Wednesday (2022)

Shipping

First drabble of the All at Sea series!! :D!

CW: Whump involving a minor (although it’s not really meant to be whump per se– being uncomfortable and dehydrated in a small box before being delivered to the door, just realistically what would happen to a box boy being shipped. Really meant as more of a storyline thing, like to start off the series at the very very beginning before he meets Keith..? idk how to cw for that lmao bear with me). Box boy universe setting (dehumanization), dehydration, small spaces, and a mention of the system of noncon that WRU runs. Implication that minor in question was apart of this system. 

The boy’s eyes were bloodshot. From inside the box, he couldn’t see them, but he knew they were because he could feel it. His eyes felt static and watery and so dry all at the same time, like staring at a really old TV from really up close for too long. He had tried to blink away the feeling, long, long ago, only a few hours before he left the facility. After that, it just hurt. Burned, like all the points that gathered the ache of being folded up so tightly and haphazardly into the box. With a sharp, dry swallow, 567267 wondered again how long he’d been stuck here, stuffed in the hot darkness of this box. And, grimly, he wondered how much longer he could really go without food. How long had it been already? He didn’t know. The thoughts only lasted briefly, and then they slipped away, and the boy was left to wonder what it was he just thought about. Thoughts did that now, slipped away. He couldn’t hold onto them long enough to make them stay. Weakly, he shifted his head to rest on another side of the box. And, really, he wasn’t all that sure which side of the box it really was. The top, or the bottom? One of the sides? All sense of direction had somewhere along the lines been taken, pried away from his shaking hands, after all the shifting and jostling and moving and everything else that came with shipping to a new place. And it’s a feeling 567267 was quite used to.

Keep reading

Box Boy Rescue

(CW: slavery, brainwashing, dehumanization, kidnapping, creepy + intimate whumper, gaslighting)

Tag list: @thatsthewhump @whump-it @ashintheairlikesnow @fairybean101 @finder-of-rings @comfortforthepain @shameless-whumper @that-one-thespian @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @raigash @im-not-rare-im-rarr @spiffythespook @whumps-the-word @frnkieroismydaddy @whumpity–whump–whump @michelleswhumpyreblogs @jo-castle @newandfiguringitout

Masterlist

Soren pressed up against the back wall, legs pulled close to his chest, breath coming out ragged. 

“Please, please give me my collar back, I need it, please, please,” he was begging, an endless, panicked drone. He knew it wouldn’t work, but he couldn’t stop. There was someone in front of him, a woman, but a different woman from the one who he’d woken up to, urging him to calm down, take deep breaths. But he couldn’t breathe, not without his collar on, he couldn’t breathe. 

The door squeaked open and boomed shut. Soren sobbed loudly, panicked begging only paused for the raw sounds, before it was back to an endless stream of “please give me my collar” over and over again.

“Dude, just calm down, you literally do not need it,” the rude man, the one who’d elbowed him, snapped, and Soren let out a high, warbling keen, turning his head away from the man, fingers raising to his neck again.

“Woah, buddy, still not doing that,” the woman said as she pulled his hands away from his own neck for what felt like the dozenth time. 

“Please!” Soren moaned, bloodied fingers twitching. He didn’t struggle against her hold on his wrists, his training didn’t even let him consider it, but he could beg, and cry, so he did.

“Here,” the driver said, creaking door booming shut behind him as he walked down the concrete steps. “Just let him have it, he’s not going to calm down unless we do.”

“Liam, come on!”

“You come on,” the driver, Liam, shot back, kneeling in front of Soren. Soren hiccupped, turning his head up, praying that this wasn’t some sick trick, that he was actually going to–

Keep reading

Unwanted, part 2

Taglist:

@comfortforthepain @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @haro-whumps @whumping-every-day @ashintheairlikesnow @soul-madonna @pepperonyscience @burtlederp @whump-em @shameless-whumper

Content warnings: reference to implied past noncon/past abuse

He had seen men with their limbs blown off, bomb-gutted buildings and corpses being devoured by flies. But the nausea Liam had felt then seemed like a small thing compared to what roiled through him as he stood frozen in the doorway of the living room listening to a naked, shivering damned teenager apologise for Liam not wanting to—

“Pl-please…” the kid rasped out, and then his knees buckled and he fell to the floor with a whimper. Liam, breaking free of the icy horror that encased him, was barely fast enough to keep him from hitting the ground.

Up close, the boy looked even younger than Liam had originally thought: he had to be sixteen—seventeen, tops. Dark brown hair feathered his forehead, the ends trailing the nape of his neck indicating it hadn’t been cut in a while.

What shook Liam more was the rest of him. Obvious malnourishment aside, the boy was a hideous patchwork of scars and bruises: some old and fading, some looking as recent as yesterday. A few of the marks looked like cigar or cigarette burns, while a lot of the bruises, particularly around his lower body, took the shape of handprints. On the inside of his left arm, someone had branded a number: 641870.

The kid started to shiver again, and a quiet, choked moan forced its way out. Tearing his gaze away from the marks, Liam scooped the teenager up again and replaced him on the sofa, fetching a blanket from his room to cover the boy up. Then he went to the bathroom and bent over the sink, white knuckling the porcelain and fighting the urge to vomit - or break something.

Once a measure of control had returned, Liam exited the bathroom, relieved to see the boy had stayed on the sofa this time. Though he had been unreasonably warm when Liam picked him up after his collapse, he was shivering convulsively now, his brow furrowed and half-mumbled snatches of sentences escaping him now and again. Listening, Liam realised he was still apologising.

Shit. Shit. Why did this have to happen to him, of all people? He knew guns and knives and driving. He had no idea how to handle a half-starved, delirious slave whose idea of gratitude was offering himself like some doll to be used and thrown away. The memory made Liam bunch his fists so tight they ached.

The boy whimpered, and the sound dissolved the cloud of red gathering before Liam’s eyes. Later, he could go to the gym and let himself explode, but right now he needed to figure out how to keep this kid from dying on his watch.

He glanced at the clock over the stove in the kitchen. Almost five. If he hurried, he could make a quick run to the drugstore and get some medicine before they closed.

But that would mean leaving the boy alone. Looking at him, Liam doubted he was capable of much, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

He bent over the sofa and tapped the boy’s shoulder. “Kid? Can you hear me?”

Hazy, fear-filled mismatched eyes turned to him. “I’m going out for a little bit. Stay here and don’t move, understand?” An unnecessary warning, but the kid obviously took it seriously. He nodded feverishly and shrank further into the sofa.

Liam grabbed his coat and headed out into the deluge once more.

The drugstore was blessedly empty at this time of the evening. Liam grabbed ibuprofen, aspirin, and after some thought, a full first-aid kit. No sense taking any chances.

The boy was exactly in the same position as he had been when Liam left. He had stopped shivering, but his face was flushed, lips dry and cracked.

He needed water. Liam got a glass from the kitchen and took one of the ibuprofen as well before returning to the living room. He knelt by the sofa and raised the boy’s head a little, putting the water to his lips. “Drink up.”

The kid sipped slowly at first, and then more eagerly, as though he hadn’t had water for days. Knowing too much would make him sick, Liam pulled the glass away after a while and tried not to feel like a monster at the tears trailing down the boy’s cheeks. He followed up the water with ibuprofen, and then after a quick search on his phone, retrieved a cool compress and placed it on the boy’s forehead.

It was almost midnight when the fever finally broke and the boy settled, still semi-conscious. Liam took him, unresisting, from the sofa and put him on the bed in his room, putting a clean t-shirt and shorts on him first. They hung awkwardly on his emaciated frame, a sight that might have been funny had it not given away just how thin the kid actually was.

Once the boy was dressed, Liam covered him over with the blanket and paused, looking at his new charge.

“What am I going to call you, then?” He said the words without thinking about them. A jolt of anger shook him at the rush of sentimentality. This was not some stray animal. Person or not, this was someone’s property, and Liam had no intention of getting involved any further than he already had. Tomorrow, providing the boy was strong enough, they would go to the Bureau downtown and he would be returned to his rightful owner. Then Liam could get back to his life in peace.

He left the room and flopped down on the couch again, but sleep was long in coming. Fearful brown-grey eyes haunted him, along with other things: the brand on the boy’s arm, the raw skin on his neck and wrists from being bound, the way he had offered himself as though he thought Liam had wanted to...What kind of sick individual made a kid do that?

But keeping him would undoubtedly mean trouble, and Liam had had enough of that to last him an entire lifetime. No, conscience or not, tomorrow the boy would go.

Liam just wished the sick feeling gnawing at his gut would too.