#atticus oc

Atticus hooking a finger beneath Prince’s collar…

Atticus pulling Prince’s hair :)

[Drawn 28/09/23]

Here is another D&D character! A fallen Aasimar whose only goal is to cause harm to those who caused its fall.

It only has +3 Dex, literally, a gust of wind might take it out..

Here’s a playlist I made for it! I update it whenever I find a new song :D.

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, brainwashed/conditioned whumpee, memory loss/amnesia, captivity

——————

Sprawled across the middle of the bed, clawing at the duvet, Prince clenched his fists around a hunk of the fabric. Staring, and staring, and staring at the sinister white ceiling, he huffed a sigh. The sheets were all messed up from his time - his hours upon hours - of rolling around in them, something he would have to fix before his sir arrived back home from work. Fortunately, he had time.

Time was all he had.

And sometimes, on the very rare occasion he felt like being risky, when he was all alone and drowning in the white walls of his sir’s bedroom, after running out of anything else to wonder about, Prince wanted to think.

Maybe to think about what he had been like.

Who he used to be, before his sir, before his training, before the facility, before he signed away himself.

He was fully and terrifyingly aware he wasn’t allowed to, and he never really thought too hard about it because then it would hurt and it would hurt bad, and he wasn’t allowed to, but he still thought. The fact he wasn’t allowed sometimes made him want to more, the pure thrill of disobeying that pushed him further, even if the prospect of doing so still rocked him to his core.

And beyond the fear were the things they had told him in the facility, the only remnants of a past life. That he had been terrible, that he deserved what was coming to him. That the facility was his forgiveness, gifting him a second chance to be a good boy.

Prince sat up from the mattress, blowing with warm breath hair out from the way of his eyes. Stepping up on wobbly feet to stand before his sir’s mirror, lengthy and tall, he was met with his undeniably large frame, with which he combatted by shrinking in on himself. His feet were flooded with the chill of the tile flooring as they touched, flicking him awake from the drowsiness of laying around all day. 

Prince studied every little scribble of his features, following along with his smooth, slender hands, caressing over each place. 

The curving, nearly black waterfall of his locks were first, trailing down from his scalp and carving around his long, angular face, swooping into perfect little curls at the end of each piece. He needed a haircut, he thought, twirling a section of his longer than needed bang over and around his finger. One of the maids would notice soon, and surely they would give him a trim before his sir even realized.

Then were his eyes, deep and dark pools of brown shaped by long, fluttering lashes. He wanted to dip into them, to see everything he’d ever seen with them. All he could really do was watch himself blink a few times.

What followed was his nose, perfectly hooked yet still obviously crooked when you really looked at it, a piece of him that had always irritated his sir - but he was sorry, he was sorry, he didn’t know why, it was always like that - shadowing right over his pair of plush lips that concealed his just average set of teeth. He counted his moles, tiny little marks that scattered his skin, the spots his master liked to kiss most. 

They’re just so cute, he always said, perfect for a cutie like you, right before he would cup Prince’s chin, planting a soft and moist peck to the mark. 

He knew well how he looked. With nothing much else to do but look, he’d spent so much time, too much time, committing every little detail of his appearance to memory. There wasn’t much to hold there, anyway.

What stranger had owned this face before him?

The question tasted like defiance, bitter and scary. He licked his lips.

Did he always keep his hair so perfect? Or did it get oily and messy sometimes, unbrushed and uncared for? Did he allow it to reign free somedays, instead of waking up early every morning to ensure perfection?

Stinging, a slight burn in the back of his mind.

Did he always have a crooked nose? Or did it somehow get knocked out of place one day, forever marked by some event he would never again remember?

A throbbing buzz in his brain, sending him just a smidge swaying.

Did someone else hold his face as he held theirs, placing their lips over each of the few spots splattered around his skin like paint? Was it only his sir who found his moles so endearing?

He bit his lip, dug his nails into the flesh of his palms. It hurt, he shouldn’t have kept going, kept thinking-

For a moment, at the clench of his fist, he saw her instead of the mirror. A face that looked just like his but softer, older, more feminine. Her hair with spots of gray, making it a bit lighter than his. She held his cheeks gently, brushing hair from out of the way as she knelt before him. C’mere little man, let me see your face, she had said, so gentle and so very calming, and she’s-

A stranger.

White. A rush of burning hot and blinding, stabbing knives of brightness in his brain. He yelped, loud and squealing, his knees thumping to the tile. He couldn’t breath.

Those long lashes of his fluttered open only a moment later, finding himself on the floor, head pounding with dirty affliction. He hoped nothing bruised or bumped, because, oh, he was so bad.

The door knob, pristine and shiny, whined as it turned. Prince rushed to his knees, swallowing down his mind to resume his bubble brained, obedient, trained persona. Maybe not even a persona, just the idiot he didn’t want to admit he really was.

With his gaze fixed to the floor, he could only listen to hear his sir as he travelled about the room, ignoring his pet until he felt the time was right. A pair of sock covered feet padded over the tile, just until they were mere feet away from Prince. “You’re on the floor?”

Prince felt for his sir’s mood in his tone, stealing a glance at his feet. “Yes, sir.”

“I see the bed’s not made.”

“No, sir.” Hands on his knees, his grip tightened. He couldn’t discern the anger in his voice from exhaustion. Maybe it was both. “I apologize, sir.”

“I’m really not in the mood to punish you, Princey. Work took far too much out of me.” Prince listened as his sir threw his tie to the floor, unbuttoning his work shirt. “That will have to be put off. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Such a good boy.” He said, flopping onto the bed, patting the space beside himself. “Up.” Prince did so, climbing onto the undone sheets and resuming a kneel atop of them. He kept his vision to his knees, not daring to look up and earn him further punishment. “Entertain me.”

Prince couldn’t help the slight curl of his brow. “Like-,” that wasn’t a usual command. “how do you mean, sir?”

“Not what you’re thinking, Prince.” His sir waved his arm. “Tell me a story.”

“A… story.”

“Yes, Princey.” His sir lifted his gaze then, beautiful blue eyes striking a shiver down Prince’s spine. He reached an arm out then, flicking Prince right in the forehead. “Or are you too dumb to think of any? Not even from training?”

“W- well… I think I have one.” He shuffled in his spot. He swallowed, cold. “Handler Reeves, she was disciplining me - I don’t remember why - and she was insulting me while she did it. I was tired… I think she had kept me awake for maybe a day,” his sir, half asleep, was looking off yet still obviously listening, “and she said something that made me angry. I don’t remember what. But it made me angry, and I bit her.”

His sir turned to him, a toothy smile growing across his cheeks. “You bit her? Like a mangy dog?”

“Yes, sir.” Prince strung a smile on his face, giving a slight nod through his lashes. “I bit her, and she started screaming at me. I think she made me watch more of the movies after that.”

“You? Angry?” His sir chuckled at that, releasing a pent up laugh. Prince followed, all - his smile, his laugh - as trained as everything else. He didn’t think the story was all that funny, but he knew his sir loved the ones that churned in his belly.

His sir swiftly hooked a hand beneath his collar, pulling Prince in close. “You think it’s funny?” Prince’s expression dropped, just before spittle graced his cheeks, his sir laughing at him once again. “You really are my stupid Princey.”

Prince nodded, slow, gears working as his sir took one of his curls in hand, twirling it around a calloused finger. 

My stupid Princey.

Yes. That’s exactly who he was. How could he have ever thought he could have been anything else?

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper @sharkyydoesnothing

@whump-till-ya-jump

Masterlist

cw: fantasy of murder/choking, noncon/dubcon kissing mention, pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee

——————

The room was unlit, save for the shine of the crescent cut moon glimmering through the window. The fan, white as everything else, buzzed above the bed, a humming thrum that coated the squealing of crickets and hoots of owls from the outdoors.

Usually when Prince would awake at some random hour in the middle of the night, he would flush any thoughts out from his mind and watch outside that very window at the glitter of stars in the dark night sky. He didn’t understand why, but oftentimes the images of constellations would arise, as if that was anything for a pet to concern themself with.

But this was not like usual.

Instead, Prince stared daggers at his sir with beady, piercing eyes, his sir innocently oblivious to it all. Asleep, even, chest rising and falling with a gentle rhythm. Prince held his breath, only releasing and sucking in a new heave of air every so often. His fists were tightly wound around the comforter, holding on with an iron grip.

His sir hadn’t said it. Again.

He passed on his chance, neatly laid right out for him to just take it, and didn’t fucking say it.

Jaw working, Prince grit his teeth. He’d never been so furious before, rage coursing through his veins. He didn’t think it was remotely possible for him to be. 

Prince was so sure he was going to say it. He was so hopeful, too hopeful, because if he hadn’t said it already then why would he ever?

They had kissed, his sir’s burly hands holding the sides of his pet’s smaller, more angularly shaped head, a thick bead of spit connecting their lips even after his sir had let go. Prince had believed it was just the right time as perfectly round pools of brown met green, both accompanied by up curled lips.

Prince had made sure his speech, his mannerisms, his everything was so utterly perfect, having practiced the words in the mirror for hours before his sir had returned home.

Fluttering his lashes, cocking his head, and keeping his voice low and slick with rasp, Prince spoke just as he was trained.

“I love you, sir.”

Sir had laughed a little around his heavy, warm breathing, blushing even, which he rarely ever did, as he brushed a thick strand of Prince’s hair out from his gaze. He pressed one more peck to his pet’s forehead, scruffy beard tickling Prince’s skin and parting his lips as he went to respond.

“I know you do, Princey.”

Biting his lip hard, nearly enough to pierce the skin and fill his mouth with stinging copper, Prince dug his face into the soft, silk coated pillow beneath him, wetting it with flowing tears. He caught a sob in his throat, holding it there for a second before he released it, twisting into a croaking whine.

Was he not capable of being loved? Was it his fault? Was Prince not good enough for him?

God, he looked so fucking peaceful while his pet was forced to agonize. He appeared vulnerable, even. Prince could catch him off guard right then and there, teach him a lesson and make sure he never dared upset his docile, obedient property ever again.

Prince could do whatever he so pleased. Wrap his slender yet still strong hands over his sir’s throat, twist and turn as he grunted and squealed for help. Watching as his sir’s face churned with indigo, just until he lacked the life to fight back.

At that Prince wailed hoarsely, muffled by his pillow. A terrible pet he was to think something so monstrous. Maybe that was why his sir couldn’t bring himself to love something so broken.

“Prince…?” The pet whimpered, going rigid as his sir’s gravel coated voice tainted his ears, fearful that he had somehow spoken his horrid thoughts out loud. Carefully, with stained cheeks he turned to meet his owner’s gaze, hazy and drowning in drowsiness. “You- you’re crying. Why are you crying?”

“You- I-,” swallowing, his lip shook with a heavy tremble as he stumbled with his words. “Do you- love me, sir?”

Sighing, his sir placed a moistened of Prince’s hair back into place. His features glistened in the light of the night, caressing his roughened face. Prince nearly wanted to kiss him, but another, locked away part of him, wanted to gag at the thought. “Silly pet. Why in the world are you awake at this hour?”

Prince pressed onward, brushing off his sir’s undeserved tenderness. “S- sir, do you love me?”

His sir’s clammy hand was settled over his mouth, a touch he wanted to shy away from, but was unable. “Shhh, Princey, calm yourself. There’s no reason to be letting such emotions get to you like that. I didn’t ask you to cry, did I?”

“N- no, sir.”

“Correct, Princey. And good boys only cry when sir asks them to, don’t they?” Prince nodded, sniveling incessantly like an upset child. “And right now sir wants us both to sleep. You woke me up with your foolishness, your idiocy, and you will pay for that later. Understood?”

His expression darkened, a cold tone shifting over his gaze. Prince wished he could bury himself underground and never come out.

“Yes, um, sir.”

Tucking the blanket back up to his pet’s shoulder, Prince’s sir gave him one last little sleepy smile. “Go back to sleep, Prince.”

“Goodnight, sir.” Slipped out automatically, before Prince licked his lips and in a cracking voice choked out one more I love you.

His sir, already flopped over and facing toward the wall, did not respond.

Prince got his answer, wether he liked it or not.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, collar, positions, conditioned whumpee

——————

The collar, jewel adorned and glimmering with gold sat just right around the thing’s neck, perfect, complementing his looks just as well as Atticus had imagined.

The boxie knelt beside the bed, hands folded neatly in his lap, a gentle, soft smile spread like butter over his lips. His hair was set right into place, washing down from his scalp with the ends twisted into voluminous curls, locks luscious and tender after the maids had given him a much needed bath. He looked just as he had in the pictures, but a million times better.

Oh, he was gorgeous. The prettiest of the pack. Atticus knew, just as he had expected, that he had done exceptionally well in picking his prized pet.

“Hm,” Atticus started, licking his lips and breaking the thick silence, “Now, what should I name a cutie like you…” he tapped at his chin playfully, a grin tugging at his lips as if he didn’t already have one in mind.

The pet cocked his head, giggling with a low, honey dripping sweetness. He wasn’t blushing, not really, but Atticus didn’t mind. “Anything you please, Master.”

Atticus chuckled, raspy and hearty, taking quick notice of the pet’s flinch. “Oh, call me sir. Only the mutt is to call me master, and you are most definitely on a higher level than him.”

“As you wish, sir.” He nodded curtly, before turning back up to his new master with those mesmerizing, hypnotically brown doe eyes of his, looking for approval.

“How polite.” Atticus commented, gifting the pet a pat on the head, of which he nuzzled into with addicting eagerness. “You like that, do you? What a sweetheart.”

“Thank you, sir. You are too kind, sir.”

“Oh, I know.” The pet’s brows furrowed a slight bit at that. “Anyone who willingly takes in one of you freaks is as kind as a saint. Don’t you agree?” Cupping the pet’s chin, he forced the man to nod along with his words until he himself continued the motion.

“Y- yes, sir. Of course.”

Atticus flicked to the table beside him, fingers tapping over wood as his gaze found the manual included along with the pet.

“Let’s have a little pop quiz, shall we?” The pet lit up just a smidge, straightening his spine in anticipation. “What should we begin with… let’s see here…” tracing along with a finger, he scanned the pages of diagrams and paragraphs detailing the boxie’s attributes. “How about… position one.”

Jumping to his feet just as the words left his master’s mouth, the boxie stood tall, his arms stuck at his sides with his posture flawless. 

“Position twelve.” 

In an instant the boxie dropped back to his knees with his head to the floor, forehead tapped to the tile as his wrists swiftly crossed over one another behind his back. Atticus waited a long, drawn out moment, simply basking in the pet’s eerie stillness, that merely told him the boxie strove for perfection, just as he did. 

“Oh, would I love to see position twenty two.” Atticus laughed, and just as he had expected in a quick second the boxie plopped his behind back to his ankles, his jaw dropping dutifully, mouth stuck wide open and agape.

“You may stop now.” He granted the boxie a scratch to the underside of his chin as he resumed a kneel, and Atticus was already falling in love with the gentle flutter of his lashes. “My, you’re such a good boy, doing so wonderful with your training.”

“Thank you, sir.” He repeated, the same mechanic feel each time he copied that same phrase. It irked Atticus, he soon realized, just how trained it all was. But he could pretend, too.

“You’re very welcome, my perfect prince.”

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso

Masterlist

Just a little drabble from the past because I am trying so hard to not worry abt notes and just have fun :]

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee

——————

“Yet another glorious victory.” His master announced, his pride holding a sweet ring to it, one that Mutt rarely ever heard unless he’d won a match. His master cupped his plush, flushed face in his hands, brushing the drying blood from the corner of his mouth with a thick thumb. “You know what that means, hm?”

He didn’t know what it meant, but with sparkling eyes and parted lips he nodded in anticipation, overwhelmed and practically drooling with the excitement of his master’s satisfaction.

“A pretty new collar for Prince is what it means.” He cooed, fingers nimbly itching at his pet’s sweatied scalp. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Y- yes, sir, yes, sir.” He melted into his master’s palm and against his leg, leaning ever so eagerly into his rare, saccharine touch that flooded his woozy mind with pleasantries. A toothy, beaming smile floated to his face, an odd, unfamiliar strain on his smooshing cheeks.

“Hey.” His master’s soft scritches ceased, pets turning to a clutch as he gripped at his pet’s chin. Crooked nails dug divots into his flesh, twisting his skin in the grasp and clawing a stifled whimper from his throat. “No smiles, remember?”

On command he dropped the stupid grin, returning his face to blank, stoic emptiness that brought his master back to coos and hidden praises of which he sometimes had to read through the lines to find.

“Good boy.”

——————

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping