to you for, but he never seemed to hesitate to do it.
Making himself cum to unending mental images of your pleasure had become an addiction he wasn't looking to cure. Maybe if you took him aside and fucked him in the rec room, that would solve the problem.
Until then, he'd spend most nights touching himself and drooling and cumming in your name.
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