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generic-whumperz · 7 months

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The Aid: Chapter 4- One Step Closer

TW & CW: non-con nudity (nonsexual), dub-con/non-con touching (nonsexual), clothing dressing (nonsexual), mention of past non-con, pet/slave fic with general dehumanization that goes along with it (nothing severe), deliciously delirious drugged Whumee, Whumpee awakening from a coma, aftermath of torture and starvation, underweight and malnourished Whumpee, probably medical malpractice, med whumpy(?), Care-Whumper (this is the closest we are getting to a “Caretaker” for a LONG time, and Dr. Paul is no saint), asexual-spectrum Whumpee who doesn’t know he’s ace-spec yet and subsequently has negative self-talk and throws himself a pity-party because of it (this is part of the character journey, alright?), Caretaker turned Whumpee, general sad + angsty Whumpee energy, Wyatt Sullivan (Whumper) being a bully (expected), Whumpee being called "boy" when he's a grown ass man, bad jokes as a coping mechanism from Whumpee

IDK if this needs to be a warning or not, but Whumpee is currently non-verbal from being drugged and having trauma (brain trauma from the coma mixed with general trauma-trauma), but there’s quite a bit of internal dialog, and we are in his POV!

Word count: 3645

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‘Maybe if I’m a good enough boy, I’ll get a treat after this,’ The Aid jokingly thought, desperate to find an ounce of humor to cling to.

If he couldn’t laugh, he’d surely cry.

And he was tired of crying.

With gloved hands, Dr. Paul carefully removed The Aid’s IV and feeding tubes, talking him through the process as he worked, intended to keep him as calm and present in the moment as possible. Wyatt Sullivan returned with a full glass of water—per Dr. Paul’s request—which the Doctor took from him before shooing him away, tasking him to warm The Aid a bowl of soup.

“I saved the worst for last, but it’ll be quick, I promise,” Dr. Paul said in a chipper tone. He fondled and stuck a syringe into something at the foot of the bed for a minute before lifting the bottom of the comforter and sheet that covered The Aid.

“Full disclosure, you’re naked under here, but after I remove the catheter, I’ll make you decent so you don’t have to trot around bare-assed.”

The Aid felt his heart skip a beat and his body temperature quickly rise from utter humiliation.

‘Great.’ A shiver of unease washed over him as the thought of another grown man dressing him filled him with inept self-consciousness. He felt foolish for feeling this way, as Dr. Paul had seen more parts of him than anyone else—all parts, in fact, many times.

‘At least Dr. Paul offered; at least it isn’t Wyatt—not like that asshole ever would do anything remotely helpful.’

He glanced down to see Dr. Paul hoist up the covers to his right knee before he forced himself to look away, not trusting himself not to jerk away from perturbed anticipation. The Doctor stuck his arm under the blanket, placing his hand on The Aid’s inner mid-thigh, unclipping the catheter from the adhesive tubing holder, and gently peeling it off his leg.

“This won’t hurt. I mean, even if it did, you wouldn’t feel it with the meds you’re on. Just take a deep breath and try to relax,” Dr. Paul directed, giving The Aid a moment to prepare. He sucked in a quick breath and held it in as he anxiously kneaded the blanket, fingernails digging into the soft filling of the comforter like small animals burrowing into freshly plowed Earth.

The Doctor hoisted the bedding further and quickly peeked below as his arm completely disappeared between The Aid’s legs.

‘I look like a mother about to give birth.’

Although he couldn’t feel much of what was happening and Dr. Paul worked diligently, his face turned bright pink from embarrassment. He fought his knee-jerk reaction of clamping his legs shut, knowing that would only prolong the process and demoralize him even further. He lightly felt the strange sensation of the tube pulled from his urethra, along with Dr. Paul’s index finger and thumb holding his sex steady as the catheter was fished out from inside him.

He wanted to fucking scream.

“You’re okay, almost there…Just a couple more seconds,” Dr. Paul hushed, observing The Aid’s legs shaking, stiffened body, and tightly-twisted red face.

“All done!” The Doctor pulled the blanket back down over his feet while holding the catheter out in front of him, placing the tubing and foley bag that was secured to the foot of the bed in a small trash can.

The Aid sharply exhaled the breath he held in between clenched teeth as a few tears escaped his eyes. He tried to force the memory of the experience out of his mind alongside his expulsion of breath before filling his lungs with a steadied, deep inhale.

‘Deep breath in…deep breath out…Repeat. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.’

He couldn’t help but feel violated and further stripped of agency. Who was he kidding, what agency did he have left at this point?

He knew the Doctor was only doing his job, and it was a simple medical device removal procedure; that wasn’t what bothered him, although he couldn't shake the feeling of being molested. What really ate at him was the fact that he viewed himself as a pathetic loser because, through his own avoidant tendencies, he inadvertently put himself in a situation where the only people who touched him were doing it out of a sadistic urge or in a medical setting—usually to fix damage from said sadistic urge.

He felt stupid for being triggered by something as simple as a formal routine, but his distraught feelings overpowered his rationality, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for himself. He didn’t care if he was being overly emotional about it; he had to allow himself to grieve the life he lost on top of all the pain and torment he went through. If he still had an ego, he was sure it was just as broken and bruised as his body.

Fleeting parts of him wished he had succumbed to horny teenage sexcapades just so he could dig up a single good memory of an intimate connection that didn’t leave him a sobbing mess afterward. But looking back, even in his supposed “sexual peak” (that he never went through), he harbored no such desires—well, save the fragmented memories of a single budding spark with a male cheerleader that he quickly snuffed out and fled from in a last-ditch attempt to save them both from eventual embarrassment and hurt feelings.

But that was a lifetime ago.

He didn’t know why he had always avoided deeper romantic connections, but he found them off-putting and thought himself incapable of possessing any feelings beyond a familial or platonic bond.

His disinterest in amorous relations didn’t use to bother him, but now it did.

He would cry-laugh about the irony of his situation when left alone for long periods; he’d spent days reeling about it, stuck in a mental loop while secluded in the basement—an intimately incapable 24-year-old forced to be a punching bag and fuck puppet for a sick pervert who found pleasure from his immense suffering.

He accepted that life wasn’t fair, but did it have to be so goddamn cruel?

******

Dr. Paul’s latex gloves snapped as he peeled them off his fingers. He disposed of the gloves and applied a dab of sand sanitizer, working it vigorously into his palms- the pungent alcoholic stench burned The Aid’s nose and caused a stir of harrowing memories to resurface that came through in broken fragments. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the details and lock them back up in the recesses of his mind’s “Do Not Enter” section.

‘How many things have this abominable fuckass Wyatt ruined and taken from me? Triggered by hand sanitizer? Embarrassing. Maybe it's best I stay here till I die.’

The Aid felt Dr. Paul’s hand tunnel between his lower back and the bed; the Doctor’s other hand securely grabbed his left forearm—the only side of his upper half that remained unmangled.

“I know you’re high as a kite, and you’re out of it, but I’m going to sit you up, okay? We’ll take it nice and slow, up and at ‘em.” Dr. Paul pulled him up with expert caution to a sitting position, still holding him up as his damaged body adjusted to the movement and change of elevation.

The Aid groaned, not from pain, but from the dizzying head rush that momentarily filled his vision with small, trailing stars that reminded him of tiny fireworks. Everything felt off and wrong. The world seemed surreal, as if an obnoxious bright tint was added to it, and he was looking through a high-contrast photo filter.

“Do you feel anything? Are you in any pain?”

The Aid perfunctorily shook his head, his eyes wandering around the room in a daze.

Dr. Paul released the hand from his back, waiting a moment to ensure he could keep himself upright before grabbing the cup of water from the nightstand and holding it out in front of him. The water seemed to sparkle in the clear glass, and he reveled in the small, idyllic moment of his first drink from a cup—not a bowl—since his demotion from house pet to basement troll.

He wrapped his fingers around the glass and carefully took it from Dr. Paul. He brought the rim to his mouth and took a sip.

‘This is the best goddamn water I’ve ever had.’

The liquid was cool and crisp; it didn’t taste dusty and metallic like the water he had grown accustomed to. He never realized how water could have such flavor to it. He took another magnificent sip. Realizing how thirsty he was, combined with the uncertainty of when he’d get fresh water again, he continued gulping it down, savoring every drop.

“Alright…Alright. Okay, that’s enough.” Dr. Paul took the cup from him—still halfway full. “Gotta take it easy, okay? Can’t go chugging water right now; you can have some more in a minute if you’re still thirsty.”

The Aid slumped in defeat, feeling like a small child being berated after being caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

Dr. Paul walked to the other side of the room to rummage through The Aid’s dresser, then disappeared into the small walk-in closet for a moment before returning to The Aid’s bedside with garments folded over his arm. He placed the clothes on the bed, leaving all but a pair of boxers in hand, and spun The Aid to the side so his legs were hanging off the mattress—still keeping his lower half covered under the blanket.

Dr. Paul bent over, pulled the boxers over his ankles, worked them around the curve of his bent, scabbed knees, and shimmied them up around his bony hips, the elastic waistband snapping around his waist.

‘This is what Madame Eleanor must have felt like…’

He reflected on his former Master’s last year of life when she needed the most assistance with things. He dressed and changed her multiple times a day without much thought, but never considered the mix of emotions of the person on the receiving end of help. Maybe she made peace with it; an elderly woman dying a slow death from cancer surely didn’t struggle with needing support as much as he did as a mid-20-something-year-old man who was supposed to be the pinnacle of health, right?

Some strange part of him felt a pang of misplaced guilt for not being a better version of himself, although he knew it was out of his control—he didn’t shackle himself, starve himself, and maim himself for months; it was done to him.

Dr. Paul continued dressing The Aid, slipping a pair of socks on his feet as he informed him of his sprained, lightly wrapped left ankle, which he was to stay off of for the next couple of weeks. Dr. Paul assured him that he told Sullivan that he was on bed rest and that his Master wasn’t to lay anything but a helping hand on him.

‘We’ll see how that goes. That creep can’t get his grubby ass hands off me.’

Next, Dr. Paul pulled on a pair of baggy sweats, tying the drawstring as tight as it would allow, then carefully fed his arms through a black zip-up hoodie, taking extra precaution with his right side.

“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Dr. Paul asked over the low whir of the zipper gliding up to his chest.

‘Consider me your living Ken doll. I can even beg on my knees like Barbie.’

The Doctor retrieved an arm sling from his grab-bag of medical equipment, looped it around The Aid’s left shoulder, and adjusted it to securely hold his right arm. Then, without warning, Dr. Paul abruptly pulled him up by his left hand to stand. His body was stiff as a board, his knees locked, and muscles pulled tight. He stumbled, wobbling with all his weight on his right foot—which wasn’t much, but just enough to throw him off balance.

A distraught whine escaped him as he hopelessly felt another head rush come on and desperately clutched onto Dr. Paul for support.

Panting, he slouched into the taller man’s chest, trying to work up the strength to hold himself up on his own. He felt like a newborn fawn taking its first steps on frail legs minutes after birth.

The hardwood oak floor beneath his socked feet was nice and smooth—he hoped he wouldn’t slip on it. Falling on it would guarantee more damage dealt…although that would mean more bed rest, which meant more time away from Sullivan’s beatings.

“Here we go!” Dr. Paul shoved a walking crutch under his left armpit (‘Where the hell did this come from?’) as he wrapped an arm around him to bear some of his weight, allowing him to acquaint himself with his temporary walking device.

‘An aide for The Aid—a match forged by the heavens and prophesied in the stars, or a cruel joke? You decide.’

“Perfect height! Alright, we’ll just take a stroll to the other side of the room and head back, then I’ll get outta your hair, alright? You’ve been doing so good—”

“That’s what I like to hear! My boy’s a champ; he always bounces back.”

The Aid and Dr. Paul's necks craned simultaneously to the left, watching Wyatt stroll into the room and gesture at a bowl of steamy soup in hand, then placing it—and a spoon—on the dresser.

‘Looks like he’s trying to win points with the Doctor by pretending to be civilized by ‘allowing’ me to eat with silverware; what an occasion. If only I was allowed a camera to document this momentous event.’

“Don’t stop on my account,” Sullivan simpered, sitting on the corner of the bed, twisting around to watch them. He eyed The Aid excitedly, half expecting him to fail and become a blubbering, broken heap on the floor in mere seconds.

‘Stop fucking looking at me with that shit-eating grin.’

“Com’mon,” Dr. Paul coaxed, loosening his grip around The Aid and slowly stepping backward, encouraging him to follow. He took a small, hesitant step forward, supporting himself with the crutch. He felt the woosh of his clothes sway with his jolted, ungraceful step, indicating how much weight he lost during his time in isolation.

“Beautiful,” the Doctor encouraged, guiding him to take another step.

“Speaking of hair, he got a wash and a beard trim last week, then a sponge bath a couple days ago. But I’m sure he’d appreciate a warm shower.” Dr. Paul glanced over at Sullivan.

“Think you can manage to keep an eye on him? I'm not saying you need to bathe him; just monitor him and make sure he doesn’t run the water too hot. I recommend sitting him in a chair so he isn’t standing the whole time; he’ll be woozy for a while. One of the side effects of these meds is heat sensitivity and an increased risk of heat stroke, so just make sure you don’t lock him in the car on a hot day with the windows rolled up. I’ll go over meds with you while he’s eating.”

“Ow-wa Doc! Was that a dog joke you just threw in there?” Sullivan whooped amusedly.

“Just making sure you’re paying attention,” Dr. Paul chuckled.

‘Call me Scooby because I can’t fucking Doo this anymore.’

“Sure you don’t want me to scrub his back too? Scratch him behind the ears? Towel dry him and put a pretty bow on him?” Sullivan teased.

‘Don’t threaten me with a good time. If only you would treat me like the show dog I was born to become.’

“Only if you feel so inclined to. But maybe you can pretty him up and get him a haircut and a shave? I’m sure he’d like that. Your mother always kept him groomed, and he looked happier that way. Plus, it brings out his boyish charm, don’t ya think?” Dr. Paul playfully tousled The Aid’s shaggy, grown-out chocolate brown hair that hung past his ears and covered the nape of his neck.

They reached the opposing wall and began their trek back to the bed, the Doctor still guiding him, walking backward like a parent teaching their infant how to walk. From this vantage point, The Aid could see the heap of medical devices stationed on the right side of his bed that mimicked a hospital room.

“Hm, I dunno, I think I like the shaggy dog look on him,” Sullivan said tongue-in-cheek, knowing damn well The Aid didn’t like looking unkempt.

“Looks like a sad little stray puppy, doesn’t he? Well, minus the collar—oh wait—” Sullivan stood abruptly and pulled something from his back pocket. “Now we can complete the look!” He pinched the metal D-ring in between his fingers as The Aid’s dark green leather collar dramatically uncurled, springing out and forward.

The Aid glared at Sullivan with daggers in his eyes, disgusted by the presence of the collar. Just because the physical assaults were off-limits momentarily, it didn’t mean that Sullivan would stop tormenting him in whatever other way he could. The man had the same energy as a brutish school bully who deliberately picked on smaller kids just because he was bigger than them.

“Wyatt, play nice. Don’t tease him; put that thing away,” Dr. Paul chided, irritated by Sullivan’s blatant callousness.

Sullivan challenged The Aid’s glare with a smug smile, placing the collar on the dresser, deliberately positioning it on the edge closest to him so he would see it clearly when lying in bed. This served as a warning, a constant reminder of The Aid’s place, how he was owned and thought of as nothing more than an exotic pet to be tamed and used.

Once they reached the bedside, Dr. Paul took the crutch from under The Aid’s armpit and eased him down on the bed, resting the crutch on the nightstand and grabbing the glass of water.

“Want to finish this?”

‘Is water wet?’

The Aid eagerly seized the glass and greedily drank the rest like it was the last cup of water he would ever get to drink.

“Your first urination after the catheter removal may sting a little, but it shouldn’t be more than a little. There may also be a small amount of blood in your urine, but again, it shouldn’t be more than a small amount. If you have any issues down there, tell Wya—Master Sullivan, okay?” Dr. Paul looked expectantly at Wyatt to confirm that he would be receptive to possible future conversations involving The Aid’s urinary health.

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Sullivan asked dumbly. Dr. Paul eyed him confoundedly.

“…You call me, and I come to check on him and make sure he doesn’t have a UTI. If he has any issues, call me, and I’ll check to ensure he isn’t developing more problems. He’s been okay so far despite everything, and I’d like to keep it that way. But, if you haven’t noticed, he’s rather fragile right now; a gust of wind could knock him over.”

“Could have just said that.” Sullivan threw his arms up in the air. Dr Paul sighed, taking the cup from The Aid and propping him up against the bed’s headboard. He brought forth a medium-sized metal tray, unfolded its tucked-in legs, and placed it over The Aid’s lap. This time, Sullivan was smart enough to take the hint of placing the bowl of soup on it.

“You’re welcome.” Sullivan stood, waiting for a meek “Thank you, Master” from his slave.

The Aid stared bleakly into the bowl of soup, unsure how much he’d be able to eat because, despite being starved, he didn’t feel ravenous—he didn’t feel hungry at all. Sullivan scoffed at The Aid’s silence—what he took as an act of defiance.

He’d let it slide, just this once.

He promptly joined Dr. Paul to discuss medication times and dosages.

The older men’s voices faded to indistinctive background chatter in The Aid’s ears. He stared into the soup, fumbled the spoon, and stirred the contents around, trying to muster the strength to feed himself. Somehow, this felt like more of an impossible feat to overcome than hobbling around the room.

He only managed a few spoonfuls of broth. He nibbled on a chopped carrot, but it felt foreign in his mouth, and he struggled to swallow it.

He was suddenly hit with an unmistakable twinge of dread. His life felt bleak and meaningless; he had no hope for the future—the drugs seemed to only amplify his negative feelings.

‘Hope I get some fast-acting anti-depressants, if there is such a thing…’

How many more times would he be beaten nearly to death, or to death, just to be nursed back to health for the process to repeat itself? He couldn’t do this again, not after the basement. He lost part of himself in that dungeon that he’d never get back, the remnants forever lost in the pitch shadows. He found his demons down there; they coalesced with a single mission of ripping him to shreds and flaying him open for his human monster to feed on. The demons and devil-man volleyed him back and forth until nothing was left but a shell of a young man who’d lost everything and abandoned his will to live.

He knew no peace, no happiness; nothing but desperation and horror filled his mind and heart.

He stared helplessly into the bowl of soup as his mind dragged him down the hall of horrors, making him relive the torment.

He couldn’t even enjoy his first hot meal in four months.

‘I survived death…But now what?’

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wordsbymae · 2 years

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The Mad King Alphabet 18+

This guy sucks. It's me again! I'm actually quite excited about this one, mainly cause I hate him compared to Eli (my love!). Still haven't figured out a name for him yet but kinda don't wanna give him one. Hopefully, you guys enjoy this one as well! Also, I introduce his beginning in this post. So have a read of that one if you're getting a bit confused about what's happening. Once again 18+ and there will be NSFW themes :) Lots of love mae!

Unfortunately, this one came out as primarily for female readers, so from now on this series will be primarily for female readers. However, I am trying to keep Eli's series Gn and also any future series as gn as possible. As I am female I do struggle writing for male readers, but I do believe that anyone should be able to see themselves in my writing. I have a few more prompts lined up that are Gn readers as well. I just thought I would let you guys know.

Let's get into it!

This man may have been the lesser son of the king, but he's still a prince and he's still a spoiled brat. I kinda hate this man because of how entitled he acts. I mean if you read my first post, you understand that he believes he deserves anything he wants, his father's love, the throne, you.

And sure you can blame that on the massive weird shadow creature constantly reminding him that he is entitled to whatever and whoever he desires but I like to think he would still act like a spoiled shit without the shadowy figure.

He has spent so long trying to act like the perfect son, spent so long forcing his hatred and bitterness deep inside, so yeah, now that he has removed his brother from the equation and no longer has to pretend, he goes a little wild. I haven't written the next part yet, but as soon as he returns to the castle (with a convincing lie of an ambush and outlaws and how he desperately tried to save his brother) as soon as he announced King (no coronation required, he was in line for the throne so he is instantly king when his brother died, coronation comes later ), he is shoving open the door to your bed chambers and throwing you over his shoulder. Completely ignoring your questions, your pleas, the cry you give when he squeezes just a bit too tightly. He does not have time to play politics, he doesn't have time to renegotiate a new deal with your father, he wants, no, needs you and as King, he gets what he wants.

He doesn't care that you are screaming and crying, begging someone to help. You don't understand what's happening, you don't even know that your fiance, the true, rightful king is dead. His body is being carted back to the castle as his brother drags you kicking and screaming to his room. You catch the eye of some of the Queen's guard, your future protectors, and you beg them to save you, beg them to do their job. But they have already sworn their loyalty to your aggressor, your pleas fall on dead ears.

I'll skip what happens in the bedroom as it's what I'm planning on writing next, so let's move on to the following days and weeks. Luckily for him your father could care less you weren't going to marry the rightful king, he was just grateful someone wanted you. You were married the day after his brother's funeral. Some of the advisors thought it much, much too soon. The kingdom needed time to mourn, to grieve. He argued the sooner you were married, the quicker you could give him a child, a cause for celebration. The advisors tried to argue, but when one succumbed to a terrible sickness (his veins turned black and rotted under his flesh), the others didn't have the fight to disagree. (You can bet the shadow had something to do with that). You on the other hand raged and fretted over this new turn of events. You had hoped you would have had some months to prepare for being married to him (the weird brother that you always caught staring and who you had found in your room one day going through your things).

Come now, surely you were aware that this was your purpose? Did your mother never tell you what occurs in a marital bed? Fear not my heart, if you require a lesson in the act of fucking I will be your most dedicated teacher

He isn't kind, there is no warmth to his actions, and he almost sees you as nothing more than a pretty pet. A pet he would brutally murder for yes, but he isn't against putting you back in your place, whether that be on your knees or with a collar of silver and diamonds around your neck.

He buys you everything, he sources the freshest ingredients, the rarest jewels, prized mares and hand-crafted gowns of silk and pearls. Most days you feel as though he is trying to buy your affection. And you would be correct, he wants you to see him as a rich, benevolent ruler (he's a bit insecure). He also thinks that by providing these things to you, he has gained the right to do whatever the hell he wants with you. anything

You refuse your King? The King who dresses you in these fine silks? The King who fills your belly with fresh fruit and tender meat when others starve? On your knees. You seem to have forgotten who is your King

All in all, he kinda sucks. But as time goes on and you fight him less, show more affection and reject him less often, his attitude towards you changes. I view it like you were a prized animal in the sense he saw that he had to break you in, but now he can show you off and spoil you.

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A = Affection (How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?)

If by affection you mean him treating you like a prized pet? Then yes. He gives you the prettiest thing, a gorgeous necklace of silver and jewels that is tight enough around your neck to be a collar (it is a collar), the most delicate and softest garments, he makes you try them all on as he watches, giving praises on how beautiful you look, how you rival the sun in your brilliance, he hand feeds you from his own plate. You really are just a pet with a human voice.

B = Blood (How messy are they willing to get when it comes to you?)

The destruction of entire kingdoms, bloody. He brutally drowned his own brother for you. Do you really think he cares for some nobodies?

C = Cruelty (How would they treat you once abducted? Would they mock you?)

He can be pretty cruel but he doesn't think he is. He thinks he's being fair. He justifies everything he does as his right, or what he needs to do to train you to become the Queen he knows you can be. He doesn't tease like Eli does, but he does mock.

Oh my poor darling, look at you. Crying for a family who never wanted you. We both know that they sent you to my brother to be used like a bitch in heat. And yet! and yet you cry for them. Your heart aches for them. If I wasn't in love with you I would call it pathetic.

D = Darling (Aside from abduction, would they do anything against your will?)

oh yeah, I won't into it too much but he's not exactly a gentleman. He's a king. He could order you to strip naked and walk up the street in front of all of his guards if he so chooses (although he would never do that, he wouldn't want those peasants to feast upon your skin).

E = Exposed (How much of their heart do they bare to you? How vulnerable are they when it comes to you?)

I think that because he is so desperate for affection, he would one night just break into tears and tell you everything. From the love he never received from his father, about the shadow, about how he desperately wanted to be equal to his brother. To the love he began to feel for his brother and how he might even regret killing him, even for you. You never bring any of that up ever again.

F = Fight (How would they feel if you fought back?)

Like when a kitten or a puppy tries to play fight. You know you can fight them off easy you just don't to hurt them. But if you bite too hard he will teach you a lesson

G = Game (Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching you try to escape?)

Oh no no no, no games with this one. He's kinda boring :( He has a terrible sense of humour and takes everything to heart. Also, he hates it when you try and push his limits so if you try and run, there is no chance of mercy.

H = Hell (What would be your worst experience with them?)

I think the first night with him would have been the worst. He's just grabbed you from your room with no explanation and dragged you to his room. He suddenly explains the king is dead and you are to be his queen, from like right now. You would be absolutely terrified and crying with your head in your hands, especially when he starts ripping your clothes off and telling you to get on his bed. You try to beg him to wait till the wedding, but he doesn't seem to care about formalities right now. At least after that first night, you kinda knew what to expect.

My heart, there is no reason to fear. I swear I will be gentle

(he wasn't)

I = Ideals (What kind of future do they have in mind for/with you?)

You with a pretty silver collar around your neck and a babe on your hip. He may act like a royal dick head (which he is) but he is simple in his ambitions, he didn't want the throne, just you, the throne was just a stepping stone. He would be happy without the crown as long as he has you looking up at him so sweetly from your place by his feet (also as long as he still has his three butlers, 5 stallions, constant supply of food and prettiest clothes for you to wear)

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?)

He is actually quite insecure, on the account of never having any true affection or love sent his way as a child. I can definitely see him getting jealous, even to the point of never letting any man see you. Since you are the queen this is a bit tricky and impractical (how are you meant to rule your subjects), so he compromises and makes it a law (punishable by death) to gaze upon your face, you just cannot trust people these days.

K = Kisses (How do they act around you?)

I think I have kinda explained how he acts throughout this drabble, but I will go into it a bit more in-depth. Constantly has his eyes on you or even his hand on the back of your neck. Always watching and waiting for you to do something wrong. But I also think that as time goes on and you start to accept you are never leaving him, he calms down and trusts you a bit, even to the point where you might even say he is kind. He begins to kiss your knuckles and palms. Begins to braid, plait and tie ribbons into your hair. He begins to help you dress, gently tieing the knots at the back of your dress, helping you put on your shoes. He gives you more sentimental gifts, like flowers and drawings rather than jewels and silks, his gaze softens and his voice is warm instead of callous. But this may take some time and only if you stop trying to reject your place by his side.

L = Love letters (How would they go about courting or approaching you?)

Courting? The man skipped like 7 steps straight to marriage. I have mentioned he buys you things constantly and he will think he is being kind by letting you walk in the courtyard or the gardens without him (wow such a gentleman).

M = Mask (Are their true colours drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?)

Not really, the only difference is he won't kill you, unlike others. Although as I mentioned above, over time this does change and you begin to be treated with a bit more kindness and love.

N = Naughty (How would they punish you?)

Like an owner does a dog. He might push your face in a mess you made during a tantrum, smack or spank you, leave you tied to his bed, remove all your books and entertainment, and his personal favourite, tying the hand of a common criminal or of someone you tried to get to help you around your neck.

Now I do not wish to punish you, pet, but you continue to act unruly and unbecoming of a Queen. I want you to think about what you have down and once I believe you have learnt your lesson I will remove the hand. Agreed?

(do other people do this with their dogs when they kill their chickens? Putting the dead chicken around the dog's neck? we did it once and it worked but all my city friends have sworn they have never heard of doing that)

O = Oppression (How many rights would they take away from you?)

HAHAHA. everything. You are practically a glorified cow (your casual collar - yes you have multiple for different occasions- even has a little bell!). You have no rights. You may be queen, which grants you power over your subordinates, but he will always outrank you with everything. The only power you have relates to any future children. He allows you to decide on their education and raise them as you see fit.

P = Patience (How patient are they with you?)

Patience?????? Never heard of her. He is more willing to humour you with things but don't go pushing too many of his buttons.

Ah, what is this my heart? A book? Please continue to read , but out loud this time. I have to ensure my queen is not getting any ridiculous ideas. Do not fret, my love! It was only a jest

(it wasn't - remember when I said he doesn't joke? If he says he's joking he's lying)

Q = Quit (If you die, leave, or successfully escape, would they ever be able to move on?)

I really don't think he would even let you die. I mean he has this shadowy figure of questionable descent on his side. Who's to say that even if you try to die by your own hand he won't just bring you right back? Also some sort of thing with leaving. I don't even think you would be able to leave. When the shadow isn't with him, it's constantly watching what you're doing and reporting back to him.

You must think I am a fool. Did you really think that I would not be able to figure out your little plan? Trying to leave in the middle of the night, leaving your subjects, leaving your King? What an ungrateful whore. I'll remind you of your place. Strip.

R = Regret (Would they ever feel guilty about abducting you? Would they ever let you go?)

No regret at all. It was his right to claim you and it's your purpose to sit there and look pretty. And no fucking way would they let you go. What king would let his queen leave?

You may think that look of pain in your eyes would inflict pity in mine. But you would be mistaken pet. You are my birthright. I was destined to conquer you. To corrupt you, to break you down and build you up as my perfect queen.

S = Stigma (What brought about this side of them [childhood, curiosity, etc]?)

A crazy mixture of childhood and a shadowy monster driving him to murder his brother and claim you as his.

T = Tears (How do they feel about seeing you scream, cry, and/or isolate yourself?)

Finds it all very annoying, you are his Queen, so act like it. A queen does not sook, sob or have tantrums because her King was a little rough with them. Your only purpose is to take what he gives you with a smile and a thank you. Is it really that hard? Once again he views you as a pet so, he would find it all very inconvient, and would probably buy you a puppy/kitten to try and change your mood (it works, at least for me it would).

U = Unique (Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?)

Besides the 7ft shadow figure who drove him to murder? Not really. He's a basic bitch

V = Vice (What weakness can you exploit in order to escape?)

his need for validation and affection, all stemming from his childhood insecurities. That's what this is all about. The love he didn't receive as a child from the man who he worshipped. I think if you gave him all the validation and affection he wanted he would give you much more freedom than compared if you didn't. Maybe even enough to slip through some metaphorical crack to make a run for it. Make sure he never catches up through, it won't be pretty if he did.

W = Wit’s end (Would they ever physically hurt you?)

Yes, not because he wants to or enjoys it. He sees it as a necessary evil to punish you or train you (that's right he's got a pet play kink, my sources? me). But just because he doesn't enjoy it doesn't mean he'll shy away from some painful things. I'm talking about broken fingers or things that can heal but not really leave a mark.

X = Xoanon (How much would they revere or worship you? To what length would they go to win you over?)

He doesn't worship you like Eli would (on his knees begging to just have a taste), but he does revere you. You are his chosen queen. He could have killed his brother years ago and chosen some random woman as his queen, but no the shadow choose you, he chose you. But because of that, he holds you up to a high standard.

Y = Yearn (How long do they pine after you before they snap?)

It was actually quite a short pinning period. You arrived and then 3 weeks later your fiance, his brother was dead. He had decided, with the help of his good friend the shadow, that he wanted his brother dead when you showed his brother just too much attention at the welcome feast, so I suppose you could argue then? The period between then and him throwing you over his shoulder was filled with him staring, following you around the castle, listening to the conversations between you and his brother (may he rest in peace), sniffing your clothes when you were out of your room for the day and writing you little love letters (how sweet!) he would leave under your pillow as you slept (not so sweet). You had actually believed the letters came from his brother because of how they spoke of your future married life and future children, it actually lead you to fall somewhat in love with the rightful king.

Z = Zenith (Would they ever break you?)

Oh yeah. That's the end goal baby. He wants you pliant and willing. Willing to let him do whatever he wants with you as he so pleases. He is the King, after all, he can't have anyone questioning his authority. I think though if you fight him constantly he will push and push and push until you are broken entirely but if you are more willing early on he will allow you some freedoms (like not mentally scarring you) and treat you more like a beloved pet than an unruly mare.

How is my darling pet this evening? Have you been well behaved? I suppose I must encourage good behaviour with a reward. Suppose I allow you a small trip to the city? With your dotting King by your side of course

#yandere fantasy #yandere drabble #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere #the mad king #oc #yandere alphabet #female reader #please tell me if you guys want more gn stuff! I will try if you want #mentions of:#misogyny #patriarchy #suicide #dub con #yandere king #king!yandere #king!yandere x reader

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