I think I want to start posting my short stories and writing on here, so I'm going to start that soon! Some are fanfics, but a lot of them are just random things I've written.
They love Whumpee more than anything, they feel so lucky to be spending every day by their side. Even if that means pushing them around in a wheelchair, lifting them into bed, helping them get dressed, picking up their medicine, washing vomit out of buckets, doing all their laundry and preparing every meal, they happily do it all. Because all they want, all that they’ve wanted from the moment they first saw them, is to be with Whumpee.
“Make sure you take them both.” Whumper says, handing over two pills and a glass of water to the emaciated person in bed. Whumpee accepts them with shaking hands.
“I hate how they taste,” they mutter after swallowing, “they always make me feel nauseous.”
“There’s very little that doesn’t make you nauseous nowadays,” Whumper chuckles lightly, their attempt at lightning the mood not being returned.
“It’s just that, none of these pills are actually going to help me, they just ease symptoms.” Whumpee looks up at Whumper.
“Do you think they’ll ever figure out what’s wrong with me?” they ask, eyes filled with desperation.
“Whumpee I would love to sugarcoat this, but I just wouldn’t know what other tests they could still run.” They keep eye contact as they watch Whumpee’s heart break.
“Realistically speaking, it might be best to think about accepting this as more of a disability rather than a disease. And maybe we could look for ways to make your life more fulfilling despite the state you’re in.”
Whumpee’s eyes tear up at the mere idea of this being permanent, they can’t help but to cry.
“There now” Whumper sits down at their bedside, softly stroking Whumpee’s back. “I’ll help you; we’ll figure this out together.”
“I- I don’t want this to last forever…” Whumpee sobbed, “It’s so hard.”
“I know, but I’ll be right here with you every step of the way.”
“I can’t thank you enough for everything you’re doing,” Whumpee sniffles through tears, “you barely knew me, but you came through for me more than my friends or family ever did.”
Whumper takes them into an embrace.
“And I’m not going anywhere.”
---
Whumpee sits outside on the porch in their wheelchair, Whumper brings them out here every evening at sunset for some fresh air. It hurts to remember all the nights they spent partying, all their old friends are still out there, having fun. They barely ever visit anymore, and why would they? There’s no fun to be had here, they’re spending all their nights on the porch like a goddamn old person.
They need to feel some independence, maybe it was the lack of exercising that made them more sick? Maybe if they just start moving, it will get easier as they go. Whumpee takes the first step out of their wheelchair, the dizziness nearly makes them fall back down. They’re seeing stars, but surely that will clear up in a bit. They take another few steps, now leaning against the fence. It’s too much, they need to get back to the chair, they need Whumper- they need Whumper to…
They can’t have Whumpee running off like that, running back to their old life, their old friends, away from Whumper.
Their vision goes black.
It doesn’t take long for Whumper to find them, passed out right outside their home. They hurriedly carry them back to bed, tucking them in lovingly and making sure they’re not hurt.
Whumpee shouldn’t have been able to do that, they have far too much energy. Clearly the pills aren’t doing enough anymore, is Whumpee building up a tolerance? No matter, that can be remedied. Whumper is just going to need to add some of the substance to Whumpee’s cup of morning tea as well.
---
Based on this “Munchhausen Syndrome by proxy” prompt I wrote a few months ago :)
(These aren’t established ocs but were given names to replace the generic “whumper/whumpee” titles)
Trigger warning for n0nconsensual tattooing & creepy whumper
Julius doesn’t kill.
If he did, then what would be the point of all that hard work? Days of labor gone to waste; pieces of art lovingly crafted by his perfectionistic hand would wilt when they could otherwise have lasted a lifetime.
When he captures his canvasses, he does so with the intent of setting them free, to be a walking museum of his arts. Therefore, he covers his face, his hair, his hands even. After all, a creation is never meant to see its God.
“Tell me your name, dear.” he says, circling the tied-up prey.
“Why would you need to know?” It answers hesitantly, a slight tremor apparent in its voice.
Julius kneels down in front of it, forcing eye contact.
“Because we’re telling a story, my dear. And that’s where yours starts.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means I need your name” Julius says, leaning in uncomfortably close. “Don’t force me to make you say it” His smile fades as he reaches for the knife located next to the prey’s chair.
“I’d really hate to ruin this perfectly good skin that could’ve been used for-“
“Jesus, it’s Rowan for fucks sake” Rowan says, eyes wide.
“Rowan...” Julius mumbles, almost affectionately.
He walks over to his desk, brightly illuminated by an overhead lamp, and starts sketching. Soon he returns with a stencil.
He sits next to Rowan and lifts its short sleeve as he starts cleaning the area with a wet cloth.
Rowan recoils. “What are you doing?”
Julius holds up the stencil, revealing it to Rowan for the first time.
“Your name represents you, of course, and this name above you is mine. Pleased to meet you, dear.” Julius traces his hand across the drawing.
“This line connecting us represents our relationship. This brief moment we had, were I turned you into a Masterpiece.”
“Oh no fucking way.” Rowan utters, leaning as far away from Julius as its restraints allow. “You’re not putting that on me!”
“Stay still.” Julius demands as he gets out his razor and attempts to shave Rowan’s arm.
Rowan trashes around, desperately trying to break free.
”You’re fucking insane, there’s no way I’m letting you tattoo me, you freak!”
Julius picks up the knife and holds it against Rowan’s neck, lightly penetrating the skin. “I told you how much I hate damaging my canvas,” he sneers, pressing deeper. “but I am willing to slash up most of your skin in order for you to let me paint on what’s left.”
Rowan freezes, a look of pure horror in its eyes. Julius wastes no time testing boundaries again as he moves the stencil towards his blank sculpture. Placing it on its skin is met with no resistance, Julius readies the tattoo gun, the buzzing sound filling the room.
“Please don’t do this” Rowan begs in a last-ditch attempt.
Julius gently lays his index finger on its mouth, indicating a shushing motion, before drawing the first line.
Rowan’s eyes start to tear up, it hurts. He’d never gotten a tattoo before, it hurts so much worse than he thought. He doesn’t want this; oh God why is this happening? Who the fuck even gets their own name tattooed? This is gonna look atrocious.
If he ever gets out of here, the first thing he’ll do is cover that shit up, or have it removed, or rip off his skin. Anything to just get it off of him.
Julius moves the needles around with an unbroken focus. He cherishes these moments, there’s no more exciting a feeling than planting your first marks into a new set of skin. It’s over before he knows it, satisfied with his creation, he bandages the tattoo in a plastic wrap.
He looks up at Rowan, pupils dilated, sweating from the pure adrenaline rush. “So, dear Rowan,” he says.
It’s happened on occasion that people were genuinely disrespectful towards Eugene.
Roy had hit a rough patch in his life when he was, the disgruntled Roseda employee was recently forced to couch surf after being evicted from his apartment, and on top of that Eugene demanded he work overtime during this crucial quarter, even saying at one point that he “Surely wouldn’t mind staying late, now that he had no place of his own”.
It all came to a head at the coffee machine where Roy, exhausted and visibly unkempt, was unfortunate enough to run into Eugene who reminded him that they did have a dress code and he was expected to look presentable.
Roy just glared as he slowly turned his head to make eye contact with his boss. Even after two years of loyal service he couldn’t be bothered to show him just a bit of leniency during one of the worst times of his life.
“Well, I’m very sorry you have to stare at this tired worn-out face during your coffee trips, but we can’t all afford regular Botox.” He retorted, earning a snicker from another employee currently on break.
“I beg your pardon?” Eugene said, noticeably insulted. “I made no mention of your face, it's mostly your attire that is unacceptable. And I don’t appreciate you implying that I had work done.”
“Oh, please I can see that filler migration from here, you’d think that someone who lives off of a couple hundred people’s labor could afford a better doctor.” He walked past Eugene as he finished the sentence, nearly bumping into his shoulder on his way out. Eugene was left in the spotlight with a dozen eyes on him, whispering, giggling, and enjoying the entertaining ordeal that gave them a break from their mundane routine, before he too turned around and went back to his office.
The rumor spread like wildfire, his secretary even made it a note to tell him he shouldn’t be ashamed, “My sister had that done too.” She reassured him.
“Roy is just having a difficult time,” he replied, “I don’t hold it against him.”
That evening when everyone had gone home, Eugene returned to the office with a newly purchased bottle of vodka, the cheap kind. He opened the cap and poured himself about a shots worth into a coffee cup, which he drank in one sip, wincing at the low-quality taste. After resealing it, he carefully placed it in the drawer under Roy’s desk.
---
The next morning, Eugene hovered around him like a hawk, deliberately standing behind him and looking over his shoulder at the screen, asking for updates on his latest progress, and eventually asking for an item Roy almost certainly had in his drawer.
He absentmindedly opened it, only to be met with the unfamiliar sight of bottled vodka.
His eyes went wide as a deep panic set in, he immediately shut it again, making a loud clunk noise that alerted the whole room. He turned around, meeting Eugene’s stern face which confirmed beyond a doubt that he had seen it too.
“That’s not mine, I don’t know how that got there!”
“Roy,” Eugene responded, feigning surprise. “I know you’ve been having a tough time, but I didn’t know it had gotten that bad.”
Any chatter around them went mute, his colleagues stole gazes from the distraught looking Roy, stumbling over his words and failing to come up with a response.
“I’m going to need you to come to my office.”
“I-I swear it’s not mi-“
“Now.”
Roy took a seat across Eugene’s desk, he couldn’t make sense of the situation. Did he store that there and forget about it? No, he never brought alcohol into work. Then again, he had been drinking more than usual lately, could he really be that far gone?
“You understand that I cannot let this slide.” Eugene began, breaking him away from his thoughts. “These past two years you’ve been a valuable employee, but I’m afraid that-”
“Wait, stop I’ll-“
“after this incident I’m going to have to let you go.”
“No!” he jumped up from his seat. “Please! No! You-you can’t fire me now, my friend is only letting me stay at his place till the end of the month! I won’t find a new apartment if I don’t have a job!” he grasped at his hair, breathing erratically. “Please, I don’t wanna be homeless.”
Eugene took a good look at the eyes desperately holding back tears. He knew, and he’d been looking forward all night to seeing this man beg for his livelihood.
“If I continue to employ you in your current position, I will risk the welfare of my company.”
“It wasn’t mine!” Roy cried out, trying one last time, “I… Uh, maybe someone-“
“I don’t want to hear it!” Eugene snarled.
Roy slowly sank back into the chair, there was no use trying to convince him, he would look guilty no matter what he said.
“I need this job…” he stammered out at last, sniffling.
“I don’t like this either Roy but I-” He paused, sighing in dismay “I can’t afford to give you your job back, but I will see if there’s anything I can do for you, okay?”
Roy just stared back, anymore words and he’d start bawling.
Eugene leaned forward, displaying his most sympathetic face “I will do my best, but you have to get your act together.”
A high-pitched “Okay.” Was all that he could muster.
“In the meantime, clear out your desk and go home. I will give you a call later.”
---
The phone call came at the end of the day, after Roy spent many hours stressing about it. He anxiously picked up the phone, awaiting his fate.
“Eugene…?”
“Hello Roy, yes this is Eugene, I’m calling about the incident that happened earlier today.”
“…Yes?”
“As you know I’m not currently equipped to undo your termination, but after some consideration I believe I may have found a temporary solution for you.”
Roy let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“Patty, one of the janitors will be relocating next month, I’m willing to offer you her position despite your apparent problem. On the condition that you work hard, and I don’t find any more hidden substances that shouldn’t be at the workplace.”
Roy didn’t need to think it over, it’s this or nothing.
“I’ll take it, thank you very much.”
“Listen, Roy, I wish you all the best with your apartment search, but if anything like this ever happens again, I cannot help you any further, do you understand?”
“Yes, it won’t, I promise.”
Every morning he walked by Roy on the way to his office and greeted him with a smile, one that’s returned right back to him. Sometimes he would even stop to make small talk for a minute, ask how the search was going, and make sure he got the corners of the floor just as good as Patty did, she was a pro after all.
---
Eugene arrives home in the early morning hours, having paid little attention to traffic after his escape from Warner. He closes the door behind him and lets himself fall against the wall. His hands are still shaking, he puts his head in them trying to somehow ease the burning headache and dissociating trance the drug still has him in a day later. He moves towards the bathroom, taking off his clothes as he goes. He tosses them on the floor to wash later, unsure if he’ll ever wear them again.
He takes just a moment to look in the mirror, red eyes staring back at him, his hair a tangled mess with dried disheveled hair gel clinging onto it. He quickly pulls away before jumping into the shower.
This time it isn’t a game, he doesn’t get excited thinking of how he could outdo him, and neither does he care about being perceived as the good guy. He wants to see Warner miserable and he wants him to know why.
Part of him wants to go back, bring a weapon, and hurt him properly. But the consequences of assault and possibly murder are some he isn’t quite sure he could evade. He briefly entertains the thought of filing a report, imagining himself having to explain to someone face to face that he, was raped by that lowlife. Absolutely not. Besides, he’s already washed off any evidence.
He needs to rest first, think on it later. Right now he’s disoriented and exhausted, he’ll get him back soon, where he knows it’ll hurt.
That evening, Warner’s phone rings.
“Ello?” He says, picking up.
“Hello this Eugene from Roseda Corporations, we met-“
“Holy fucking shit Eugene? Didn’t expect to hear from you this soon. What’s up? Back for more?”
“Warn- Ugh, god. Warner, I feel it necessary to have a talk with you about what happened, in person.”
“Jeez, can I be honest? That doesn’t sound very fun, think I’ll pass.”
Eugene can’t stop a heavy sigh from being audible over the phone as he lowers his head into his hand.
“You can do that, and I’ll be forced to take legal action against you, but I’d much prefer it if we could settle this between the two of us.”
“I’m getting the feeling that by “settling” you mean punching me in the dick again.”
“No, I’m not going to hurt you, I merely mean to talk-“
“You promise? Cause that hurt, I need assurance that you won’t do that again.”
Eugene shuts his eyes firmly, grimacing, hating that he must go along with his own degradation, for god’s sake it has never been this hard to keep up the act.
“I promise.”
“Alright then, but I’m keeping a close eye on you, don’t try anything.”
“Not to worry.”
“Looking forward to our date, sweetie.”
---
“I hope it’s okay that I’m not accepting any drinks?” Eugene jokes, standing in the doorway.
Warner chuckles, relieved to see Eugene in a seemingly good mood.
“More for me I guess,” he smiles “come in.”
Eugene takes place on the same couch where it happened, momentarily feeling a pinch of disgust as the distorted memories force their way back into his head. He pushes it down, bringing his facial expression back to warm and friendly.
“What’s there to talk about?” Warner says, sitting down across from him, throwing his hands up. “Am I in trouble, officer?”
“On the contrary,” Eugene begins, “there is something I must tell you, that I could not risk saying over the phone.” His friendly smile fades, he meets Warner’s eyes with an almost sympathetic demeanor “I understand why you did it, and I’m not mad.”
Warner’s brows furrow, making a puzzled expression. The words don’t quite compile in his head, he tries to speak but remains quiet, waiting for an explanation.
Eugene hesitates for a moment, taking a deep breath, before making eye contact, and whispering the confession.
“I’ve done it too…”
Warner’s eyes grow wide, his mouth falls slightly open. All too quickly he returns the brightest smile as he leans back into his chair. “No… You?”
Eugene looks away, grinning, it feels strangely good to say it, he hadn’t anticipated how much he would enjoy a positive reaction. He returns his gaze and a smile.
“Numerous times.”
“I knew there was a reason I liked you.” Warner says, astonishment still plastered on his face. “You stood out to me, you know.”
“I have used that same method before,” Eugene continues, “I of all people should’ve seen it coming, it’s just that… I didn’t think I’d be anyone’s target.”
“Aw you don’t think you’re pretty?” Warner coos, “Well, I think you’re very pretty, pretty enough for me to rape.”
“Oh, shut up,” he spits through his teeth, smiling still despite nearly losing his composure in the face of that comment. He takes a look at Warner, the man is staring at him with a newfound affection. It makes him uncomfortable, but he’ll have to bear it. He wants him to feel safe and happy enough to let his guard down, for now.
“May I use your bathroom for a minute?” Eugene asks.
“Sure, down the hall door to the left, can’t miss it.”
Eugene makes his way through the dimly lit hallway, slowly changing lights are radiating through the open door at the end, illuminating the floor. He enters the room, it’s sparsely furnished by a bed tucked away against the wall and the large corner desk, adorned with led lights underneath it and three monitors on top. At the end of the desk there is a sizable desktop computer with multiple colored fans spinning inside and RGB lights shining from its components.
Eugene checks the door, it can be locked from the inside.
Perfect.
Click
He takes an expandable baton out from his inner coat pocket, readies it in one fell swoop, and promptly smashes the computer’s glass side panel, before striking the inside of the still running device, causing sparks to fly.
Warner jumps up from his chair upon hearing the commotion, he runs towards his bedroom only to find it locked, and starts banging on the door in a panic.
“What the fuck is going on in there?”
Eugene doesn’t answer, he continues to massacre Warner’s precious setup, moving on to the monitors when he was sure the PC was irreparable.
He could recover from getting charged with property damage, he couldn’t care less if he were court ordered to replace the entire rig, as long as he gets to have his revenge.
“Eugene!” Warner screams, bashing on the door until the wood starts to crack. He finally resorts to kicking next to the lock, forcing it open after a few tries. He stumbles through the doorway, looking up at Eugene hurling what’s left of the machinery off the table.
“Why the fuck are you doing this?” His voice cracks, staring in disbelief at the scene before him.
“I thought you weren’t mad!”
“You really believed I wasn’t fucking mad?” Eugene roars, having to restrain himself from using the weapon on Warner after all.
“But you said you understood!” he cries.
“I do! Perfectly, in fact.” He smashes the screen of the last surviving monitor, “But you made one mistake fucker,” and stomps on it for good measure “you did it to me!” he yells as he delivers one final blow to the broken pile of electronics.
Warner sinks to the floor, sitting down and hugging his legs. He looks vacantly at his destroyed sanctuary. “All my files…” he whimpers, hiding his face away in his hands.
Eugene walks past him, hearing him softly cry as he leaves the room.
Warner returns to his living room moments later, holding himself steady against the wall, his face twisted in that miserable expression Eugene was craving to see.
He finds him occupying his chair, panting, clutching his baton and wearing a slight grin.
