#m!whitney

[succubunnydee]

Seperate Close up of Whitney, from my comic about his ""confession"" scene Now you can get kabedoned too! 🫵

[deoccchi]

I imagine his appearance in a really different way from others idk what to think I need to make a fem version actually

[wrongdodo]

Busted

Read on Ao3

Pairing/Characters: M!Whitney x GN!Reader Genre: Smut 18+ MDNI Warnings/Content: soft Whitney, blood (including brief bloodplay), injury (busted nose), oral sex (m receiving), no reader orgasm, reader can’t fight for shit Word count: 2.6k

Summary: After weeks of pestering, you finally allow Whitney to teach you a thing or two about self-defence – but unsurprisingly, he’s a terrible teacher. When you manage to get an effective (if accidental) hit in, Whitney insists you make it up to him. Blow jobs are the best medicine, right?

A/N: Covered in blood, you say? Like a slut? One of my most popular fics includes pathetic injured Whitney, so I think people like reading him in pain. He deserves a treat after all that torture though, poor boy. I’ve tried to write 3 fics since my last one, but my brain is hazy as fuck at the moment. Hope it’s okay.

"Hit me."

It’s the early afternoon, and you’re in the residential alleyways, just beyond Domus Street.  Your school bag lays discarded against a fence, sagging among weeds which burst between the wooden panels. A few feet away, Whitney faces you down. You’d often wanted to hit him, but right now you found yourself totally lacking motivation.

"But what if I-"

"You won’t,” he whips back, confident. “Hit me, hard as you can."

His complete lack of faith isn’t exactly inspiring, and you find yourself shifting under the weight of his gaze. The shaky breath you take is measured, and you try not to let it come across as a sigh.

Taking a few tentative steps, you mull over the best place to strike him. The way Whitney straightens his posture gives you a little comfort; puffing out his chest with a familiar, easy smirk. You’re not sure where you plan to hit him – but that’s part of the plan, right? If you don’t know, there’s no way he can anticipate it either.

You ball your fist and strike with sudden ferocity, and Whitney clasps your wrist with startling ease before you can connect with... wherever you were aiming for. It’s quite impressive, but you try not to let it show.

"Too slow,” he scoffs. “Try again."

This time, you don’t hide your weary sigh. It’d felt like the fastest you had, and bluntly, he’s a shit teacher - giving you no ideas on how to improve. Perhaps it shouldn’t be a surprise he’s not as patient as he promised, but the way he’d spoken about teaching you to fight had make it sound quite inviting – maybe even fun. As your thoughts wander, he leaps on your hesitation with renewed hunger.

"Come on,” he advances, looking less amused than at any point so far. “I’m doing you a fucking favour here." You step back, but he easily closes the distance in the narrow alley and is now pushing your shoulders in an attempt to draw out some venom. "Don’t be a pussy your whole life. Fight back."

You steel your jaw and slam your hands against his torso with a satisfying slap. When he stumbles slightly, you’re surprised at how encouraging it feels. "Thats it, use your bodyweight. Again." Whitney draws close, and you charge, pushing his chest with open palms. He’s strong and holds firmer than you expected, but it feels fucking good. Whitney’s grinning - an expression that you can only assume is pride.

With a forceful lunge, he closes the distance and grabs you, sending you tipping backwards with a startled cry. You’re tumbling to the ground, back connecting with a thud. Whitney’s hold had broken the worst of the fall, but it’d knocked the breath from you nonetheless. In a flash, he wrestles his arms from under you, and pins your body between his knees as he sits up, ass resting square on your stomach. A slap connects with your cheek, then another. Soon, it’s a flurry of taps raining against your face. You yell, not because it’s painful – it’s fucking annoying. Instinctively, your hands raise to block the strikes, and you thrash your legs, twisting angrily beneath his full weight. Your own hits quickly devolve into tired, desperate thumps that barely connect against his chest. You’re fucking sick of it.

"Come on!" he jeers. "Show me what you’d do if I was some sick creep trying to fuck you!"

You can tell from the way Whitney delivers the line, he thinks it’s a stretch. With a drained breath, you use all your strength to lift your hips… but he’s fucking heavier than he looks, and knows exactly how to use that lanky body to overpower you - easily absorbing your movements with his hips and sapping your strength with his laughter.

"Fucking hell, no wonder everyone takes advantage," he mocks, the sound crushing your will. He must feel the way your movements are slowing, and hear the way you pant for breath. It’s exactly the shit he picks up on, no matter how good you think you are at hiding weakness.

His head dips down to offer his own brand of encouragement, and at the same time you lean upwards to offer some choice words. Your forehead smacks straight into the bridge of his nose - a sudden, sickening crunch as skull connects with cartilage. Your eyes blow wide in shock, and if you gasp, it’s impossible to tell - drowned out by his piercing yell.

"Fuck! You fucking... fuck!"

You brace for retaliation that never comes, because instantly, Whitney’s hands clasp his face, muffling his profanities.

Frozen in fear, you find yourself gawping up at him, straining assess the damage. Your heart drums loudly against your ears, and its several thumps before you dare move. He’s blinded by the pain, eyes shut tight to fight against it. Blood drips through his fingers. You notice all this before remembering how to speak.

"Sorry! Shit, I’m sorry!” you jabber. “It was an accident!"

You watch as Whitney cautiously releases his face. Blood pooled in cupped hands runs down his arms in bright rivulets, marking his skin with bright lines. You barely notice the drops that roll off to stain your clothes. You stare upwards, his stricken expression glaring against the bleak sky above.

"I’m so, so sorry, Whitney. Shit..."

He’s leaning to dab his face at the crook of his elbow now, exhaling to spatter bright blood and snot onto the bright white cotton of his rolled sleeve. You might be disgusted if you weren't so concerned.

“Think you’re the first fucker to bust my nose?” He laughs, and the sound invites warm relief. But from what you can see, he didn’t ought to be laughing... He looks a mess. Still seated on top of you, now examining the tenderness on the bridge of his nose with careful fingers. A warm droplet splashes your cheek and trickles to meet your ear, but he’s totally indifferent - dripping blood freely. You wriggle and thrash in disgust.

"Don’t you have a tissue?" you ask, grimacing. The question invites fresh amusement as he wipes his lip on his forearm, leaving a glistening streak of blood behind. Whitney inspects it with interest.

"Who the fuck do you think I am? When have I ever had a tissue?”

You wiggle, covering your face to protect against the blood he doesn't seem to give a shit about.

"Chill out,” he scolds. “It’ll stop in a sec..." Whitney’s casual tone makes it clear he’s had worse injuries, but it’s still tough to see him hurt.

When he finally dismounts, you scramble to sit beside him, watching bloodstained fingers work to unfasten his shirt. You don’t ask questions, even though it takes a while. You watch Whitney clumsily smearing red over fiddly plastic buttons in silence, as his tongue pokes out in concentration.

Once loose, Whitney removes his shirt and balls it up to catch the blood dripping freely from his nose. It’s not the worst idea he’s ever had - the shirt is likely ruined anyway. He sits against the fence, and you wonder if he’s beginning to feel a little lightheaded. Redness blooms unchecked, pooling on the on white cotton, and the air holds a coppery tang. You sit beside him, concern etched on your features. He’s just sort of… catching the blood as it drips freely from one nostril. There’s a lot. He looks a bit pale.

"I think you need to put pressure on it..." you suggest – finding yourself frowning with uncertainty. A sigh rips through Whitney’s body.

"Not gonna fucking press it, am I? Idiot."

You bite back any further advice – instead, settling into silent worry. Whitney’s way too casual about this, occasionally hacking up blood-streaked spit from his throat and depositing it on his bundled shirt for examination.

Mercifully, the drips begin to slow. Whitney stashes his shirt among the weeds before meeting your anxious gaze with an unbothered smirk. Slowly, he reaches out to run his thumb over your cheek, then slides into your mouth. You sneer at the metallic taste and he grins broadly at your discomfort. His teeth are stained pinkish in the low light.

"How do I look?"

You study him. A dark red crust rims one nostril, blood stains his lips and chin, and the bridge of his nose is already swelling - his cheekbones flushed and thickened, distorting his features somewhat. Amid the carnage, his eyes look bluer than ever.

"Honestly? Kinda fucked."

"Doesn't feel that bad,” he rumbles, and you’re sure he has to be lying. "Don’t think you broke it."

You consider for the first time that you might have, but Whitney states it with enough confidence to still your words. When he spits onto the ground between you, you don’t make a fuss. His saliva is streaked with less blood than before.

Instead, you fuss over him. A strand of his fringe is matted with blood, and you find yourself rubbing it between your fingertips, tinting them red. You don’t wipe away his tears, deciding he'd rather they go ignored. Instead, you peer closely at his face, trying to decide if his nose is as straight as usual... and he dips towards you, grinning. Whitney’s smiling way too much for someone covered in blood – frankly, he looks like a psychopath. When he notices you staring, he grips your wrist and smooths your open palm over the thick ridge of… an erection. His tongue pokes playfully between his teeth.

"Really?"

"Your fault. All that slutty wriggling woke it up,” he states, matter-of-factly. “Now it won't go away."

"… Sorry?"

You feel yourself shrug, not sure exactly which bit you’re apologising for. Briefly, you consider what it might be like to be surprised by shit like this, but you can’t picture it.

"Words mean fuck all. Show me you’re sorry, slut."

"Now?” you exclaim, taking in his expectant expression. “We need to get you some ice or something. Let me take-"

"I know what I need. Come on, you want me to feel better right?" He wears a determined pout, and your resolve wavers. It’s hard not to feel guilty, and he looks especially pathetic.

"Fine, but then we go to the orphanage. It’s not far."

Whitney smiles triumphantly, already freeing himself from his trousers with blood-streaked hands – it’s settled in the creases of his knuckles and between his fingers, darkening as it dries. He pulls your head down towards his cock, with sudden energy. You notice some drops of blood around his bellybutton, and don’t doubt there's a few hidden on the dark fabric of his trousers. He’s fully hard, despite the pain he must be coping with, and you don’t know whether to be impressed or alarmed. Wordlessly, he grips your face, pushing you down with insistence.

You tug downwards on his shaft, releasing his sensitive tip to your parted lips. Smoothing your tongue gently over the surface, the familiar taste of his arousal invites a hum of satisfaction to vibrate in your chest. He’s nowhere near as forceful as usual, and you’re not sure if it ought to concern you. But you settle into a comfortable pace, running your tongue along the underside of his thick cock, pausing to swirl over the broad tip at the apex of each movement.

Whitney encourages you with rare gentleness, and you allow yourself the luxury of taking him deep on your own terms, for a change. Saliva pools on your tongue, and you run it wetly over his entire length. He’s quiet – wordless, in fact. Only the gentle tenting of his fingers massaging your scalp alerts you to his approval. When you find yourself wanting to check he’s okay, he forces your back onto his cock with a pressure that’s much more recognisable. So, you maintain your rhythm, tuning into his gentle sighs of pleasure.

You work diligently to bring him to his peak, and when your hands eventually smooth over his thighs, you feel muscles steadily tensing - signalling the proximity of his release. Sensing his orgasm build, you quicken your movements, eager to tease out more encouraging moans from his parted lips. Hips begin to jerk, and he fists your hair, holding you firm and steady to take everything he’s about to give you.

Warm spurts kiss the back of your throat, and you slurp greedily around his shaft, gratefully welcoming every thick pulse. A satisfied sigh rattles loose from Whitney’s chest as you withdraw – only dipping back down to lap the final, belated drops oozing over his oversensitive tip.

He doesn’t even shiver. You draw your eyes up to see his are closed, head resting against the fence. It’s not like him to be so quiet, and concern flavours your words.

"Whitney? Whitney, can you-"

"Fucking hell, just... shut up a sec," he mumbles back, eyes still resting above his swollen cheeks. You’d been so occupied sucking him off, you’re a little startled seeing his battered face – a stark reminder of the events leading up to it. Passing cars rumble down Domus Street, and a pigeon coos insistently from a nearby rooftop. Silence hangs - for too long.

"Whitney!"

"Shhh..." he hisses, voice barely a whisper. You notice his mouth twitch – an expression of fresh pain that tugs your heart. "... Banging headache."

"Hurts now?" you ask softly, stroking his thigh.

"Yeah," he exhales through gritted teeth. As you helpfully tuck his cock away, you wonder if he has any regrets - seems the orgasm hasn’t helped as much as he insisted it would, which is probably why they’re not usually recommended as first aid.

"You need a hand?"

He nods. You help him up - bracing as he yanks your arm with what feels like his entire bodyweight. When he stands, you take another look at the damage. The bleeding has stopped, but now, the swelling is your main concern – there’s a crude line of broken blood-vessels blooming under his eyes. He'll have a beautiful bruise in a day or two - all the colours of the rainbow. You doubt he’ll admit to anyone how it happened – but if he does, you hope it’ll give you a little street cred.

For now, you can’t help feeling guilty - but later you’ll allow yourself to consider if he deserved it. Still, it’s hard to deny the wicked flutter in your chest. There’s something exciting about seeing him all dishevelled and dangerous, blood streaked up his lean forearms – shirtless and gloriously wild. Instantly, he recognises your thirsty look, and has the nerve to give you an exasperated scoff.

"I’m not gonna fuck you, slut," he moans, lips twitching into a half-smile. "But it’s good to know I’m still hot." You think he could probably be convinced.

"Orphanage isn’t far,” you promise. “We have painkillers, and ice in the freezer. I'll clean you up…. I’m so sorry, Whit." If he hears your apology, he doesn’t acknowledge it. You grasp his outstretched hand. It feels tacky as you lace fingers between his.

"Promise me… next time some pervy fucker grabs you... Nut ‘em, just like that, alright?" he states, sounding almost proud. "Square in the fucking nose."

You don’t have the heart to say it was more by fluke than arrangement – you’re not sure you could ever replicate such an effective hit if you tried. Instead, you nod and assure him you’ll do exactly that. As you leave the alley, he’s still unsteady, and leans on you for support.

"I'm fine," he insists, anticipating your concern. "Just... Walk slow, okay? I can’t see shit."

As you cross Domus Street and make your way to the orphanage, you wonder if Whitney will be as keen to offer you self-defence lessons in future.

[degreesofkei]

i can't really think of a caption but i offer

individual pics under the cut ⬇

i posted sydneys so pls dig them up manually /j /j here

i thought kylar used a big cutter knife bc they can fit that in their school bad. i have one. but well it was.................. really a kitchen knife HUH...

[succubunnydee]

He's lucky he caught her on an off day

based on this scene that I recently got ingame. I couldn't get Dee's reaction out of my head :D

[wrongdodo]

Future Prospects

Read on Ao3 Characters: Dad!Whitney, daughter Riley, and GN!River (mentions of Mum!Reader and GN!Robin) Genre: Fluff with a dash of angst Warnings/Content: Soft, angsty domestic Whitney, I guess? No horrible, nasty bully to be found here. Just a tortured soul haunted by the past <3 Word count: 3.8k

Summary: A sequel to Waiting After dropping Riley at her new school, Whitney makes his way to the headteacher’s office to issue an apology, and request River’s help with a big decision. Will Whitney’s self-doubt win out, or will he take a chance on a university application?

A/N: Never thought I’d revisit this, but an idea sort of happened, and here we are. Thanks to @dolyx who planted a Nurse!Whitney seed in my brain long ago… I like it better than the neurosurgeon route – feels a more realistic. He’s still got a long way to go, though…

Riley loves school – you both knew she would. This morning, she races ahead of Whitney on the pavement, kicking up autumn leaves with a special kind of boundless, 8am energy that’s reserved entirely for excitable 5-year-olds.

Nobody had been more surprised than Whitney to receive her acceptance letter, stamped with the school logo, River’s signature squiggled neatly on the bottom of the page. In fact, it still hung on the cluttered fridge among Riley’s artwork and numerous party invitations – an important daily reminder that not everything Whitney touches goes to shit.

Whitney was getting used to handling the school drop-off. He’d never admit how much he hated it at first, but it was easy to tell from the way he grumbled about the other parents and their screaming, bastard kids. He hated the stares, and the small talk – more so if anyone tried to actually involve him in that gossipy, pointless shit.

And annoyingly, parents talked to him often – way too often. It seemed like every fucker in the playground wanted to meet Riley’s dad, and invite her to playdates, parties and sleepovers - the latter of which she was way too young for. He sometimes imagined they were surprised to notice how little of her shining, outgoing personality he reflected back at them. At school, he’d always been popular – but it seemed like a very different set of skills were required to bond with all these… grown-ups. Among them, Whitney still felt like a fraud and preferred to keep his distance whenever possible.

Beyond the school gates and a small courtyard, Riley’s teacher opens the classroom door – he waves to the crowd of adults and pupils, and like clockwork, Riley’s hurries over from her spot playing hide and seek among the leaves with friends. She holds up a brightly coloured slip of paper, flapping it playfully. Whitney catches it - another party invitation – this time, a bowling party for twins, turning six. It looks expensive, but he’s pretty sure he hides his brief frustration as he shoves it into a pocket.

Riley’s hands grasp out eagerly, ready to receive her belongings, and not for the first time, Whitney wishes he could share an ounce of her energy or enthusiasm. He’d never been a morning person – sure, it was getting easier, but he still had some way to go.

Piece by piece, he loads his daughter up with everything she’ll need for the school day – Hello Kitty backpack, matching lunch box, water bottle and a bright blue bookbag emblazoned with the school logo. She holds up the lunch, wrinkling her freckled nose in curiosity.

“What’s in it?”

Whitney grins – she’d been mistrustful of his lunch packing abilities ever since he committed the sin of including a raspberry yoghurt instead of a strawberry one. That was weeks ago, but Riley still made sure to grill him whenever it was a “Dad Lunch Day”.

He lists the contents easily, counting out each item on his fingers like a well-practiced rhyme - because he knew she’d ask.

"Cheese spread sandwich, sausage roll, baby tomatoes, hula hoops, strawberry yoghurt, wagonwheel..."

"Miss Benson says chocolates not allowed." She wrinkles her nose once more in suspicion. Whitney’s expression shifts to match.

"A wagonwheel's not chocolate..." he begins… but suddenly supposes he’s never been less sure of anything in his life. Is it chocolate? It’s got chocolate on it, but... fuck, these lunch rules are insane. He can’t remember anyone giving this much of a shit when he was growing up… and he has no idea who this Miss Benson bitch is, anyway.

"Look, if Miss Benson’s got a problem, you tell her to give me a call, yeah?"

Riley seems satisfied with that – and with the contents of her lunchbox. Ultimately, no raspberry yoghurt means no problem.

Whitney leans down to tug a small piece of dry foliage from her now messy hair, before replacing it with a kiss. “Be good, squirt. Love ya.”

Riley grins back. “I will, love ya too.”

He probably doesn’t need to remind her, of course – Riley’s always good… At school, anyway. But there’s still part of Whitney that fears the day he forgets that little ritual is the day his kid goes completely off the rails out of nowhere. Who knows – if someone had reminded him to be good every day, he might not have gotten into half as much shit…

Riley tears towards the classroom like lightning – not giving Dad another glance. The teacher extends a nod to Whitney as his daughter slips inside. A gust of wind scatters a rush of dead leaves over the playground, and nearby trees shake their bare branches. The sound disguises Whitney’s slow exhale as he makes his way towards the main office.

Thankfully, it’s a different receptionist waiting to greet him at the counter – they’re perky, polite and offer none of the disapproving glances that that other receptionist likes to shoot his way. After a brief, polite exchange, the assistant calls through to River’s office.

“Riley’s dad’s here to see you.”

There’s a pause as they await the reply, and Whitney realises his hands have once again habitually settled in his pockets, before drawing them out nervously. Body language is important, but he hasn’t got a fucking clue what else to do with them as he stands in the foyer.

The receptionist replaces the phone and offers a smile. "You can go straight through."

Whitney hopes his curt, polite nod disguises his unease. He’s not sure if he’d expected to wait or wanted to. It would have been good to work through exactly what he wanted to say to River - obviously, an apology was in order. But as he steps towards the headteacher’s office, it becomes worryingly clear there’s no time to plan how it might sound. He’d have to rawdog it.

Knuckles knock gently against the door – so uncharacteristically gentle, Whitney’s not sure it’s even heard. In fact, he’s about to knock a second time when the door swings open. Almost nose to nose, River’s piercing blue eyes hold an unexpected softness that Whitney’s sure he doesn’t deserve... and for a second, he wonders why it’s pissing him off so much.

In fairness, the small talk comes easier than it does with parents in the playground, but that doesn’t mean it’s remotely comfortable. It’s not as though an apology is the sole reason for his visit – no, there’s other shit to get through that’s going to be just as difficult to communicate. In fact, there’s likely to be a whole lot of unpleasant talking to muddle through, and Whitney would prefer to start as quickly as possible.

But when he finally manages to formulate an apologise for the way he kicked off during their last meeting, Whitney’s pleasantly surprised with how sincere it sounds. Not because he’s insincere – but he rarely sounds it when he means to. Whitney’s never counted himself among the ranks of the world’s excellent communicators. Hell, he’s not sure he’d call himself good… or even passable. He could admit some growth – more in the past 5 years than many people manage in a decade. But sensitive shit like this still made him restless – and it was even harder when faced with the ghost of his old maths teacher, who somehow managed to amplify all those insecurities just by existing.

“There’s no need to apologise, Whitney. Really.”

Well, that’s a fucking lie, but the sentiment’s appreciated. If there were no need to apologise, he wouldn’t be sat here doing it, would he? It’s not exactly the response he expected, but Whitney’s more than happy to move on. One uncomfortable conversation down, one to go.

It’s a relief when the conversation moves on to Riley – how well she’s settled in, how her teacher is so pleased to have her in his class… none of it is any surprise to Whitney at all. River liked to think of themselves as a hands-on headteacher and made sure to be a presence around school by visiting classrooms often. Somehow, Whitney found it more than a little weird to think of his kid building a positive relationship with the teacher he’d tormented so brutally as a teen. In fact, he’s not sure how it makes him feel, so he pushes it squarely down into his stomach for later. Usually, he’d be delighted to talk about his daughter all day, but the temptation to change the subject is sickeningly strong. But not to that other thing… not just yet.

Fluffy, pink and red flowers fill a vase on the windowsill. They look as out of place as Whitney feels.

"What happened to your sunflowers?"

"Ah, these are from a parent. Dahlias. Beautiful, aren’t they?"

Whitney hums, internally scolding himself. His foot taps against the carpet. Shit, maybe bringing flowers would have been a good idea.

“But you’re not here to talk about flowers, right?”

Obviously.

There’s not really any choice but to say it, but all prior mental preparations have suddenly drained dumbly out of Whitney’s skull. He takes a slow breath, but despite his efforts to control it, it sounds like a heavy sigh.

"Look, I know I... I wasn't always..."

River holds space. They both know what Whitney's talking about, but the headteacher seems fascinated to know how he'll choose to phrase it.

"I didn't always make... good choices."

It’s surprisingly easy to articulate, probably because they’re not his words – they’re yours. Riley’s much better than he ever was at making good choices - helpful choices, friendly choices, smart choices. Still, the words barely scratch the surface of Whitney’s teenage misdeeds, and River is prepared to put it much more plainly.

"You were a shit," River states. Whitney’s eyes widen, a stunned smirk creeping onto his face. River’s lips curl to match. The brazen admission is exactly what Whitney needs to feel like they’re on something resembling even playing field. Just a couple of adults, talking about grown-up shit.

"Right. I was… a shit... but I’m not stupid. I know you gave me way more chances than I deserved."

That was an understatement, too. It was easy for Whitney to recall the occasions he arrived late to class, yet River still offered a seat at the front of the classroom, on the off chance he’d choose to apply himself that day, rather than piss about with his mates on the back row. He never took it.

No matter how many times Whitney gave a sarcastic, inappropriate or just plain rude comment, River still chose to call on Whitney whenever he raised his hand – just in case he had something insightful or relevant to offer. And every week, River would offer Whitney help with his homework after class, despite the fact he didn’t hand in a single page of revision questions all year.

"More than you deserved and then some," River confirms. The teacher often felt they’d aged more in the short time teaching Whitney’s maths class than in their past 4 years working as a headteacher. Shouldering the responsibility of running an entire school actually proved to be a welcome respite in comparison.

"Yeah, uh… sorry,” Whitney mumbles, letting one hand dangle and absently pick chipped paint off the chair leg. Unbeknownst to him, a growing pile of flakes littered the carpet beneath.

“Look, I need a favour.”

River’s expression doesn’t falter. "Go on."

Whitney shifts in his seat, before producing a rolled-up booklet from a pocket inside is jacket. He slides it across the desk, and it seems to stretch lazily as it unfurls. On the cover, a group of young people smile – their whole lives ahead of them. Clearly, the brochure is well-thumbed – dogeared and creased at the corners. With a practiced motion, Whitney flips it open to the desired page.

"I wanna apply for this...” he taps the page gently with one finger. Somehow, it felt very different discussing this River – up until now, he’d only really discussed it with you. “But they want, like… a recommendation letter or something."

The thinly-veiled plea hangs –too long, Whitney thinks. It’s not like he’s dying to ask River – in fact, on the list of people he’d choose to ask, River would probably land squarely in the bottom tier, given their history.

But the reality is… there’s no list of people. Neither you nor Whitney could think of anyone more suitable for the task. Someone that believed in fate might wonder if your paths had crossed again after all these years for this very reason – but Whitney didn’t buy into that bullshit.

River produces a pair of reading glasses from their breast pocket, perching them on the bridge of their nose before studying the page with interest. Their piercing eyes flicker upwards. "Nursing?"

Whitney’s already snipping back before he can catch himself. "What's that supposed to mean?”

River raises their eyebrows. It’s a fair question, and Whitney realises there’s no amusement or sting in their tone, after all. He apologises, again.

"This is something you’re interested in pursuing?"

"Yeah, I guess. Thought about it a lot..." Whitney paws at the back of his neck, running fingers up through his hair. Is it so hard for River to believe he wants to do something like this? Still, he bites his tongue. Getting better at that.

"And you’ve got the grades they want?"

"Barely," Whitney replies, allowing himself a huff of amusement. Had the requirements been much higher, this course wouldn’t have been an option. In the end, he’d surprised a lot of people with his final school grades, but not himself. Maybe it had something to do with the pending cloud of parental responsibility giving him a much needed kick up the backside.

"How long is the course?"

"6 years part time, or 3 years full time." It’s easy to answer, Whitney had done the research. Still, a familiar feeling of unease winds its way up his spine. He’d not expected to be grilled like this. Almost feels like he’s being tested.

River adjusts their spectacles. "This campus is about an hour’s drive. How do you plan to get there?"

A frown twitches the corner of Whitney’s lips, so strongly it’s hard not to look frustrated. He’d not expected River to try and talk him out of it, and it definitely feels like that’s what’s happening.

Whitney levels his voice.

"Got my driving test coming up, so once we get a car, I’ll be sorted…"

River doesn’t respond. If they can sense the mounting tension, they do nothing to dampen it.

Whitney inhales slowly – mindful not to make his stress it too obvious. When he exhales, he imagines blowing an endless stream of bright, foamy bubbles into River’s office. They float up to the ceiling, lighter than air.  There were a lot if shitty kid’s books, but some had some decent ideas – he’d never admit it to anyone but Riley, but that dumb little trick had helped him keep his shit together on quite a few occasions lately. This particular tactic was usually reserved for especially stressful driving lessons, he hoped it might work just as well now.

Still, River is apparently completely invested in unpicking the finer details of the plan. "Late nights. Especially with rush hour traffic."

At once, the bubbles start to burst. Whitney knows. He doesn’t need to hear shit like this – because he’s already thought about it. All of it.

He knows what late nights mean for your family. Late nights mean missing bathtime, bedtime… hell, there’ll probably be entire days lost to studying, too. It’s pretty unlikely he’d be able to do the school run once he’s enrolled – he wouldn’t miss the smug, catty parents of course, but few things set him up for the day like seeing Riley excitedly sprint off into her classroom each morning. Less time at home for him means more strain on you, too – as if you weren’t already under enough fucking pressure. Probably feel like he’s abandoning you all over again – no matter how many times you assure him this is different…

"Forget it. It's a dumb idea."

He reaches out for the dogeared booklet, but River repositions it before Whitney’s fingers touch the page. They’ve lifted it closer, squinting to read - the details magnified through their glasses. Whitney continues – the words flowing now, like an endless stream of bubbles.

"I know I don’t deserve your help. I just... I really wanna do something. Maybe make people proud for once, I dunno... but I get it. Shit like this isn’t for me."

For what feels like minutes, River is painfully silent. Then, they bring the brochure to rest on their desk, setting their reading glasses against it.

"I didn’t give up on you, Whitney - despite your best efforts. Now, try giving yourself the same courtesy."

That’s clever. He allows it to sink in for a moment. It’s very fucking clever, actually – and surprisingly, he doesn’t hate hearing it. Somehow it comes as a much needed relief.

As Whitney stifles a grin, he wonders if River always had such sage advice locked away under that grey head of hair… or if it’s simply grew and matured there during the past few years. In fairness, it’s not like Whitney ever gave their teacher the chance to share such wisdom back in maths class.

"I just want to make sure you understand fully. This is a demanding course. You’ll need to be on time every day, take notes, pass exams..."

"I know," Whitney’s voice is muffled as he rubs his face with his palm. The pressure isn’t lost on him. "I know."

There’s a lot to consider – and hell, you could say he’s still considering it, in all honesty. What if he doesn't get on with the lecturers? He’s not exactly had the best relationships with authority figures in the past… And what about other students? Can he even make friends without acting like a total dickhead? Whitney had grown apart from a lot of school mates – it was hard to stay connected when life’s priorities suddenly shifted...

Plus, there’s money to worry about – student loans would only cover so much. Robin would have to pick up the slack with childcare… and they’re happy to do it of course, but it feels a lot to ask, especially for free…

The thoughts tumble through Whitney’s head. But he knows from experience, you can both deal with difficult shit. And sometimes, the difficult shit is the most rewarding.

River smiles wisely, tucking glasses into their breast pocket and sliding the booklet back over the desk. On the creased cover, a group of young people smile.

“When do you need to submit this letter?"

Whitney shrugs. He’s not actually sure of that particular fine detail – for the first time, River’s grilling catches him unprepared.

“Dunno, I guess. As soon as possible.”

"I'll have it to you in two weeks. How’s that?"

Whitney’s eyes widen, shining with fresh disbelief. "You’ll actually do it? You’re gonna, like... lie for me?"

River meets the expression with a similar level of surprise. "What do you think I’ll be lying about, exactly?"

"Dunno. Guess you’ll need to say I'm good at studying, or some shi... something."

True, Whitney’s communication skills still needed a little fine tuning – that probably wouldn’t get a mention in River’s letter. But the headteacher felt assured that the young man’s past confidence could soon return, given the right motivation.

Clearly, he’s resilient – young parents had to be, especially those with as little support as yourselves. River didn’t like to dwell on the past, but he still remembered parent’s evenings at Oxford Steet College. Both you and Whitney both among the students whose adults rarely attended, for quite different reasons.

And to his credit, Whitney displayed good organisational skills, too. During this first term, Riley had never been anything less than perfectly punctual, and had pretty good record when it came to remembering her PE kit and bookbag, too. Riley’s teacher encouraged personal responsibility, of course – but at that age, a child’s organization is ultimately down to the parents. From what River could glean, Whitney was often responsible for the school drop off, and suspected he was the one getting Riley ready for school during those mornings, too.

If Riley’s well-adjusted nature is anything to go by, River could safely assume you’re kind, patient people at heart. Kids don’t grow up as sparky and happy as she is without parents that guide and support, with constant love and firm boundaries. Not every kid at this school was so lucky.

And Whitney showed a rare eye for detail that any good nurse should possess. Few visitors had referenced the absence of sunflowers on River’s windowsill, yet Whitney had noticed the dahlias almost straight away – and it had been months since he last set foot in the headteacher’s office, and in much more stressful circumstances.

For a moment, River considers leaving all of this for the letter… but decides that Whitney probably needs to hear it more than the university admissions team do. By the time he finishes his assessment, Whitney’s smile holds secure, the words igniting a rare sense of comfort in his face. River’s quite delighted to see it, at last.

"And you don’t think it’s a dumb idea?"

"Not at all. I think it’s a great idea. You’ll make a fine nurse."

The teacher stands, picking up the prospectus and eyeing it a final time, before passing it into Whitney’s waiting hand. The booklet naturally coils itself into it’s familiar, rolled up shape once again, slotting easily inside his jacket pocket.

"It’s a good university. Did my teacher training there... many years before you were born."

In that moment, Whitney realises he has no idea how old River actually is. They always been like an old fucker, but he wouldn’t like to hazard a guess at their precise age. Still, their piercing blue eyes retained a little youthful energy – even more so now, after their little heart-to-heart. Not that it matters too much – they’re just a pair of nondescript adults, after all.

"Best of luck with the driving test. Let me know how that goes."

"Yeah, will do. Cheers, River."

The headteacher accompanies Whitney back to the school entrance. It’s a much more relaxed exit than last time, and he wonders if River recalls it with quite the same intensity. Back at the reception desk, Whitney notices a brightly coloured display of school values in the foyer. It briefly draws his eye as they exchange goodbyes.

"And give my best to... to Riley's mum, won’t you?"

Whitney’s half-way home before he realises that River still doesn’t know your name, and as the realisation hits, a brief snort of laughter comes with it. Old fucker – it’s not like it’s a difficult name to remember… all the same, he’s happy to let it slide - and chooses not to mention that particular detail when telling you the news.

[wrongdodo]

Raw Nerve - Chapter 7

Pairing/Characters: F!Reader x M!Whitney Genre: Angst, Mature Themes 18+ Warnings/Content: Abortion, Teen Pregnancy, Dubcon... and more planned throughout. Please check chapter warnings carefully. Chapter 7 TW: Mentions of drug use, Whitney/Dad family dynamics FAQ

Direct to Chapter 7 Read from the beginning

Apologies for absence under the cut LOL

I wrote this months ago - and was sitting on it til I'd finished Chapter 8.

I have not finished Chapter 8.

I'm not really finding any time to write at the moment, which sucks - so realistically I'll probably only manage updates during breaks from University. Hopefully they'll be worth waiting for! I think about this fic every day and have so many ideas mapped out.

Thanks for all the love and support, it means the world! I might not post but I check tumblr every day :) <3

FUCK - remember when I used to just write fanfiction all the time and it was my whole personality? Good fucking times man, I miss it.

[wrongdodo]

Raw Nerve - Chapter 5

Pairing/Characters: F!Reader x M!Whitney Genre: Angst, Mature Themes 18+ Warnings/Content: Abortion, Teen Pregnancy, Dubcon... and more planned throughout. Please check chapter warnings carefully. Chapter 5 TW: allusion to past abuse by parent FAQ

A/N: Writing Whitney POV hurts my brain, it is not a healthy headspace... but if you enjoy this then it'll all have been worth it ;) thanks for all the interest so far! Y'all make me feel very special.

Direct to Chapter 5 Read from the beginning