#Boxie

[pyrepostings]

Box boy-esque universe where recruitment cares a bit about some form of consent to turn people into boxies, so when whumper wants someone who won't be tricked into it they just capture and train their whumpee themselves.

Everyone in this universe is like 'what the fuck you can't do that' and because of corporations protecting themselves and general propaganda (I'm thinking almost apple villifing right to repair type vibe) everyone sees going the homemade route to be barbaric and cruel, but WRU is ethically sourcing and handling their officially branded boxies (of course)

So homemade boxie does get a chance to be rescued and recover and see whumper behind bars, but lives in a system of people going through the exact same thing as them but they don't get justice or sympathy.

Do you think a well meaning but susceptible to propaganda caretaker would purchase an off-the-shelf boxie to help with menial tasks during whumpee's recovery?

Maybe to show that 'you're not like them, see this one likes being depersoned'. Caretaker offhand insulting pet lib activists, thinking that it's an overreaction for whumpee to get mad at them for it.

I just think the contrast and hypocrisy could be neat.

[great-and-small]

Welcome to the family, Warlock! This handsome devil is a gulf coast box turtle that I adopted from Central Mississippi Turtle Rescue a few weeks ago. He’s been settling in beautifully and I have been having so much fun getting to know him.

Warlock came from an animal hoarding situation with very poor husbandry and as a result he suffers from a significant shell deformity. He can never be released into the wild, so I will endeavor to give him the very best life in captivity. He now lives in a large outdoor enclosure with plant life, different terrains to explore, and a small pond for soaking/relaxing. I truly hope to have him with me for a long time.

I have been hoping to adopt a boxie for quite some time and I am so thankful to this amazing rescue for their dedication to every single turtle in their care. The rescue is going through a temporary closure due to the founder’s health struggles, so if you are interested in any turtle apparel or merch their store is a great place to look and a wonderful cause to support. More than half of all turtle species are threatened or endangered; we desperately need organizations like this to tackle chelonian conservation on the frontlines. If you’re a turtle fan, definitely take a look!

https://www.teepublic.com/stores/cmtr-store?ref_id=6536

and please note this post will serve as your formal warning of many boring turtle videos to come in the future. The way he eats just delights me

[pigeonwhumps]

Cry for help

BBU masterlist

Taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump @augustofwhump

August of Whump day 2: IV | shock | cry for help

Melanie finds an abandoned pet on a street corner.

670 words

CWs: BBU, pet whump, abandonment, left to die, starvation, muzzle, collar, neglect, abuse, burn, blood, non-sexual nudity

Melanie scowls when she sees the large, battered crate at the end of the road. How are wheelchairs and buggies supposed to get past that?

She pauses to take a photo, and that's when she hears it.

A muffled thud is coming from the direction of the crate.

She frowns and tiptoes closer.

Thud.

A fist on wood.

Thud.

Melanie glances around. Nobody else in sight. She examines the crate more closely. It really is extremely battered. The sides are starting to cave in and she'll definitely get splinters if she touches it, but it's still structurally sound.

Just.

To a person as weak as those thumps imply.

Thud.

It's even quieter this time.

She touches the crate, flinching away automatically at the sharp scratch. Then she goes back in. The lid is fitted, and as she yanks it out the wood cracks.

Inside... inside, oh, god. She should've guessed from the size of the crate.

Their hair is matted and so thick with grime and dirt that she can't even begin to guess what colour it is. She'd think they were dead if it hadn't been for the weak knocking, if it wasn't for the head slowly raising to look at her, bony arm reaching out, hand outstretched. She fancies she can taste the desperation.

"Oh shit," Melanie breathes. Oh, shit. She reaches out and touches the pet's hand. They shudder but attempt to grip, thumb pressing lightly into the side of her hand.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, just in case just in case just in case, she reaches out with her free hand, hooks it under their shoulder, and pulls.

They whimper, a tiny sound that Melanie can only hear because she's pulled them right against her side. They both sink to the ground, Melanie's knees protesting at the all-too-familiar position, and the pet flops there, boneless, shivering, pressing their thumb in further in what's perhaps an attempt to hold on. The other arm is still curled protectively into their body.

"Sorry." She lifts their hair back from their face. "Can you show me your arm?"

Melanie's struck by the large, dark eyes that look up at her then, the pleading and desperation, the sheer agony in them. Permanent tear tracks are etched into the grime on their face, the same grime and blood and whatever else that doesn't bear thinking about that covers the rest of their body.

There's a muzzle, too. The worn leather and rusting metal are pressed into the pet's face, caked on with blood and dirt. Their collar is the same way.

She can't focus on that now though. There's nothing she can do, she can't remove them without at least a makeshift first aid kit on hand, and even if she could she can't risk the pet making such a noise that the police are called. And then she might be arrested for stealing a pet and then and then and then.

She can't let that happen.

She takes a deep breath. The pet uncurls their arm.

They would've had a barcode tattooed there once, but now... she shudders, hard. Their forearm is blistered and weeping, clearly untreated, uncovered, left to become infected in the dirt of that old, rotting crate.

Oh, shit.

She sets the pet (person, person, person) down, rising stiffly into a crouch. It's not really a conscious movement when she picks them up again, settling them in her arms. They turn into the warmth of her chest, still shivering.

One of the only good things to come out of those years, she supposes, is that she's now strong enough to carry people. Although... that wasn't those years, was it? It was all the ones that came after.

"It's okay. I'll try to help you, I promise."

She's not sure when she made the decision, but she's made up her mind. She's going to do for them what Tara did for her thirty years ago.

She's going to give this person a home.

[gg-id-good]

What do you think Boxie

Its been 2 days and so... .

I hope you like it

[petnews2day]

Boxie®'s Revolutionary Cat Litter That Uses Patent-Pending UV Technology to Help Guide Cats to The Litter Box

New Post has been published on https://petn.ws/69qSI

Boxie®'s Revolutionary Cat Litter That Uses Patent-Pending UV Technology to Help Guide Cats to The Litter Box

Boxie®, creators of the first Self-Cleaning Litter™ with probiotics, have launched their latest innovation for cats with litter box aversion, behavioral issues and stress-induced health concerns. LOS ANGELES, June 11, 2024 /PRNewswire/ — Boxie®, a trailblazer in the realm of pet care products, proudly unveils Glo™, an innovative cat litter solution designed to revolutionize the feline […]

See full article at https://petn.ws/69qSI #CatsNews #Boxie

[amberluvsbugs]

Poppy Playtime

With the release of chapter 3, I was tasked to make an updated mega piece featuring ALL the characters from chapters 1-3 of Poppy Playtime. I had an absolute blast creating this for the team.

Speedpaint

Process is down below

[unironicallyresurrected]

griddlehark comic i may never finish but its fine its fine

[sittingupwiththedead]

"Moving while in the visible sprectrum is fucking exhausting okay? Jesus fucking christ you flesh bags with your bodies made of solid matter and your high and mighty ideas about how someone is 'supposed to move'. And then this fucking kid comes along and tries to move his core and stay in his fucking flesh bag just to make you people happy and you're gonna criticize him for it? Ancients the fuck do you people want? Some fucking people. This is why I like boxes."

"You okay Boxie?"

"I'm fine. Eat your Jello kid"

Short DPXDC Prompts #1049

Ghosts move… strangely. Almost cartoony or animated. They move as if they were animated on 1s and the rest of the world was animated on 2s. It’s just off putting for those who don’t have a trained eye, but for those who do can detect, something is fundamentally different about the ghost. Danny does his best to hide his ghostliness but no matter what he just can’t figure out how to move like a regular human.

[zealouswitchwerewolf]

DP AU where the box ghost is actually someone from the future that came back as a ghost to try and warn Danny before all the major battles. The problem is that ghosts are mostly ruled by emotions and since he isn't directly connected to all the battles as they happened, his memories get fuzzy at best so whenever he warns Danny, it's either because there's about to be a world ending event or because someone's cat got stuck on a tree (and anything in between)

So when Danny joins the JL as Phantom they ask him about his rogue gallery. He tells them all about the ancients he fought and skulker and the GIW, even his parents, though he only says they were mad scientists with a huge bias.

And then, after he tells them about the "plasmius incident" they ask whether he thinks Vlad is the one that's caused him most trouble and Danny goes quiet for a bit and looks thoughtful for way too long before saying in a quiet voice "no, that's actually the box ghost. He's always warning me about something. It's terrifying"

The JL are concerned. What could be worse than all the Eldritch terrors Danny has described? They try to ask for details but whenever they bring the topic, Danny gets this lost stare and goes silent until they change the topic or snap him out of it. It's kind of unsettling. So they leave it be. Even Batman doesn't push it (he would rather not traumatize the kid more, thank you very much, he's also wondering if he can adopt someone that's technically dead, asking for a friend).

And then the box ghost shows up at the watchtower. They all come running when they hear the ominous "Beware". Batman activates all the alerts. Boxy just throws a box at him, then leaves. Batman calls for a meeting, most of the heroes were already in the watchtower anyway, he describes the incident to phantom.

Danny: ah, that was just his way of saying hi. I guess he wants to start haunting you too. Should be fun :)

Batman: hn

The JL: ?!?

Danny: Don't worry, I'll ask him to be nicer next time :)

Flash: was that... Supposed to be terrifying? He just threw a box, right?

Danny: 🤷🏻‍♀️

[hootbon]

*P.A SYSTEM SOUND*

STOP GIVING THE FUCKING TOYS WEED!!!

[tkdrawz]

The one worker who was late for the "Hour of Joy":

[pigeonwhumps]

O

Bug and Company masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @whumpymirages @flowersarefreetherapy @painful-pooch @whumplr-reader (and @squishablesunbeam iirc you wanted to be tagged if people used object designation? Idk if you still do but anyway)

During delivery to its owner, O69 is intercepted.

2.4k

CWs: BBU, pet whump, object whump, self-dehumanisation, locked in a box, conditioned whumpee, scared whumpee, talk of discrimination against Romantics, bad caretaker, bad safehouse (with implications that it could be even worse), implied non-con, wishing for punishment, non-verbal whumpee

O69's body thrums with anticipation as it speeds down the road in its box. It's being taken to its new owner.

This is the most important day in a pet's life.

It wonders what its new owner will be like. It has been trained extensively, and it will be good for whoever it is, but it has no idea what they're like. Short hair, long hair? Kind, cruel? Where will they keep their new toy? It has no idea.

It will find out soon enough.

The van stops suddenly and O69's thrown into the wall of its box. It's not supposed to move at all so it doesn't, not reaching out to cushion itself before its head slams into the wood. It grunts.

It's not supposed to make a noise. It hopes it gets punished.

The doors to the van are thrown open. O69 wonders if it's its turn to be delivered.

Patience, O69. Objects don't get impatient, do they?

No. No, another box is removed. It's disappointed at first but then it realises that multiple boxes are being removed, multiple pairs of feet in the van. What's going on?

Its box is lifted and set down somewhere else, urgent voices surrounding it. It doesn't know what they're saying and it doesn't need to.

Someone shouts, "Go go go!", there's lots of commotion, and then O69's careening down the road, heart in its throat. It can hear screaming.

It isn't long. It isn't long, it knows it, but feels like forever.

It's not the first to be dropped off this time, either, but it feels different when it is. More careful. Like it's breakable.

That's not true. Sex toys aren't breakable. Or if they are it doesn't matter. They can always be replaced.

It can always be replaced.

There's murmuring from outside, and then a noise, a bit like hammering but different. And then daylight. Lots of daylight. The kind it hasn't seen for as long as it can remember.

More light of any sort than it's had since it was packed.

There's a face staring down at it. It tries to look appealing – it doesn't know who this is, but it thinks that regardless of that they're more likely to keep it if it's appealing.

The woman above him makes a strangled sound.

"Oh, god, you're a Romantic, aren't you? At least partly. They won't like that. Shall we get you out of there?"

And without waiting for a response that O69 isn't allowed to give, she reaches in, grabs it just below the elbows, and lifts it out.

O69 screams. Screams like its existence depends on it, like a burglar alarm, someone will come and get their property back, put it back safe, but nobody does, nobody comes.

Nobody wants it enough to come.

It's left in this woman's grip, the shocked look on her face boding nothing good, oh what if this is its owner? It didn't think so, it thought it was stolen, but maybe... maybe this is why pets don't think.

"Hey, hey, it's not as bad as all that. Let's get you sat down, then we can go over a few things." She sets it down on the carpet.

It's too soft. The lights are too much and the noise is too much and it has no idea what the expectations are and it all hurts. It wants to bury its head in its knees and jam its hands over its ears and scream until this all goes away but it can't, it's not allowed, it knows this without actually knowing, so it does the next best thing.

It tries to climb back into its box.

"Whoa, whoa, no. You don't need to go back in there, you're free."

But it's dark and familiar and safe in there and for the first time ever it ignores an order, crawling towards it, starting to climb over the lip of the box.

She wrenches it out, setting it down further away, and lifts the box. "I said, no." She's harsh this time and O69 cowers away from her tone, words like acid. "You don't need to– look, I'll be back in a minute."

And she walks out with its box. Its only safety, and she just takes it away, like it's nothing, like she doesn't care, like... like... what's O69 supposed to do now? How can it be stored, how can it be safe now? What does it mean that its storage is being taken? Retraining? Replacement? Refurbishment? It whimpers at the thought.

It needs somewhere to go. Maybe if it just stays out of the way it'll be forgotten about, allowed to stay. A dusty toy on a shelf, not played with but not thrown away, either.

It scans the room. There. A nook, tiny, in the corner, and it moves without an order, heart in its throat, desperate, crawling into it, scrunching up tight to fit. It's nearly as tight as the cage it was trained to stay still in, and it has to go really small, but that's okay. It knows how to do that. Out of sight, out of mind.

The woman comes back into the room and frowns. "Are you in here? Oh, you're... okay. Let me grab your papers and you can stay there until you're ready to come out."

She peels the plastic packet carefully off his t-shirt and moves away. It wonders how long it'll be allowed to stay here for.

_

Minutes, it thinks at first. Minutes which turn into hours, which eventually turn into days.

It keeps its eyes shut, body tiny, it knows how to keep still and it will. At least its training is useful for something, even here.

It isn't aware of everything, but it's aware of enough.

It hears voices, low and angry, an argument that it hopes it doesn't take the brunt of. There's worry somewhere. Someone says something frustrated that it determinedly doesn't listen to. Even though it shouldn't, it resists attempts to remove it.

Out of sight, out of mind, it's safe.

Out of sight, out of mind, it's safe.

Out of sight, out of mind, it's safe.

And then, a day or two (or maybe three or four) later, there's desperation and pleading. One side of a conversation, not a pleasant one, but they're not talking to it so it doesn't listen, hoping it won't be hurt for this.

It is still due a punishment though, for noises and moving and a hundred other things by now.

O69 doesn't know how long it is until there's hushed voices in the hall, and soft footsteps on the carpet. A thing that sounds like its box is brought in, set down.

"Are you sure about this Alix?" says the first voice.

"Yes," says a new voice, cutting through the air like a knife.

There's a sigh like disappointed wind, and then a set of footsteps disappears out of the door.

"Hello. I'm Alix. You must be O69, right?"

O69 looks up. The woman opposite it doesn't quite look like a knife. But then, not all knives are sharp, and not all dig in smoothly, immediately. Her voice is softer now.

Maybe she's a blunt knife, which takes a lot of force to hurt someone with. It wonders how much it would take for her to hurt it.

"Pleased to meet you. I've come to bring you somewhere safer, if you're okay with that. You can go back in your box. I know they don't like that here, but it's okay, really. If it's safer for you, that's allowed. May I call you O?" O69 doesn't know how to respond, it wasn't taught how to give an opinion. Objects don't do that. "I'm going to take that as a yes. At least one of my housemates will probably find it very uncomfortable at the least to call you 69. Pronouns. He? She? They? It?" It blinks at the last option, not deliberately choosing but just... relaxing, slightly, maybe. Hopefully not. "Okay, it/its it is. Let me bring your box closer and you can climb back in, yeah? I promise you, I have no problem with you going back in there."

Alix is true to her word, bringing its box over and then backing away. O69 unfurls itself, cramped and barely able to move from the stiffness, and crawls over to its box, climbing up and over the top. It curls up inside.

It's safe again. It's safe. It's darker and softer and safer.

"There we are. Here's a blanket in case you need one, and you can eat when we get to my house. I didn't bring any food because I didn't know if you get carsick. I'll take your lid with me, obviously, but I'm leaving it off for now, if you're okay with that. So you can see out if you like. Ready to go?"

Alix peers over the top of its box and it blinks, unsure of what's going on. All it knows is that it's being moved again and hopefully that place will be better than this one. Even though she's still not its owner, it's still not going where it should be, and what's going on?

"Great. Let's get out of here."

It's carried for a bit before the voice from days ago says hesitantly, "Alix? About this... um, thank you. I know you don't have much space."

"We have a spare room at the moment. And even if we didn't, we'd make do. Don't thank me, just... look, find someone better than Christians Against Pets to teach you this stuff, okay? You've got a good heart, good instincts. You just need to learn how to use them."

"They didn't want to help O69 at all," she sniffles.

"Yeah. They do that with Romantics. WRU allows them to exist as a rehabilitation group, think about why they'd choose them, specifically, as cover. What WRU can do, knowing where they are, where they can find a supply of unwanted and probably undefended Romantics. Find somewhere else to train, and I hope I see you again soon."

"You too. O69? I'm sorry."

O69 doesn't know what to say to that, even if it could speak.

Alix lifts its box higher in her arms and carries it outside.

"I'm going to set you down in the car now. Passenger seat. The roof's down, hopefully you can feel a breeze in there."

Alix sets it down and starts up the engine. It can see white fluffy clouds and blue skies above, the tops of green and brown trees flitting past. A flock of gangly birds honk as they pass overhead.

"Canada geese," she explains. Then she sighs, and says, "There's one of my housemates. We'll pick them up, you can meet them." Then she raises her voice and, in a knife-edge tone that makes O flinch despite itself, yells, "Bug!"

There's a moment of silence, before an indignant, "You nearly made me drop the shopping!"

"Come on, get in. Come and meet your newest housemate."

Someone flops into the back seat. "Gonna be a bit cold with the top down, isn't it?"

"You picked the car," Alix says long-sufferingly.

"I was trying to see if you'd actually buy it."

There's a pause, then Alix says quietly, "I'll always take your advice, Bug. You know that."

There's the sound of someone clearing their throat. The new voice is rougher now, like grating sand. "Who am I meeting then? Why are they in a box still?" asks Bug warily, tightly. Like a coiled-up spring.

"Bug, this is O, it/its. O, Adalia, they/them, sometimes known as Bug. Mostly by me. And O's in the box because it wants to stay there."

"Oh. Okay. Hi O. Romantic?"

O feels like it can hear Alix grimace. "Not just Romantic. Here." Papers are tossed and flicked through.

"Fuck," says Adalia. "Those monsters. I'm glad we have you now, O. You'll be safe with us. I'll make sure of it."

The way Adalia says it makes O seem certain they will. But it doesn't know what their version of safety is.

"O, when it comes to your box, you'll need to leave it fairly soon to have a wash, and so we can cover any possibly-unsafe parts of the inside. You can keep it in sight at all times though, and that's the only time I'll ask it of you. You won't have to leave it again, not until you want to, and I mean you, not me. I won't remove it from your sight, and I won't pull you from it, not even to wash."

"You'll start to smell if you don't wash though."

Alix sighs. "Bug."

No. No. She promised.

"You okay in there, O?" asks Adalia. O doesn't respond. It can't. "O, breathe. I bet you're struggling with that. It's okay. I used to be a pet, don't know if you can tell. Alix is good at this. She keeps her word. And if she doesn't, I'll punch her."

O takes a deep, slow breath. It thought it could hear something in their voice.

"Eat this."

A hand reaches in, not Alix's, this one is brown, and gives O an... an apple? O gets an apple? They bite down on it, closing their eyes blissfully (oh it's so sweet, and juicy, it's so good), almost missing the grinning face above.

"Hi. I'm Adalia. Or Bug. I'm not picky. It's nice to meet you. I'd like to be your friend."

And O thinks, so long as it can stay safe in here for as long as it likes, that it would like to be their friend too.

It doesn't know what a friend is, not exactly. But the word feels warm, and it would like that warmth.

"I have a present for you. Here."

They place something soft gently into its other hand. It looks at it closely. It's a small toy bear, looking resplendent in a tiny rainbow sweater.

It's lovely. O's eyes water. Must be the weather. Though it doesn't know why that would be, or why it would think the weather could affect it like that.

O squeezes the teddy and lets go, squeezes and lets go, squeezes and lets go. Again and again and again, over and over it does so, thinking and thinking about the warmth that being Adalia's friend might bring.

[canisalbus]

While they're certainly no dogs, I saw this art and knew instantly who it looked like:

.

[this-box-is-empty]

getting ready for a date with fordsy!!!! (ie chaining him down and singing to him)

[thedawner]

Images In Stone.

This was a boxy portrait for BardyBirdy on Twitter!

[eobsinj]

✨ max verstappen - saudi arabia 2021 ( twt | ig | fb )