sofspook

[sofspook]

When the whumpee is finally rescued from the whumper, and the caretaker picks them up to carry them out of there, and they notice that the whumpee leans into every gentle touch. The caretaker trying to put them down once they reach safety so they can be patched up, but the whumpee clinging to them and refusing to let go, so the caretaker has to sit there and let the whumpee cling while someone else tries to patch the whumpee up the best they can without making the whumpee let go. The caretaker trying to get the whumpee settled so they can sleep once they’ve been patched up, but the whumpee still refusing to let go, and the caretaker having to sit with them as they sleep, letting the whumpee cuddle up close.

[sofspook]

The Boy: 435689

CW: Whump involving a minor (character is 16), although minor is not whumped in this piece. Institutionalized slavery setting, pet whump setting. This piece is more angsty comf, though

“435689, Position Two,” The handler said as the door opened, but the boy didn’t move. He kept his jaw set and curled up even more tightly, pressing himself into the corner of the small white room.

“I said, Position-… shit. See, I knew when I saw the other one… You’re definitely too young,” The handler said, and the boy looked up at him, confused by the words. They swam around him, swooped down and up, made sense only after whole seconds had passed. They put stuff in his food, but he had to eat, right? He tried not eating, but they made him, anyway. He’d do anything to not have to be fed through the gag again. 

Or the drip.

The boy shuddered, tears in his eyes, blinking them away as rapidly as he could. If he cried, the handler would laugh at him, they laughed at all the trainees who cried. 

This handler, though, just… stood there. 

“Jesus, how old are you?”

The boy’s eyebrows furrowed, and he tried to curl himself up even more tightly, arms around his knees, shivering in the constant frigid chill. “All…” His voice cracked and he flinched, ready for the crack of the baton - but nothing happened, and finally he forced his eyes back open to see the handler hadn’t moved. “All p-pets are of legal and c-c-consenting age, sir-”

“Yeah, but you sure as fuck aren’t.” The handler sighed, raking a hand back through his hair, his other hand dropping off the black baton that hung on his belt, little a little ridiculously oversized compared to the young handler’s skinny hips. As soon as he wasn’t touching it, the boy relaxed, just a little, but he kept his eyes locked. “What are you, sixteen?”

The boy hesitated, waiting for the trap he knew must be in the question. It was a trick - he had to say he was eighteen, they worked on this, it hurt and hurt and hurt until he agreed to say he was eighteen - but the handler’s expression didn’t change.

There was no satisfaction there. Instead, there was something the boy hadn’t seen in anyone’s face since he got here… concern.

“I w-was… I’m eighteen,” He said, not quite whimpering the words, his eyes still on the black baton that hung off the handler’s belt. “All pets are of legal and consenting ah, age, I’m sorry don’t be mad at me-” 

The handler stepped into the room, and the boy cringed, putting his arms up over his head to defend himself. 

“Hey-… hey, it’s okay, let’s just settle, yeah?” The handler kept moving, step by careful step, slow like a documentary the boy had once watched in class, where they moved up towards a scared wolf and-

Pain - piercing like a knife through his skull - and the boy cried out, curling up tighter. “Please,” He whispered. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Settle,” The handler said again, more softly. “Settle. It’s okay, 435689, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay. I just want to get a better look at you, yeah? Can you look up at me now?”

Keep reading

[sofspook]

49. for Sann

CW// Shock collar, dehumanization, conditioning, implied noncon, muzzles, forced stripping, manhandling, noncon touching (non sexual).

“Take your shirt off” the man with the leather gloves said, tightening his grip around the baton as he pulled up the thin white shirt, uncovering the boy´s abdomen. A few purple spots splattered around it from resisting to be strapped to take the Drip.

The boy breathed heavily, the tip of his ears going red in shame just as the rest of him. 

Sam Wright amused himself watching the transformation from before they signed to training. This one had screamed in his own language for days, alternating it with the sickness of abstinence that quieted them for a second. He was a stubborn one, he would give him that. Able to keep an spark of hate in his eyes, of relentless fighting spirit, throwing curses through a muzzle tightly shutting his snappy jaw.

Now, though? The boy shook like a leaf at the sight of the padded mats of the romantic training quarters.

“Shirt. Off” he said slowly, so 793003 that barely understood English could get the order straight. ‘03 eyed the training room´s door in a desperate peek, but snapped back at him when he stepped forward. “Don’t make me repeat myself, ‘03” he snarled.

The boy swallowed, chest heaving as his arms slipped the white t-shirt off. The man pointed with his baton at the boy’s shorts. “Off too”

All color drained from his face. 

“P-por favor, no. Por-“ Wright interrupted his begging by pressing the button to the shock collar on the boy´s neck, a scream piercing the air as his hands flew to his collar. Oh, and they had done so much progress on that. 

“Hands off, ´03″ the boy gasped, rushing to put his hands behind him despite the after shock trembles. Looking at the man with the baton with full wledged terror. 

“W-Wait!” He started before another shock sent him down to the floor. Wright didn´t care if he had talked in English for a second. He simply walked to the boy and grabbing a fistful of light brown shaggy hair, he pulled his head back to force him to stare at him. 

“No is not an option for you anymore” he said to the boy with glassy eyes. Tears threatening to roll down already. He pulled him to stand by the hair and threw him against the edge of the padded chair. “Take them off and lay there”

Wright watched his back heave for a second, before trembly fingers slipped down the trainee´s uniform. Falling unceremoniously to the ground before he climbed on the chair. Waiting with lips pressed on a tight line, knuckles going white and eyes cast down in apparent submission. 

Wright walked to him then. There was one more thing to take care of before he strapped´03 to the chair. The man tilted his chin up, searching relentlessly on his eyes the spark of stubborness he had been dealing with for weeks, only to find it was gone.

“Good boy” the man said delighted.

[sofspook]

I'd actually love to see anything with a pre-Max Carlo. Maybe a moment with Holstom, or Keith. Or just lonely boy with no one.

CW: muzzled (with bit), pet whump, broken finger, cold, abuse, neglect, forced starvation, food cw

***

Carlo’s finger ached. The cold made it worse. His Master had put it in a splint, but still he kept bumping it into stuff. It'd been broken three days ago, when he tried to shield himself from a steel toe boot, a kick meant for his belly.

It had been a cold month, and that day was no exception. Wind lifted gusts of powder from the tips of the snow banks, blew them in ghostly sheets across the parking lot. 

He had not been given a coat. 

When Keith was in the truck, Carlo sat very still and kept his hands in his lap. When he wasn't, he sat on the edge of the seat and cupped his hands over the heat vents on the dash so warm air went up his sleeves. He shivered at the sensation, goosebumps racing up his spine and making his teeth chatter. 

He suspected Keith only left his truck running so it wasn't cold when he got back. 

He went with Keith to the bank, the lumber yard, the tractor supply store. They stopped at the quick mart and the post office, an office-park of trailers. Men in canvas jackets come and go on salted walkways, neck gaiters pulled high to keep the bitter wind from chapping their faces.

Carlo tried not to attract any attention in any of these places, opted to stay in the truck as the diesel engine purred, doors locked. He was muzzled, and the bit in his mouth was sharp. He thought it was too big, but he’d never tell Keith that, or Keith would make sure to find him a bigger one. 

He didn't dare touch the radio dial to pass the time. Keith liked two stations only, or else they listen to the CB radio. Occasionally, Keith would pick up the mouthpiece and radio someone over the shortwaves. Sometimes, he would tell Carlo who so and so was, what they ship officially and what they actually ship for the Boss Man. 

The moment he saw Keith rounding a corner he jumped away from the vents, the blessed heat. His tongue was sore against the bit, the corners of his lips raw and perpetually wet with saliva that he couldn't wipe dry because of the muzzle. At least his fingers weren’t frozen stiff anymore.

Keith opened the driver's side, swung himself up into the cab. He whooped at the cold, rubbed his hands together. 

"Shit, it is a bitch out there tuhday, kid!"

Carlo, sans coat, eyed him silently. He had a paper bag in his lap that smelled delicious. Carlo’s empty stomach contracted painfully. He salivated like an animal around the bit. 

"Food truck." Keith told him happily. "Realized I was a little peckish." He unzipped his jacket past his chin, scratched his reddish beard. Carlo watched sidelong as he tore into the bag, shoved half a shrimp taco in his mouth. He groaned, rolled his eyes. A piece of lettuce fell into his lap. "Damn." He said, mouth full. "Shit's de-licious."

Even half-starved, Carlo looked away in thinly veiled disgust. 

He paused mid-chew, as if a thought just occurred to him, looked back and forth from the uneaten half of his food to Carlo. "You hungry, Slugger? So rude of me. I just…" he finally swallowed, smiled. "I guess I just forgot about you."

Carlo looked out the windshield, tried to ignore the awful clawing hunger in his empty belly. If he was impolite, Keith might hold his hand against the glove compartment, whack his broken finger with the thick supply catalogue sitting on the floorboards between them.

Keith snorted, shoved the rest of his lunch in his mouth. 

[sofspook]

*sigh* I'm sorry for being so predictable, but... gotta go with angst. Carlo + nightmare he's being put into the dog kennel again

the most requested: good old fashioned nightmare+comfort!

A nightmare and some comfort cuddles for Carlo?? @sofspook

Maybe Carlo has a really bad nightmare and Max wakes him up and comforts him?- anon

CW: past dehumanization, pet whump, kept in cage, nightmares

****

For a moment, Max doesn’t even want to touch him. He seems disoriented, half awake and still dreaming, sheets soaked in sweat. It’s unnerving, like watching someone in a fever dream calling out for people who are not there, for people who are long-dead.

But it’s Carlo. His Carlo. And for that he does touch him, even though the boy jerks away from his hand like a jolt of electricity. 

“Carlo. Come here, baby. Come on. Wake up.”

Max reaches out again, touches his forearm. He sobs, wrenches his arm away so violently his knuckles clip the wall behind him. Max winces, wanting to pull him down a few inches by the waist so he doesn’t run the risk of hitting his head. He won’t do that to him though, not while he’s like this. 

“Carlo.” He says again, and shakes his knee gently. “You’re dreaming. You’re home. You’re safe. Open your eyes, honey.”

He stills, frowning in his sleep. Slowly, his eyes blink open and take in his surroundings. He’s wearing one of Max’s old tee shirts he hasn’t worn himself since college, damp at the collar. In his confusion and fear, he looks to Max something like he did those first weeks, when he was a painfully young, underfed thing who jumped at his own shadow.

Max touches his cheek. “Are you awake, little one?”

Carlo’s bottom lip trembles. He opens his mouth like he’s going to reply, shuts it again. He sits up, crawls into Max’s lap. 

Yes, he thinks. This is quite like old times. He gathers Carlo close as he can, feeling his skin is hot to the touch. He rocks them, kisses Carlo’s sweaty temple, those soft cinnamon curls. 

“You were dreaming.” He murmurs. Out the window, the gauzy sliver of the moon is sinking back beneath the trees. “Just bad dreams, baby.”

Carlo sniffs wetly against his shoulder. “Where is that dog cage?”

Is that what you dreamed about?

“The kennel? From the garage?” 

He can hear the tears in Carlo’s voice. “Yeah.”

Tell me it was Erik Holstrom, in your dream. That it was Keith. You know I would never do anything bad to you. 

“I put it out for garbage collection.”

“When?”

“The day after we had our... our talk about it. That thing is long gone.”

“Oh.”

On nights he can’t sleep, he sometimes wonders if the kennel Carlo told him about was tall enough to stand up in, or long enough to lie down. He wonders if the floor was flat or if it was a grate. He wants to know about practicalities- if he had water, or a blanket, or a way to ask for the bathroom. Less practical questions cross his mind, like why you would make your only pet, a soft and gentle thing, a hostage in your own home.

He never asks these things. 

Carlo shivers violently in his arms. 

“You’re soaked.” He says softly. “You need a new shirt.”

Carlo nods. He knows. But he won’t let go, keeps closing the space between them so he is tight against Max’s chest. He presses his nose in Max’s neck, heaves a shaky sigh.

“Alright.” Max says, and keeps holding him. “I hear you. Not yet. I got you.”

[sofspook]

For Carlo Prompt: Shame?

Shame

Max changes the song on the radio and the boy in the passenger seat looks over at him like he’s just been startled out of a dream. 

“Why’d you... it’s- it’s fine.”

Sometimes his voice is so quiet Max will second guess if he’s heard correctly. Despite growing so handsomely into his height, he is still such a gentle thing. 

He gives the boy a doubtful raise of an eyebrow.  “I know that look. That staring at the window, not even out the window look.”

Carlo drops his eyes as if Max threatened to slap him.

Immediately, he regrets having voiced that observation. Gentle and sensitive often go hand in hand, and Carlo is no exception. Not that he’d have him any other way, he’s just accidentally indelicate sometimes. The window-staring happened right when a new song came on the radio, within the first notes. It was no coincidence. Judging by genre and decade, Max guessed it was a favorite of Keith’s. 

“I wish you’d just change it when you need to.” He says more gently. “You know I’ll never be mad at you for a little thing like that.”

“It’s just a stupid song.” Carlo shrugs. “I shouldn’t have to change a song.”

“Exactly. It’s just a stupid song. So change it. No shame in it.”

Carlo glances at him gratefully, maybe just a touch embarrassed. Even these days, he does most of his articulating with his eyes.  

He’s always thought Carlo had the most expressive eyes he’s ever seen, even years ago, big with fear and peering up at him over the top of a muzzle. 

But maybe it’s like that with people you love. 

[sofspook]

Forgot I was gonna reblog this forever ago! I’m catching up with the masterlist rn.

This kid makes me so sad :( he needs a h u g 💔

Box Boy Auden- Heard

Auden, the half-trained Domestic/Romantic BB, is finally at his owners’ mansion, and they intend to put him to use. You can read the first chapter here.

Tagging: @albino-whumpee​, @cubeswhump​, @orchidscript​, @whumpfigure​, @eatyourdamnpears​, @more-miserables​

Ask me if you want to be added in the taglist

CW: Box Boy Universe, master/pet dynamics, noncon drugging, referenced past noncon (blink and you’ll miss it), cut to black noncon/dubcon at the end, implied underage whumpee (it’s not mentioned in this chapter, but keep in mind that Auden is a minor).

Kneeling in the dark navy sheets of his owners’ bedroom, hunched into himself and eyes almost covered by dark blond hair, the newly taken Box Boy looked much smaller and fragile than before. A mess of faded bruises and lanky limbs soiling the imposing mansion that was hopefully his permanent home.

The boy still wore the Facility’s clothes- a white, oversized shirt slipping off his left shoulder, showing his collarbone, and knees sticking out from his black shorts- but his neck was bare. Sir and Ma’am didn’t bother to collar him and that wasn’t a reassuring sign. The collar means safe, wanted. It means he won’t be sent back. The owner was the only safety he could hope for in a world of pain and cruel expectancy. ‘605 didn’t want to be sent back.

Listen, you c-cant come back. 

Despite his worries, Sir and Ma’am had been gentle to him. It was almost evening when ‘605 arrived at his owners’ mansion. The boy spent the whole road trip dazed and limp, laying in the backseat of Sir’s car- the handler didn’t make the effort to pretend he hadn’t put something in the trainee’s drink. It’s not like the boy could ever refuse it. But ‘605 was conscious enough by the time Sir opened the door, and when the older man brushed his hair and took his non-injured hand, a barely-there grip, to help him stand out of the vehicle, the boy leaned heavily into the touch for his owner’s amusement.

If his weary, unaccustomed eyes weren’t blinded by the sight of the sun, forcing the boy to squeeze them shut, ‘605 could have admired the beautiful building in front of him, with an elegant facade and a flawlessly trimmed garden. A shame, that his owners’ didn’t intend to give him any other chance to see it. And if he hadn’t lost so much of his old self locked in the white linoleum room, the boy would have noticed that the mansion was oddly familiar. Instead, he dropped his forehead to rest in Sir’s shoulder and let his tired body be guided all the way from the front yard to the second-floor bedroom. 

Keep reading

[sofspook]

worth a try

(in which Liam is... not home for Christmas)

|| Masterlist ||

I’m the kind of person who plays Christmas music before Halloween. Looks like I’m the type to post a Christmas drabble before Halloween, too. Anyway, I thought I’d give some background on Liam’s story, so that some of the things he does make a little more sense. 

Didn’t think I could possibly make Christmas sad? Think again. 

CWs: Taylor being gross towards Liam (a minor) in general, pretty blatantly implied past, present, and future sexual abuse (and obvious but NOT explicit noncon touching), general blanket warning for creepiness and boxboy universe/pet whump/dehumanization setting, mental emptiness as a coping mechanism, brief death mention, food and forced eating (not physically forced, but like, there isn’t an option.)

context: Takes place way before Shipping, way before he meets Keith. Liam’s name at Taylor’s was Luca. 

-

There are other faces at the table. Ashen, empty faces of boys from WRU like him, like Luca, each accompanied by the bright cheery faces of men Mr. Taylor knows, each with matching slow smiles, hungry eyes.

It’s Christmas, or so he’s been told. There are three big, brown, seasoned and plump and tender turkeys mounted on expensive white plates at the center of the long dining table, each adorned with a saucière of rich-smelling gravy. Extending from them outwards is an array of other dishes, from roast beef to mashed potatoes to carrots and parsnips and asparagus and stuffing and a whole lot of other things he doesn’t know the name of. It’s Christmas, or so he’s been told, so there are guests over, and he’s to be on his best behavior for friends.

Friends are never a good thing, here. Neither is dinner. Dinner means I’ll do something for you, if you do something for me. Nothing here is free. But it’s not like he has the choice to starve and be left alone. I’ll let you eat a tremendous dinner with us tonight, little bird, if you-

“I don’t believe I’ve met your little pet, Jim.”

“This is Luca. Say hello, darling.”

“Hello,” he says, devoid of any fear or hope or enthusiasm or reluctance. It’s just words. It’s just exactly what he’s asked to say. Nothing more, nothing less.

The conversation doesn’t move beyond that, and Luca doesn’t keep track of it. Briefly, his mind wanders to the castle, to dragons and to the story he’s creating in his head about Niah and Liam and the knights and horses and- but then he stops himself, vaguely recognizes the danger of drifting off while at dinner, and he opts to watch the way light bounces off his silverware instead.

“Eat, dear,” mutters Mr. Taylor, with a carefully-hidden sneer. “I didn’t ask the company for an ungrateful, wretched little thing, did I?”

He doesn’t know whether to say yes, Sir, or no, Sir, because both answers are right and both answers are wrong depending on which question Sir thinks he’s answering and that certainty of being wrong grips him with particularly horrifying icy talons so he doesn’t. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he picks up the fork with his left hand. From outside in, he remembers.

Luca looks at all the food dished onto his golden plate. There isn’t much he’s allowed to have, of course. He can’t have a big stomach when he’s meant to be looked at. He hasn’t eaten all day, for that reason, but he’s not hungry anyway. Not really. Not when pictures keep flipping through the backs of his eyes, not when his head is empty, not when he can still feel the memory of hands over his skin, not when he knows what dinner means, not when he knows the reason behind the looks he’s given, not when he knows, not when he knows what’s going to happen tonight.

Briefly, he wonders if Mr. Taylor would still keep him, still treat him the same if he were nothing more than an animated corpse. Preserved and pretty and quiet.

And with that image in mind, he stares blankly at the slice of turkey on his fork, and does his best to do what everyone else is doing. He keeps picking lightly at his food the way he’s been taught to, the right way, the way Mr. Taylor likes, regardless of the horrible full-but-not-full please stop I’m not hungry leave me alone stop touching feeling in his stomach. And from the surface, no one could know that he’s in excruciating pain. He remains empty, silent, hollow-eyed. The way he’s been taught to, the right way, the way Mr. Taylor likes.

His Sir sits at his right, always, and for only one reason, really. He’s right handed, and therefore uses silverware with his right hand. His left is for Luca, who is always close enough to reach at the table. It didn’t take long for Luca to develop the little useless habit of keeping one hand, the one facing Mr. Taylor, under one leg. It doesn’t help and it never stops his Sir from reaching but it makes him feel a little better, pretending to have some control in a way that would go unnoticed. 

It never helps and it won’t now, and Luca knows this even as Mr. Taylor slides his left hand over the inside of his thigh, even as his hand lingers and inches higher, heavier. Luca knows that having his own arm in the way isn’t going to stop him from going higher, knows that he’ll just move it out of the way, but he tries anyway. And that’s what happens. His arm is pushed away, and Luca’s breath hitches but he keeps picking at food he doesn’t want like everything is fine. It didn’t help. Never does.

But it was worth a try.

---

\ @looptheloup​​ \  @deluxewhump​​ \  @burtlederp​​ \  @lave-e​​ \ @whatwhumpcomments​​ \  @whumptywhumpdump​​ \  

*don’t hesitate to let me know if you’d like to be removed from the general tag list or if you’d like me to leave you off tags for drabbles like this that take place in captivity. :)

[sofspook]

good morning!

|| Masterlist ||

i want to kill tumblr. i literally had this queued for 8 this morning, and it didn’t post. then I tried to post it manually and it deleted all the text inside. and now I have to go back and make edits. at least I back up my stories partially. hhhhhhhhh.

anyway. finally some background! this takes place directly after One Thing. have some fluff and a liiiiiiillll bit of sad.. !!

CWs: blanket warning for boxboy universe/pet whump setting, implied past childhood physical, mental, and sexual abuse, implied past withholding of food, and food in general

The next morning's stiff coldness was met with a strong, sweet smell of Swedish pancakes from the kitchen and a quiet sizzling of batter in a skillet. And Keith was no professional cook, by all means, but he did have that one recipe down thanks to his father all those years ago and, he figured, maybe he'd fix up something a little nicer than the usual eggs and toast to brighten the kid's first morning here.

Perks of having sold a successful company happened to include money, sure, but mostly the freedom and flexibility in schedule to take out a few years of working, in Keith's case, which meant he didn't worry about calls about credit or hiring and firing as he chopped strawberries. It meant that now, he could focus on helping people, and filling his hours with rescuing and rehoming boxboys. And making Swedish pancakes.

By the time he poured the last of the batter and finished up the plates with fruit and powdered sugar, it was nearly two in the afternoon. That was something he'd learned to plan for, though, and done on purpose, after having enough exhausted rescues cycle through the place, so when the new boxboy stepped carefully into the kitchen with his hands tucked up in his sleeves and pulled up to his chest, breakfast was still warm.

Keith smiled. "Good morning!"

He remained in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, hesitant. Even with that bit of distance, Keith could see the fear in his eyes. The tightness in his shoulders. Lowered head, slouching to appear smaller. It wasn’t unfamiliar, and it wasn’t something Keith couldn’t help with a little bit of care.

“Come on in,” he said, nodding to the kitchen island. “I’ve got breakfast for us.”

The boy’s steps were silent, soft new socks on tile. His hands were drowned in the navy hoodie given to him the night before and so was the rest of him, all skin and bones covered in thick clothing that shouldn’t be too big for someone his age. At Keith’s gesture and with a little pause, he finally reached for a stool, and took a seat.

There were several plates set out. One had chopped strawberries, another had bananas, another with blueberries, and on another plate there were minced mangoes. There sat a jar of peanut butter and a jar of Nutella and two big things of whipped cream and some Ghirardelli chocolate sauce and even more miscellaneous toppings strewn about the countertop. Plenty of choices. Couldn’t go wrong.

Keith flipped a Swedish pancake onto the empty plate in front of the boy, and he flinched.

“Ever had these before?” he asked, and he was glad that the answer is a small shake of the head. Breakfast wouldn’t be accompanied by a flashback, then. “Well, the best part about these, is all the toppings.” He dished some onto his own plate pointedly. “See, you just- put whatever you want on top, and roll it up- like this. Like a... burrito.”

The boy watched with fierce, nervous focus. And then, he looked up, with a gaze that said What if I get it wrong? What if I don’t choose the right answer?

“There aren’t any wrong choices,” he assured. “Have whatever you’d like.”

And eventually, after a period of rushed thought, the boy did reach for a few plates, put some odd combinations together like mango and peanut butter, and rolled it up exactly the way he’d been shown. And then he stopped, pushed the plate towards Keith, and looked at him expectantly.

And Keith, who sat beside him at the kitchen island with a mouthful of strawberry-chocolate-pancake, realized he didn’t understand that no, I didn’t mean make me one, I meant make you one. “No, no. This is for you. We’re sharing this food, bud. I made plenty for both of us.” An afterthought, minding the way the kid tensed at doing something wrong as he perceived it, Keith added, “Thank you, though. That was kind.”

So finally, tentatively, with his frantic deer eyes darting over to check his expression every millisecond, he ate, and even gave in when Keith insisted he take at least another two and eat until he’s no longer hungry. Which, in any safehouse’s book, is a success. 

There was... one thing, though. The kid kept one hand under the opposite thigh the whole time they sat at the table. Keith probably wouldn’t have noticed, except he kept switching his arm, and at first he couldn’t figure out why he did that, thought maybe it was some sort of nervous tick or something, until he caught the pattern. Every time Keith moved to another side of him, right or left-- whether it be to get up and feed the cat or grab the plate of mangoes without reaching over him-- he’d switch arms. Why, though, he didn’t know. And probably, he thought, he didn’t need to. None of his business. 

But still. It was... odd.

---

\ @looptheloup​ \  @deluxewhump​ \  @burtlederp​ \  @lave-e​ \ @whatwhumpcomments​ \  @whumptywhumpdump​ \

[sofspook]

!!! Thanks so much for the tag! Here’s a little snippet from something I’m writing right now...

Regardless of the audio quality, Keith can hear the fear in his voice. He recognizes it.

I’ll tag @lave-whump @icannotweave @comfy-whumpee :)

New tag game.

Pull out one sentence from your WIPS and post it without any context.

“Why don’t you stop pushing people you love away because you can’t handle they love you back?”

I’m gonna tag: @whump-tr0pes , @slaintetowhump @moose-teeth , @haro-whumps , @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @boxboysandotherwhump @ashintheairlikesnow and @deluxewhump and everyone who wants to do it.

[sofspook]

LOVE your writing so much. thank you for your hard work! i get so pumped whenever i see you’ve written

awe!! Thank you so so much!!! ❤❤❤ I really appreciate you saying so, it’s nice to know that people enjoy my lil drabbles, haha

[sofspook]

All at Sea masterlist

*The drabbles listed are in order, but spaced very far apart in the timeline. Time and context notes are usually provided at the top of the post along with content warnings. 

-

Captivity Arc (before ‘Shipping’)

Worth a Try

Early Arc (within a year of ‘Shipping’)

Shipping

One Thing

Good Morning!

Later Arc (after about a year)

Panic! at the Mall

Stay

-

Misc. 

All at Sea (collective) tag - includes writing, reblogs, and everything else to do with the story 

Tag List

\ @looptheloup​ \  @deluxewhump​ \  @burtlederp​ \  @lave-e​ \ @whatwhumpcomments​ \  @whumptywhumpdump​ \

[sofspook]

panic! at the mall

hello again! when will I ever post a single drabble with any kind of order whatsoever? no idea. Have this random panic attack piece instead! (Takes place roughly before the last drabble I posted.)

CWs: Basically this entire piece is a panic attack. Therefore: panic attack, flashbacks, past box boy stuff (dehumanization, degrading language, etc.) VERY heavily referenced/implied past childhood sexual abuse, accidental self-harm (scratching arms in panic without really thinking about it), fearful/distorted ideas of romantic love, passing mention of Victoria’s Secret (deserves a CW on its own lmao). Then there’s the whole complex of internalized victim-blaming, guilt for not having a linear recovery, etc. Basically Liam just has a public mental breakdown after seeing some scantily clad mannequins in the store window as he passes, and subsequently spirals into a mess of memories and a domino effect of bad thoughts, and then he feels horrible about it later. It’s dark, so if you’d like, you can skip the first part and just read the last part (the aftermath).

stay safe!!!

He only sees them for a split second, but the mannequins, they're burned into the backs of his eyes, and he can't rid himself of the image even when he blinks. He and Keith keep walking. Keith doesn't seem like he noticed. But Liam's mind has gone static, any any other thoughts have disappeared.

Why would someone wear- why would someone ever ever choose to wear- unless, what if no one really chooses, what if no one wants, wants that, but what if it's just people like him, what if clothes like that are just, just for people like him, to be looked at by someone else, what if-

"Lee?"

What if that's all it really is, what if that's all there is, what if no one really even loves anyone and that's all there is, that's it, that's all, that's his fate, that's what he is that's what he's made to be that's it that's the only thing and those things are for him just a dirty little wh-

"Lee, you okay? You with me? Hello?"

The lace dips low, hangs low like it's being dragged off, slow, by someone else, someone else's hands touching touching touching touching-

"Lee, honey, hey, what's wrong? Can you hear me?"

The designs are scant and scarce and they might as well be wearing nothing, in fact it's almost worse than wearing nothing, because it's thin and transparent and he's trapped trapped trapped trapped trapped and it's not like, it's not like it's really clothes, because clothes are supposed to, supposed to cover and-

"I'm right here. Is it memories?"

Eyes eyes eyes eyes eyes eyes eyes eyes- everywhere watching, watching watching watching, nowhere is safe, run, runrunrunrunrunrunrunhidehidehidehidehidehidehide-

"I'm right here, shh. You're okay. Can I touch y-"

He flinches at that with a sharp gasp, the fog in his eyes retreating immediately, and suddenly his gaze is sharp and terrified and he squeaks a "No-!" without thinking and it's a lot louder than he expects and he flinches at his own words. Then his hands are wildly fidgeting, eyes frantic and wild, and the only single thing that he can think to do is to dig his fingernails into his arms, to sink them into his skin, and a part of him wants to tear his skin away completely, longs to crash down the stairs and completely destroy himself, destroy whatever's left of his body so that no one else will look at him that way, because he's all-too-aware that some people watch him with eyes that imagine him wearing not-his-hoodie, and it makes his skin crawl, and he has to scratch it off, has to get rid of it, get rid of all the eyes, get it off, get it off, get it off-

"Whoa, whoa whoa no, Liam, hey, here, you're hurting yourself- don't- hey- stop, Lee, don't, you're bleeding-"

He feels the brush of Keith's hands on his, trying to pry them away, panicked, but they're not Keith's hands, they're not Keith's hands, they're not Keith's hands.

"Don't touch me!"

Heads turn. Liam doesn't see. He doesn't see anything, really. The only thing he can clearly see are the black and pink and red lace on the mannequins in the window, the straps and the mesh and the buckles and the fallen straps and the pictures of the see-through stockings and the heels and the makeup and in the midst of it all Keith's face is blurred. Maybe it's not really Keith. It could be Julían. Reaching for him. Reaching. He can feel hands that aren't there. Hands gripping his arms, hands at his neck, hands at his ankles and wrists, hands at his legs, hands that aren't there, just shadows, just shadows and there's no way to take them off, no way to escape them, no way to run.

Someone's saying something. They sound worried. Maybe. Maybe they sound angry. Liam doesn't know. He can't tell what they're saying. The images are too loud and he can't cover his ears and he can't hide.

Liam stutters over sobs he can't hear. "I need, I need I need I need-" He His fingers fumble for the pen in his hoodie pocket, the blue one Keith gave him for times like these. Sometimes pen drawings of faces and hands cover his arms in messy, scribbly blurs. Drawing puts the thoughts somewhere. Drawing is like taking the cap off a liter of Coke after putting in a whole tube of Mentos and shaking and shaking and shaking and shaking. But he struggles with the pen cap, shaking fingers no use, and finally it slips from his grip entirely and clatters softly to the dirty grey mall floor. He doesn't reach for it. He takes a step back, eyes the tile in despair, hopelessness, defeat, and his eyes narrow and at last he breaks completely. His face falls and he draws his arms to his chest, ducks his head, sinks to his knees. Liam collapses in small sobs, opts to tangle his fingers tightly in his hair and cry.

The sounds of the mall come ever slightly into focus. There's music, somewhere. It's that song. He recognizes the lilt in the man's voice and even though he can't hear the words he remembers them and it sends him further into his head, makes the static louder, sharper, like something's clawing around in his head and taking everything apart.

The lyrics blare throughout the mall but he can't hear them, not really. Just the music underneath. Just the voice. He remembers the words, though. Of course he does. Grab on my waist and put that body on me.

The world fades in and out in flashes of white.

I'm in love with the shape of you.

He hears someone. Someone else. "I'm going to have to ask you to step away, sir."

I'm in love with your body.

Then there's Keith. "I- oh, no no no, that's not- I'm his father. He just-" I'm in love with your body.

"Did this man hurt you, son?"

The lyrics play on repeat only in his head. Over and over. Like nails on a chalkboard, a scratchy old vinyl record, a short in a circuit. I'm in love with your body.

"It's an anxiety attack, or flashbacks- I'm not, I wasn't- let me- he needs me, please-"

I'm in love with your body.

- Keith shuts his door and Liam shuts his.

There's a heavy silence. Keith hesitates to start the car.

Some women pass in the parking lot and Liam notices them absently. One makes her way to her car with a bounce in her step and pink-and-white striped bags in her hands, probably unaware of the whole fiasco. A group of girls pass by, roughly his age. Some nonchalantly turn their heads in his direction and when they notice him, the teenage boy who had a mental breakdown in public, their gazes linger a little longer. Liam turns his head.

The car is quiet. He steals a brief glance at Keith, who looks like he's trying to say something, but doesn't know how he's going to say it. 

So Liam talks instead.

"I'm sorry..." he whispers. Bites his lip. Studies his expensive shoes, the Vans Keith bought him nearly a year ago after being dropped off in a crate at his doorstep. Has it really been that long? He considers the shades of white and off-white, and deliberately tries to distract himself from the pit in his stomach by wondering which colors he would mix to paint them and what book he would paint it in.

Keith interrupts his thoughts. 

"Kid, no, it's okay..." His voice is softer than the boy expects. He turns his head from the steering wheel to look at him, but Liam avoids his gaze. "It's alright, Lee. Not your fault."

He swallows hard, fidgets with his hoodie sleeve, still a bit damp with little splotches of drying blood from scratching his wrists like some rabid animal. "I'm sorry." There's more weight to the words this time. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes and threaten to spill. He sniffs.

At the corner of his vision, he sees Keith's eyes. Sad eyes. It's that searching look. Searching and worried and sad.

"I'm sorry," Liam says again, and this time it's more of a whimper. He's so close to the brink of tears, so close to yet another collapse, and he isn't sure he really has the strength anymore to keep composure, and when Keith's hand comes to brush over his shoulders he can't even stop himself when his head drops and his breath catches and his lips wobble and it all comes back to the surface. He mouths silent I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry's over and over and over and Keith just brings him closer, careful in the way he always is, gentle and mindful and without any sense whatsoever of demand or impatience. Soft fingertips card through Liam's hair, brush over his arms.

"It's okay. It's all okay. Everything's all sorted out now, yeah?" he mutters. Soft, patient. "It's been a long past hour but we're in the car now, Lee, we're going home, and everything's going to be just fine. It's all over now. All that matters is that you're here, not off in your head anymore, hm?" He pauses, brushes a hand over the boy's head. "You're safe. We're going home. It's okay."

Liam draws a stuttering breath, leans in closer. "But- I- but- they thought- and I-"

"All we had to do was explain. It wasn't a big deal, not at all. It's okay."

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t think he’d be able to without his voice breaking. It was so stupid. What kind of a person can’t handle walking through a mall, without having a meltdown like some sort of toddler? He starts to remember the stares and they burn in his head. Then the weight of guilt sets in, like a pile of bricks carelessly dropped on his chest. Keith’s been nothing but kind to him and this is what he gives in return. Just trouble. Just freakouts in public, just embarrassing clinginess, just a constant dependency on him that he knows must get so irritating. He feels like curling up in a corner, or a closet, curling up so tight that maybe, just maybe, he’d disappear, and he wouldn’t have to be anyone’s problem anymore. 

“What do you think about a movie, when we get back?” Keith asks. “We have popcorn, and fruitsnacks, and ice cream...” 

Liam hesitates, sniffs. Manages a small nod. 

“Movie it is.” He presses a little kiss to the crown of Liam’s head, brushes some hair away from his eyes. “Alright, kiddo. Let’s get home.” 

-

Tagging:  @looptheloup @deluxewhump @burtlederp @lave-e @whatwhumpcomments @whumptywhumpdump  

(thank you all so much for all the positive little notes on the story! made my day ^^)

[sofspook]

stay

so i kinda went radio silent for A Bit but I’m back with some parental caretaker content tm 

this takes place like. a long time after that first post I made. This is after all the foundations of trust and things have been established and they’ve known each other for like a year. I just needed some Super Indulgent Projection Writing Time so here’s some Super Random Lee comfort I wrote at 3 a.m. for ya

CW: Implied/referenced box boy stuff in general including dehumanization, implied past emotional neglect, implied/referenced past of being an underage romantic box boy. Keep safe, y’all. This is just fluffy & platonic comfort really though, so not much to look out for but the reference of past abuse

“Hey, kid, what’re you doing awake?”

“I’m- I’m just.” 

Keith rubbed sleep from his eyes and then watched the wide gaze above him, saw how a blanket was held close over Liam’s shoulders, how he hugged his sides. 

“Nightmare?”

“N...no. Just, ‘m just... scared.”

“Okay, well-“ he turned to the lamp. The room lit up in cool golden light. “Do you wanna stay in here for awhile? Would that help, maybe? Sometimes that helps.”

He nodded, seemingly glad to have not had to ask. Grateful for the invitation. He crept forward slowly on bare feet, and Keith shifted back to make room for him to lie down.

He stayed a small space apart from him, and that was fine, but Keith watched as the shaking boy unconsciously wrapped his own arms around himself, ran soothing fingertips over his own sleeves. A sad little tug pulled at his heart.

“I can hold you. Do you want that?” he murmured.

Liam stopped, hesitated, then peeked over his shoulders. Hopeful. “Can- can, you?”

“Course, here. C’mere. I’ve got you.”

Liam shifted slowly, settled into Keith’s arms and nestled into the crook of his shoulder. He cuddled closer, pressed his nose softly into Keith’s white tee. All the anxiety built up in his shoulders and arms and chest eased and melted away, just being held like that, tucked close and kept safe. Soft things were whispered above his head, gentle it’s okay’s and I’ve got you’s and I love you’s, every now and then accompanied by a little kiss at the crown of his head.

His eyes grew heavy and he wasn’t afraid of that, wasn’t afraid of sleep anymore, because Keith was right there, would protect him. Careful hands carded through his hair, scratched lightly over his scalp to calm him. Still, a small piece of the boy clung to consciousness, out of anxious habit rather than rational fear.

A tired Keith muttered something quiet, upon noticing. “No one’s going to touch, honey. I promise,” he said, voice gentle, an echo of the reminders Liam often asked for during nights like these, after nightmares or bouts of panic. “You’re safe, Lee. Go to sleep. I’m right here.”

His eyes closed, mind went dark, just after those words. Liam fell asleep curled up in the softest blankets next to someone he could finally trust, someone he could count on, someone who would never break that promise.

---

Y’all probably don’t even remember asking to be tagged because it’s been so long lmao (and let me know if you’d like to be taken off the list) but: 

@looptheloup @deluxewhump @burtlederp @grill3dch33seinmybloodstream

[sofspook]

Please reblog this post if you are a whumper/member of the whump community.

Let the experiments continue.

[sofspook]

No no no!! Hard to read in a good way! I’m sorry, I should have clarified 😅 I meant that you write so well, I got so invested in the drabble right off the bat. Definitely tugged at my feels and that’s what I’m here for.

henry drabbles: hungover

I’ve been in a weird headspace this week where my brain isn’t working, I can only come up with an idea if one is directly presented to me, and/or can only conjure up a few paragraphs at a time. That being said, I don’t know when I’ll finish and post the next longer section of Henry’s story – could be tomorrow, could be a month from now, only time will tell. But I figure posting a few drabbles is better than radio silence. If you have a prompt – a sentence, a word, a scenario, whatever – that you want to see written, please let me know! I’d be more than happy to take it them on and add it to the series.

tags: @simplygrimly​ @neuro-whump​ @burtlederp​ @moose-teeth​ @deluxewhump​ @whumpingupastorm​ @pepper-and-peaches​ (hit me up if you want added!). 

The BBU and it’s bounds are products of the minds of @sweetwhumpandhellacomf​ and @shameless-whumper​, with special supporting world-building from @haro-whumps​, @ashintheairlikesnow​, @deluxewhump​, @moose-teeth​, and many more excellent writers. Check them all out, please and thank you!

CW: alcohol/drunkenness, conditioning, dehumanization, pet ownership, underage whumpee, noncon, dubcon, underage sex, underage drinking; essentially a sick!fic (so note that if you’re like me and throwing up is the grossest thing in the world to you), hangover symptoms; creepy/intimate whumper. Take caution, stay safe y’all.

~*~*~*~

Nicholas shifted one way, then the other under the sheets. The room still tilted and spun uncomfortably, his stomach still tossing dangerously. His head pounded, temples squeezing as though it were in a vice. Every shuttering breath and hiccup tasted like vomit.

He didn’t remember throwing up, but he knew he was one wrong jostle from doing just that.

Nicholas felt awful, that much was certain. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this sick – clammy and bed-warm, skin tacky with dried salt sweat and perhaps more than that. He couldn’t move without his head swimming. He didn’t trust his legs to hold him up if he even managed to get that far. The party from the night before was foggy and dulled in his memory, full of sensory-overload and the whiff of something wrong.

But Alexander had been so happy with him the night before. Sir and Ma’am had both been happy with him. He had been perfectly good, too good to feel this bad.

Sir and Ma’am had been celebrating something last night. He should remember but he didn’t. There had been guests, only a real handful. Friends, maybe political friends, maybe real friends, maybe donors… Maybe not. He couldn’t remember. He remembered Alexander had wanted to show him off to the group. All his positions and those irritating present things in his brain that came out of his mouth whenever certain words were said to him. His cooking and cocktail making and coffee drinks, all the little things they had him do for them all the time but never celebrated.

Then had come the drinks.

Keep reading

[sofspook]

Took me like an hour to read this because I had to turn off my phone for awhile after each paragraph. So hard to read, poor kid :((

henry drabbles: hungover

I’ve been in a weird headspace this week where my brain isn’t working, I can only come up with an idea if one is directly presented to me, and/or can only conjure up a few paragraphs at a time. That being said, I don’t know when I’ll finish and post the next longer section of Henry’s story – could be tomorrow, could be a month from now, only time will tell. But I figure posting a few drabbles is better than radio silence. If you have a prompt – a sentence, a word, a scenario, whatever – that you want to see written, please let me know! I’d be more than happy to take it them on and add it to the series.

tags: @simplygrimly​ @neuro-whump​ @burtlederp​ @moose-teeth​ @deluxewhump​ @whumpingupastorm​ @pepper-and-peaches​ (hit me up if you want added!). 

The BBU and it’s bounds are products of the minds of @sweetwhumpandhellacomf​ and @shameless-whumper​, with special supporting world-building from @haro-whumps​, @ashintheairlikesnow​, @deluxewhump​, @moose-teeth​, and many more excellent writers. Check them all out, please and thank you!

CW: alcohol/drunkenness, conditioning, dehumanization, pet ownership, underage whumpee, noncon, dubcon, underage sex, underage drinking; essentially a sick!fic (so note that if you’re like me and throwing up is the grossest thing in the world to you), hangover symptoms; creepy/intimate whumper. Take caution, stay safe y’all.

~*~*~*~

Nicholas shifted one way, then the other under the sheets. The room still tilted and spun uncomfortably, his stomach still tossing dangerously. His head pounded, temples squeezing as though it were in a vice. Every shuttering breath and hiccup tasted like vomit.

He didn’t remember throwing up, but he knew he was one wrong jostle from doing just that.

Nicholas felt awful, that much was certain. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this sick – clammy and bed-warm, skin tacky with dried salt sweat and perhaps more than that. He couldn’t move without his head swimming. He didn’t trust his legs to hold him up if he even managed to get that far. The party from the night before was foggy and dulled in his memory, full of sensory-overload and the whiff of something wrong.

But Alexander had been so happy with him the night before. Sir and Ma’am had both been happy with him. He had been perfectly good, too good to feel this bad.

Sir and Ma’am had been celebrating something last night. He should remember but he didn’t. There had been guests, only a real handful. Friends, maybe political friends, maybe real friends, maybe donors… Maybe not. He couldn’t remember. He remembered Alexander had wanted to show him off to the group. All his positions and those irritating present things in his brain that came out of his mouth whenever certain words were said to him. His cooking and cocktail making and coffee drinks, all the little things they had him do for them all the time but never celebrated.

Then had come the drinks.

Keep reading