SO happy to see that you write for Whitney!! Can I please request what he’ll do if reader ended up getting pregnant?
I write for aaaaaall of them, I love the DoL cast ngl! Thank you for requesting!
"I think—ugh... I think I could be... pregnant?"
Your words were carefully chosen, hesitant, unsure. You'd never really stood up to him in the first place, but this time was different. You were different, and Whitney had noticed it for a few days now.
To him, you had always been a victim. From the way you dressed to the things you had to do at your orphanage. It wasn't like his life was any less shitty than yours, but you were a special case of victim, one as miserable, if not more, than himself. Bullying you gave back some of the control Whitney felt slipping from him every day. It made him feel strong and better than anyone else. As long as he poured all his negativity on you, he felt free. You were a stepping stone to him, nothing more.
That's what he'd been telling himself, at least.
His eyes widened as he listened to your words. Seeing you run off to the bathroom in the middle of class had not only been unusual for you, but also excited him. It felt like an act of rebellion that Whitney could fight you on, mock you for, and push you back into your place. His heart was racing as he peaced out from the class and went after you instead, but when he found you hanging over the toilet in one of the stalls, he hesitated.
The smell of puke hung unmistakably in the air, your breathing ragged with saliva still dripping from your lips. Lips he used to ravage just days ago, your body a map he knew well after weeks of studying it. Bullying you had been fun at first, but Whitney recognized that you had more uses than just seeing the light dim in your eyes every time he did something to you.
It had been the idea of his friends to take advantage of you to satisfy their needs. The number of times he dragged you into a classroom and forced you to serve the people who followed him around like lost dogs had been countless. And yet, the only one to ever taste more of you, the real, naked, vulnerable you, had only ever been him. If you told him that you had slept with no one else, he would believe you in a heartbeat, as meek as you were, your pussy had taken on the shape of his cock every time he forced himself on you.
"Pregnant?!" Whitney screeched, his voice a few octaves higher than usual before he caught himself, clearing his throat.
"Be so for real, you slut, who knocked you up? Who'd even touch someone so disgusting?"
Wiping your face on your sleeve, you dared to glare up at Whitney from your seat on the ground, an expression so unlike yourself, yet so befitting of your circumstance.
He'd never admit it. Admit that he'd been watching your every move. That he only came to class to see what you were up to. You were a thorn in his side, and yet, he couldn't take his eyes off you as you bloomed like a rose. Even though you looked more tired than usual, you were glowing as you walked down the hall, heads turning everywhere you went. Your movements were strained when you sat down or got up from the floor after being pushed down by him, yet the twisting of your body seemed more erotic than ever before.
If you were pregnant... could that be the reason?
No-fucking-way, Whitney didn't have a kink like that.
And yet, your defiant glare and the short, snapped, "You, obviously!" you barked back at him, made him tense and aroused at the same time. There was even a hint of pride in the way he straightened his back.
Your hand shot up suddenly, and you turned around to the bowl, heaving into it with the disgusting sounds of a sick person. Morning sickness, or something it was called, right? Whitney didn't know. He never cared enough to listen in class, yet he took a step forward, hands raised helplessly as his instincts told him to help you.
"Fuck," he muttered. "No fucking way, you slut."
Disgusted and yet, unable to stop himself, he stepped over your legs, reached for the toilet paper and tore off some pieces, holding them towards you as you kept dry heaving.
"Thanks..." you muttered wetly, taking the paper to wipe your mouth. "You can go, you know."
He should have. Whitney shouldn't have cared about you enough to stay, and he wasn't the type to play nice either, but somehow, his feet wouldn't obey. Heat spread into his cheeks as he realized he was far too lenient, far too kind to someone he claimed to not care about, but the thought of you, vulnerable, needing him, didn't give him a chance to abandon you now.
"Shut up, slut. I'm trying to be nice here."
He tried to sound confident and like the menace he was. But even Whitney had to admit it sounded unconvincing. "But... you sure about this? Pregnancy and shit? Thought you were a damn orphan, how's that gonna work?"
You said nothing, hanging over the bowl as if you were going to throw up again any second now. But then Whitney heard it—sobbing. Gentle, calm, and strangely controlled. As if you've been through it many times already, and although you still cried about it, you had already given up.
"You're such a dick, you know that?" you groaned through the tears. "Can't you be a normal person for once and not rub more salt in the wound?"
"Don't get mad at me, whore! You're the one who got knocked up!"
"With your child!" you yelled back when Whitney raised his voice. "You're the one who knocked me up, Whitney!"
Whitney could feel his body recoil, the realization finally catching up with him. Until that point, he didn't want to realize this option, the idea that this could be his doing. Consequences of his actions. It was easier to blame you and ignore the obvious signs than to admit the reason you were sitting on the bathroom floor, wiping your eyes, and your mouth reeking of bile was his fault, too. Or, well, only his fault.
"You don't need to do anything," you sniffled, taking a deep breath as the tears slowly ran dry. "I'll take care of it. I'll earn the money and do the right thing, just... just don't tell anybody, okay?"
A twinge in his chest made Whitney flinch. Do the right thing?
"You're gonna get rid of it?"
"Of course. I can't take care of a kid, can you?"
No. Shaking his head lightly, it was more for himself than you. No, he couldn't take care of a child. His dad would probably kill him and the kid if he pulled up with another mouth to feed. And as much as Whitney liked to see you suffer, he knew you couldn't either. He had heard about the absurd rent payments you had to make to the orphanage. There was no way you could afford raising a child while trying not to drown in debt.
His back bumped into the door of the bathroom stall, the room so eerily quiet aside from your sniffles. Slowly, he sank to the ground, his legs splaying out around you, and for once, you didn't flinch away when your bodies touched. Pregnancy made you more confident, it seemed. Or protective. It suited you, igniting a flame in Whitney's loins that he quickly suppressed.
"I won't ask you for anything else, just respect my decision, please," you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "I don't... I don't know if I can scrape together the money before... you know. Maybe I'll have to give it up for adoption afterward. I won't be able to come to school for a while, but..."
This time, it was Whitney's stomach in knots. Hearing you say that washed a sense of rage over him. However, his anger was only a mask for what he felt deep inside. That kid, however unwanted and unintentional, was still his. And before even that, you were his. There was barely a day he remembered not seeing you around, not bullying you and watching you squirm in fear before him! Without you... he'd be...
Every morning when he dragged himself out of bed, it was the thought of you that made him even go to school. When the need overcame him, he thought of you and the way your pussy felt while jerking himself off, and when you didn't cross his path even once for a whole day, he grew more desperate to find you in the streets of this god-forsaken town.
Whitney would never admit these feelings out loud. Hiding them beneath anger and disgust for you. But looking at you now, confident yet broken, on the dirty bathroom floor holding your belly with a tender palm, he, for once, didn't want to force the pain and sadness inside him onto you. Even just imagining this child you two made in the arms of another person hurt him—even more so, the thought of your reaction when it was time to get rid of it. You looked like you'd be a great parent. Responsible, caring. Protecting this worm growing inside of you. You were a much better person than Whitney would ever be.
Normally, that would have pissed him off. But the urge to hurt you in retaliation couldn't take hold this time, not when he knew you were carrying his child. Of all people, it was his baby and not some rando's that you slutted it up with. Did you even fuck anyone else? He never bothered to ask how you made your rent money. Whitney always assumed, but it didn't really matter now, did it?
Reaching forward, Whitney grabbed your arm, and this time, you did react, fighting against him. You had no chance as he pulled you between his legs, wrapping his arms around you and placing his head on top of yours.
"This sucks," he sighed. "Who am I supposed to fuck while you're having this baby?"
"Can't you think of anything else but sex?" you replied, clearly annoyed.
God, you were so sexy when you were assertive.
"Whatever. What are we naming the thing?"
"The baby," you corrected sharply. "And we won't. We're giving it up, and never see it again."
"But shouldn't it have a name?" he asked, trying to hide how much that statement hurt.
"No, we can't get too attached. And can you let go? I'm already hot, and you're making it worse, and..."
Pressing his face into your hair, Whitney took a deep breath, feeling his whole body relax as he let your voice drown out into the background. His slut was pregnant with his child. The ultimate mark of ownership. A mark that would let everyone know you belonged to him. Because that was the truth, wasn't it? You were his. You had been from the moment his eyes fell on you the first time. You were his victim, his slut, his.
Rose, he thought. If it's a girl.
The thought of you and his kid, somewhere far away from this soulless town, crossed his mind. Beautiful, serene, and stupidly in love with him too as you greeted him with passionate kisses at the door, the two of you sitting on the porch, watching his child play and laugh. Just the three of you, no one nagging and no one bothering you. It was the kind of future Whitney had never imagined before.
And it made his arms tighten around you.
