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toiletwipes · 2 years

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MONSTER/PRISONER • DAY ONE OF KINKTOBER

Summary: To heal a murderous beast only for them to execute said beast... these times are not only hard but confusing as well. Good thing you'll be rewarded generously, right? Right?

Word Count: ~14.6k words

Character: Wilbur Soot

Warnings: I romanticized the shit out of this situation, so its probably not realistic. Also I did no research. Take this as you will with like a pinch of salt. Also sex and brief violence. Me thinking I can be funny. friends to strangers to one night stand to the only person you can literally be around. :) (also if i remember right, i do not think we fuck wilbur as a beast so maybe i could post that for the actual first day.)

Kinktober Masterlist

tag list: @oyakuya @ruminationnn @despicablenotions @grrrlsagainsthumanity @wolfie-doggo @boiled-onionrings @struggling-with-time @midnighthasstruck @modx-reborn

Being a child of a nurse did you many favors, born under a watchful eye with medicine as her witness, you were the picture of health. However, being your mother did not pay her, so taking you into a Lord's castle was her only choice, lest she let you out into the filthy world of bacteria and illness.

You worked with her, as best as you could, and though you were but a child, you were introduced to many things.

One, you met the Lord of this castle, the one overseeing the region between two distant rivers. And though in the summer, it was a place of beauty, it's a monster in the harsh winter. The castle was carved into the singular mountain dividing the rivers in the first place. The harsh winters brought sickness into the castle.

Sickness to your boss.

He coughed something ugly into a handkerchief, and your mother, ever the healer, stayed beside him with you behind her, holding the bowl of warm water. You'd watch her dip the water in and squeeze it out, looking her in the eyes as she told you something quiet, your eyes peering around her figure, looking at the man with golden hair splayed around his pillow. Covered in thick, lavish blankets. When she turned around, his eyes opened and you couldn't even think when they caught your gaze. When he grips her wrist weakly, muttering something to her you couldn't hear, she nods and guides you to place all of her things into the bag.

She doesn't explain much, only that it's important that they're quick. She's ushering you through many flights of stairs, and if you had to guess, it was to the top of the tower, the one on the left. The one tucked closer behind the actual castle, between the mountain.

When she opens the door, she tells you to bow, to show respect. Like you'd done with the Lord, except instead of a lord, when you peaked at the lump barely covered in anything, there lay a child. Not much older than you.

His hair sticks to his head with sweat and his limbs are bound to the poles of the bed, his body sporadically thrashing in sleep.

"Child, do what I did with Lord Craft, tend to him." And though you'd been less than eager to tend to a patient that clearly was more than ill, looked as though he'd been cursed by a witch, you walk over to him, patting and smoothing the fabric of your own apron. He didn't look any different than the kids in your town, save for the rope and clear signs of something medically serious. He looked... normal.

Sort of.

You fill your own bowl up, pouring it in with an unsteady hand and painfully aware of your mother's piercing stare. The towel dipped and squeezed, you leaned on your toes to try to reach for his forehead, a gasp left you as his body jerked away, sitting up as best he could restrained, frantic eyes glancing between you and your mother. "Who- who are you people, who sent you?" He asks, his accent unlike his father's, shoulders bunching together as he tugged at his restraints.

"I'm your nurse," you blurted out, and he looked taken aback. His eyes look you over, a small but healthy child, with the older and actual nurse standing against the back wall, and he just barely relaxes. His muscles release tension and his shoulders sag downwards. "Now if you'll lie back down," you press down on his bed, nearly kneeling on it to push one of his shoulders down. His shock makes him easy to move, despite hearing your mother's soft call to stop. To leave the boy be.

"Why are you my nurse, shouldn't it be her?" He asks, clearly as confused as you are. But for you, you weren't allowed the same curiosity.

Yet your mouth opened faster than you could think of the consequences, "why are you my patient?" Making eye contact, you wipe his forehead from the matted hair, cleaning off his face as well. Your mother's stern voice curses, reaching your side and pulling your arm away from him.

"I am so sorry for her lack of manners, sir, Lord Wilbur, we'll excuse ourselves."

And as she turns the two of you, after forcing you to bow once more, her fingers dig into your shoulders, guiding you to the door, when his voice cracks as he calls for you.

"Don't leave!" You instinctively turn to look at him while your mother stills in shock. He doesn't make eye contact but he continues. "Please." His head turns and you recognize the look in his eyes.

He's lonely.

"I'll behave myself, I promise." You try to whisper to your mother but her grip loosens up already, letting you move back to his side.

"I won't leave you until you're cured, I promise." You try to say as quietly as you could to him and though he looked like he was in pain, he smiled. It was an ugly, sad smile. You'd never forget it.

Wilbur, the Lord's cursed son, would never be cured as it turned out to be.

You remember being in the room at his request, close to the wall with your head down as you listened to the healing mage explain to both his father and him that whatever he had, it was dormant for now but he was more than likely going to have this illness for the rest of his life.

As everyone trickled out of the room, his father gave you a glance as he closed the door behind him.

"I'm never getting better." His words choke out of his mouth, tears trailing down the sides of his face, and you could feel your heart break.

It'd been several years since you first met him and to see him come this far just to be told it'd never go away, it must've been so terrifying.

Especially since they had no idea what it was. That was probably the second-worst part. He'd always be sick and he'd die never knowing why.

That is if they had kept him.

You remember the last night you saw him as a kid, it'd been your fourteenth birthday, right before his fifteenth, and you had brought your favorite book into the castle to share with him. He'd so graciously helped with your reading ability, and not that your mother didn't want you to or couldn't, she found it easier to teach you by ear than by the texts. And soon, when you had the time and money, you borrowed books from your neighbor, Miss Alyssa.

They offered solace for the both of you, with Wilbur reading every book in the castle's library twice and you who'd only cared for the equally new adventure it brought. Reading. With the Lord's son.

Your mother had other patients so she often left you alone and though he'd usually have guards with him in the room, he asked if they'd only stay outside with the ability to check in on the two.

They did, every so often, but it gave the two of you privacy neither had quite appreciated more.

You brought the book in with you, pulling it out from one of your pockets to find Wilbur sitting on his bed, rubbing at his appendages. The ones that no longer had any restraints on them.

Your mouth dropped open, running towards the bed as you dropped the book on top of the covers and gingerly took his wrists in your hands, turning them over. They only had scarring from the usage over the years but... they appeared to be fine.

"Why— why did they take them off?" They never took them off, only loosening the grip to clean the skin underneath but never actually taking off.

He doesn't look at you.

"They said I'm going away to my mother's estate where they have better healers, better clergies, better... everything."

His hair wasn't as soaked in sweat and it was actually somewhat curly, and deep inside of you, you wanted to touch it.

"I can't go with you, can I?" His gaze turns to you and one of his hands removes itself from your grasp, only to hold your own. A lump formed in your throat as he told you that you'd be staying with your mother, to replace her in the future when she either retired or died.

"I'll send letters every day so you can't forget me." He laughed, and it was a beautiful sound, his laugh. You wanted to put it in a bottle and hide it away from everyone else. You wanted it to yourself. The Lord's son's laugh. You'd keep it only in the prettiest of the jars.

"Promise you will too." His laughter ceased slowly, watching you with careful eyes as you didn't laugh, as you cried before him.

"I'll write two letters every day." He squeezes your hand, and you smile through the tears, through the blurred vision. Even with your eyes blinded by the tears, he was still the prettiest boy you'd ever seen.

The rest of the day, you read the book with him. All around his room, by the windows, in front of the door, mostly on his bed. He let you on his bed, just for a few minutes. ("You've taken care of me and stayed, it's the least I can do." As if his friendship wasn't the greatest thing he'd ever handed you. You'd like to think it was friendship, at the very least.

Not every patient kisses their nurse on the back of their wrist when they leave.

"I shall hope to see you in the next life, dear." And after the door closed behind you, your mother was waiting with a handkerchief of her own, dabbing at your face as she guided you home, away from the castle.

"Lord Craft was ever so kind to let us leave our duties early, said something about the rain to come in the night." Hearing about the weather made your heart race with panic, would Wilbur survive the trip to his mother? A hand grasps at the front of your sleep shirt, trying to still your heart, trying to reach in with a clawed hand and beg it to leave you alone, to stop thinking about what could have been and what will be.

What Wilbur would look like in the future and if he'd live long enough to be seen so.

Your mother tells you goodnight just as the first rain droplet hits your roof, belly full of food and eyes heavy with exhaustion, but you couldn't help it. You watched outside of your window as the rain poured and in the distance, the castle. You hope that Wilbur makes it.

The next time you saw Wilbur was about ten years after he left.

During the years he was gone, you had made excellent progress with your literacy, scanning books over medical and fantastical texts alike. Lord Craft had deemed you well trained, behaved, and thoroughly educated. He offered you a more permanent position in his staff, your own supplies and even more access to the castle's library. Even a room should you need to stay overnight.

You accepted all of it.

Your mother was less than impressed.

Something about how she wanted more for you, how she wanted you to be able to travel the world and see what it has to offer you. But you didn't need what the world had, you only wanted what was left of the time you had with her. They were numbered and when the days grow longer, she grows weaker. It was her unfortunate truth.

Lord Craft arranged for a comfortable last few days for her, offering her a bed with expensive sheets and soft pillows. Your mother always asked for you to lay with her as often as you could. It took strength to hold in your sobs every night you had with her in that elegant room. The best doctor they found, he offered you much of his sympathy. Nothing else he could do.

And on her last day, you read to her the very same book you read with Wilbur. You read to her as best as you could, but before you reached halfway, she had already moved on.

Your mother died a few years before the guards had arrested something quite... strange.

Ten years since you last saw Wilbur, three years since you buried your mother, and one week into the new prisoner's stay here at the castle, the Lord summoned you.

The discussion took hours, none of it being your fault entirely. You had your concerns but the Lord's advisors had much to say about giving such care to a prisoner. One that was responsible for a village's destruction.

Your concerns being that of course, what if it got too close and you were injured? You wouldn't be able to treat yourself entirely. And then of course, yes, you weren't sure if you wanted to treat a murderer.

Craft was resolved, however. Steadfast that in order for the village to receive true justice, the one responsible must heal and then it would be executed. Justice properly delivered.

You didn't know how to feel about that, but after forcing the rest of the room to leave, he had told you that no matter what, you should never speak to the creature, that you should only treat its wounds and leave as soon as possible. It's possible that whatever it is, it can be passed on. Whether through blood or spit, he didn't want to risk it.

"Just do your job well and be done with it, I will make sure you are paid handsomely. Could even take the trip your mother wanted for you." Hearing the last part, of course, added to it sweetly.

You nodded.

When you were being led down to the holding cells, the guards offered no support, no words of empathy. Or even gruesome stories about the wretched beast.

Only silence welcomed you.

No matter. You were more than used to it.

Until you reached the bottom of the stairs and the lamps hanging from the short wall, well, they did very little to hide the monster.

Your breath catches in your throat and though there are bars separating the two of you, the hairs on your skin stand up.

One guard has a hand on your elbow, the other unlocks the door. "If you need to leave, shout for us." They say under their breath before you're nudged rather roughly to enter the cell.

It's damp, it's repulsive, and you find that if there wasn't a giant monster in the way of it all, it still would be a cramped space.

And speaking of Mister Monster, its a big thing of matted fur. It looked to be curled into its side, body heaving with stuttered breathing, and you figure its got a few broken ribs. And depending on how fast it heals, you could be well out of town before the spring rolled around.

That's when it hears you, heart beating something wild, you were sure you could hear the sound of your rushing blood past your ears. It hears you panic and before anything, its head barely lifts up.

You can see the unbothered eyes, the way it barely acknowledged your existence. “Its been sedated, work as fast as you can and you should be fine.” One guard says but decidedly locks you in there with it.

You try to control your breathing, deep inhales and shaky exhales, despite this being your scariest patient yet… its still your patient.

Taking quick steps towards it, you tentatively reach a hand out, wondering if the sedatives were enough to keep it calm for you to be able to look for any wounds.

“One of the guards had nicked it towards the stomach, I would be careful checking around there.” Oh, thank you for your input, guard who’s ten times more likely not to get bit if your hand went digging around the injured stomach area.

You inhale sharply before you reach a hand into its fur, and as you do, it makes eye contact, and there’s a low rumbling vibration emitting from it. You don’t know what the monster means by it but you’re sure if it wanted you dead, it probably would’ve done something by now.

You rake your fingers through the fur, beginning a little hum, trying to distract yourself and hopefully help soothe the beast.

Its head settles down.

“Hello there, erm,” there’d been no name for the murderous thing, however, being kind and slow is a precaution that could only help, and it had turned its head to look at you, its eyes incredibly big and round and… soft. Like a baby’s. Taming that part of you that wanted to soothe this creature, take care of it, shield it from harm. You actually stomped it out. Internally of course.

“I’m here to help you heal, so I’ll need to take a look at your stomach.” Its ears perked up and immediately went to the back of its head.

And at this point, it’s safe to say that whatever it was, it resembled a cross between a bear and a wolf. Dastardly heartbreaking with the big eyes and the whine that singed the air.

“I know, it’s not ideal, but please, if you can, turn onto your back.” You step back a little and its head tilts towards you when you stop combing your fingers through its fur. Reaching into your bag for a pair of glasses, one that was supposed to help you look for injuries better, you wait for it to move.

It doesn’t move.

In fact, the beast curls into itself even more, whining and probably unwilling to bare its stomach to you, probably not helping that there are guards here who remind it of the whole reason for the wound.

“Please, I promise to make it quick!” You whisper, trying not to glance behind, the guards might not only agitate it further, but also endanger you just as quickly and this whole will have to be called off. “Please, turn on your back.” It doesn’t move.

Biting your lip, you turn your head and they’re immediately moving towards the gate but you swing your arm out, shaking your palm. You need to try to move it without the help of them. Sorry boys, not sorry.

You reach into its fur again, using both hands to knead into its skin. Little tension releases but there’s enough. You keep massaging the skin, every now and again reaching downwards, with the way its body is positioned you were almost certain you could take a peak at its stomach, if anything just to confirm if there is an injury there or not.

Its eyes always followed your hands and as they reached the main area, the supposed injured area, its skin tensed and a very low, although lazy, growl rattled inside of your ears. Bells are ringing through your head, saying you should stop, move your hands before you lose them. But you needed to find it. You needed to heal it. You needed to heal it to inadvertently kill it in the end. It’s what that village deserves in the end.

You sent warning glances of your own to the beast, commanding it to take it easy. And just like you, it disregarded the warnings sent its way.

“Alright, that’s enough excitement for today,” the guard closest to the lock started fiddling with the keys but just as the door flung open and they reached for your body, the beast let out something pitiful, akin to a pained scream, as you pressed your hands right into the stab wound. Teeth snap at empty air as you are snatched away from the beast, hands red as you’re unable to process how fast the guards move you. You’re out of the cell and safely away, the door locked and the other guard is gripping you by the shoulders.

The three of you leave the agitated monster to sulk, licking at its wound as you ascend towards the common area of the castle. The guards don’t say anything as you retreat to your room, scraping the bits of already drying blood into one of those tiny jars. After wrapping a cover over the jar, you pick up some extra books that may be helpful and you head over to the mages’ wing, and hopefully, come out of it with a salve.

It wasn’t a whole wing, more along the lines that it was two or three bedrooms for the mages and they made it work. And when you presented it to the one who did most of the healing magic in the castle, he had an interesting reaction.

“Fresh? You got this fresh off your hands?” He asked, eyes glancing towards you as he took the flakes of dried blood towards his set up next to his bed. (You once asked if it was safe, sitting on his bed and sharing a bottle of something expensive he had slipped from the Lord’s own personal collection, if it was safe to sleep next to constantly changing chemicals and elements and of course the residue left from magic research. He shrugged.)

“Yeah, that won’t taint the sample, will it?” You ask, more than comfortable with standing against a wall away from the table of open beakers and a variety of scattered ingredients.

“Hardly, but you mean to tell me that you touched the damned thing?” He scrapes about half of the blood into a mix, a cloud of smoke slowly funneling out of the container. You’re hesitant to even be in the same room but his sister comes in and she’s immediately investigating what he’s currently getting up to.

He wasn’t exactly known for reasonable and practical methods of magic. A little bit like those mad scientists in the books you’d read with Wilbur, absolutely out there. But that’s exactly why you went to him instead of staying in your room and freshening up your knowledge about the abnormal beasts in this world and their biological make up.

Well, you brought your books with you so you could do it here while your unpredictable mage worked, heh, his magic.

And after his sister left him be, and you finished one of the two books you brought with you, he presents you his own pretty vial of a glowing liquid. “If you can touch him, maybe you’ll be lucky to get this in him.” He hurries to clean up his station, and by cleaning, he means leaning a hand out of a window with each jar in it, washing it with the rain pouring outside. You’re more so distracted with the vial. Worries bubble inside of you.

“Inside of him, meaning I have to get him to drink it?” And this mage, Ant, doesn't stop moving, shaking his hands from the liquid and you groan as droplets flick into your eyeballs.

“Well, you could always pour it over his open injury, which it would work, but I think you want something all encompassing.” He shrugs off his coat, loosening a tie. Another mage walks in, this time with an arm full of vials and cups and jars full of concerning material, his eyes follow him. “And if you want to feel up the poor bastard a second time, be my guest, want my advice though? Just get him to drink it and get it over with.” He moves to follow the struggling mage and dismisses himself from the conversation.

You sigh, rubbing a palm over your forehead, looking as the liquid glows and sparkles in the dim light. It was pretty at least.

“Why don’t you wait for tomorrow? I feel it would be safer then,” Craft says, glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose as he barely looked up from his novel, and though he was of high importance, he never seemed to run out of free time to read. Lucky man.

You lick your lips, mouth drying as you try to think of a reasonable answer. “Well, my Lord, I fear it might get infected if we wait any longer.” Very meek, will be dismissed in a second.

Then the strangest thing happened, Lord Craft sat up, biting his lips as he took off his glasses. “Infected? And you’re sure about this?” Justice must be very important to Craft, because you haven’t seen him this concerned since Wilbur lived here. You nod. He heaves a heavy sigh, “very well, go on then, make sure you have two guards with you, we need him alive and healthy.” And then he struggled to say the last few words. “For his execution.”

… he?

“Sorry, he, my Lord?” You looked at him, sure, if you had felt the beast up a little more you might’ve found the reproductive organs but you remember your first monster. A monster with none of that. Still, not everyone is like the first.

“Indeed, he’s a man. A murderer and a beast, but a man all the same.”

Nodding, you excuse yourself, brows scrunched in confusion as you head over to where the guards you knew, you knew they’d be in the courtyard.

Now they weren’t the same ones before. The ones before had taken part in stopping him before he moved onto the next town over. These guys were your friends growing up, and because your mother had been favored by the Lord over and over again, some of the other kids of the staff didn’t take too kindly to you being there. They were the ones who stepped up and shielded you from any harm.

Though this meant they were more than likely going to stop you from going anywhere near- near…

Near his mouth.

Humanizing him had been a bad idea, because for you, you could pretend that the beast who killed was deranged, out of control and that you could heal it and move on. Maybe avoid the actual execution but regardless.

You didn’t know if you could just move on from him. Curses weren’t your area, far from it, but if you could get with Ant, maybe he had a chance. Though… what good would it do? Being cured? He’d still be executed.

You reach out, palm covering the cold walls as you turn your eyes away from the steps below you, nausea washed over you. The mere thought of his execution is too much. Finding out he was human in the end, did nothing but worsen your situation.

You sigh as Michael turns towards you, about to ask if you were okay but you kept moving. This needed to be done.

Would this concoction cure him? Your mind thinks to itself as you take the last step, looking at where you last stood. So close to him… your mind flashes to when he looks at you, eyes wide and big and, gah! You cover your face with a hand for a brief moment, he’s a beast, a murderous one at that and you had a job to do.

A patient to heal.

And though your friends, Michael and Connor, were definitely hesitant to even open up the cell and let you in, you told them at the first sign of danger, they had full permission to yank you out of there. But you had a job to do and you needed to get him to drink what Ant had so kindly concocted up for you.

The faster this was done, the faster you could try to forget about this.

They let you in, any conversation died as they kept their eyes on you. You breathe in just as deep as the first time, watching him sleep had slithered anxiety underneath your skin. You needed him awake and you needed every last drop inside of him.

“Hey big guy,” you say, patting the ground, trying to let him know you were here.

His ears perked up and though his eyes opened and saw you, he didn’t move.

He huffed and turned his head to the side.

“I know, I don’t like this either, but,” you breathe in, trying to reign your nerves in, “I need you to take some medicine, can- can you do that?” You ask, reaching in your apron’s pocket, revealing the exceptionally bright vial. A whine emits from him.

“Here,” you uncorked it for him, leaning down to about your knees where his head was, height-wise. You wave it by his nose, and you can see it flare, but you hummed disappointedly. Well, it’s not like he was about to take both of his opposable thumbs, grab it and say down the hatch. It couldn’t hurt to try though, you think to yourself in a flash of bitterness. But you stomp it down. Breathing in again, you brush a hand over his head.

“I’m not here to hurt you, I promise. I only want you to get better.” Several minutes pass by and you decide that in order to get this glowing stuff inside of him, you’d need a better angle. You cork the vial.

Moving your apron, you take a second to sit down, looking over your shoulder to throw a strained smile as they make eye contact. They do not approve of this at all. Not one bit.

Sucks for them, you think as you turn your attention back to the beast at large. He was tense, even more than before but as you continued to scratch at his head, smoothing down his fur, he relaxed. Bit by bit. Even gave you trouble when you moved your hand under his chin and he let his head drop down and lean all his weight on that one.

“Don’t mind me, sir,” you mumble, scratching at his head and biting down on the cork, pulling it off with your teeth. Using your fingers, which, against his very large head, looked like they belong to a child, you pull down his top lip. You nudge his head to lean on your knee as you scratch behind the ear.

You hear your name called from behind you and it scares you how fast the beast’s head had straightened up, looking at you with such wide eyes, ears flattened against his. “Don’t do anything stupid now, he isn’t a lap dog.” Michael called slowly. You nod.

Reaching for his head now, he backed up but you were determined. Your fingers surged forward, pushing down on his lip and tipping the liquid into his mouth. Flinging the vial somewhere, you hold his mouth closed as he thrashes in your grasp. Not hard enough to throw you across the room, still lying down, but absolutely determined to spit it out. You hear the door open but as soon as you feel him swallow in your grasp, you let go, feeling arms drag you out of there.

But the two guards don’t pull you up the stairs, no, along with you, they stare with their mouths gape open as the large beast coughs, hacking something up. Something is spat on the ground and it’s not pretty.

You have that tiny urge in you to scrape some of it up to give to Ant, but you’re too busy watching as after he had coughed whatever it was out of his system, he stumbled to his feet, crashing against the wall. Wails coming out of his mouth as whatever was in Ant’s vial was working its magic. “We need to go,” Michael said as he tugged on your arm but you shake your head. “Don’t be stupid, come on, we have to go.” But you plant your feet in the ground.

“Alright, let’s go.” Connor didn’t waste any time trying to talk you out of it, ignoring your yelp as he heaved you over his shoulder, ignoring whatever you had to say.

“I need to make sure he stabilizes, assholes!” You cry, pounding on the back of his chest plate as he pauses on the staircase.

“You cannot be serious.” Michael said dryly but Connor ignores.

“I’m not, no, of course not.” Connor says but then he drops you to your feet, letting you rush to the bars, “his Nurse is, though.” The two of them have their hands on their weapons, ready to pull it out and defend you but you’re not worried. You’re worried about your patient dying due to an experimental treatment.

And the justice that would be lost.

You watch as he trips over his feet, crumbling into this big pile of fur while something starts to smoke inside the cell. “What the hell…” you say, telling Michael over your shoulder to unlock the cell, and when he doesn't move fast enough, Connor does it for you, letting you go in and blocking the exit. As soon as you’re in, you could see the smoking coming from the actual beast, the ball of fur actually… shrinking too.

You reach a hand out, face scrunching up in confusion as you touch the fur, and the head, oh the head of the beast turns from its spot on the ground and he moans in pain, turning onto its side and then before your eyes, as the body continues to shrink and morph into something familiar, most of the fur sinks into skin. All except for the head.

What you’re left with is a mop of unruly hair belonging to a tall, gangly body. His face is hauntingly familiar.

“Oh fuck, he is human.” Connor decides his best course of action is to run up and go get help. Michael doesn’t leave.

“He’s just a man? I thought he was just a monster.” Michael mumbles to himself, hand very much on the hilt of his sword.

“He’s cursed,” you say, pulling out a rag and tugging the hair from his face, wiping the skin of dirt and sweat. Ant didn’t cure him, he healed any wounds or injuries he had. The curse is set off from inflammation or pain, maybe. Millions of thoughts run through your head as you take his head into your lap.

“What are you doing?” Michael asks and as you skim over his body, you see nothing of concern. No injuries, not even a scratch. Though there are plenty of scars on his back. You bite your lip.

“Taking care of my patient, Michael.”

“You have his head in your lap as if he was a child, and frankly, he isn’t. He’s a man who made a conscious decision to slaughter an entire village. So if you have any pity for him,” his tone had grown harsh and you couldn’t help the flinch in your body, “get rid of it. He’s not going to get the royal treatment just because he turned into a human.”

Michael hears commotion up the stairs so he is very much hesitant to leave your side, but you shove his leg to the side, returning your hands to cradle the head with the rag over his forehead. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He hurries up the stairs, his curiosity winning over and it’s just you. You do have a slight fear he’ll try to escape but then he’d have to actually get up. And in his current state, although healed, you can’t imagine he didn’t experience any pain during the process. He’s not that much of a threat.

It’s not hard to get lost in his face, so familiar and yet so strange, long brown hair and eyes that flutter open and close constantly, you could barely tell they’re… a nice shade of brown. You could laugh at yourself. A murderer, in your lap, and he has the audacity to have pretty eyes.

Turning your head at the sound of people, you could see Craft rushing towards you and he doesn’t say a word as he lifts the almost limp body up, hands turning him over and finding something awful.

The two of you make eye contact and then he orders for a room to be made. No explanation to anyone else.

Craft asks in a quiet voice if you tell no one what you saw. And you nod, too stunned to think about doing anything else. You wait with him as two other guards lift him up to take the man up the stairs and to a new room.

It’s almost midnight when you find yourself in the room they’d prepared, eyes scanning a book you’d brought with you while you waited for the man to wake up.

You had so many questions. And the stubborn, childish part of you wanted to ask how in the world he had the same birthmark as Wilbur Craft.

You waited for two days and towards the later part of the afternoon where you could see Hannah talking to a woman in the gardens below, he started to talk.

“Where am I?” His voice was incredibly hoarse, but you didn’t answer him immediately, only pouring out a cup of water and holding it up to his mouth. His hair had been pushed back from his forehead, and you could see the confusion in his eyes as he drank from the cup.

“You’re in one of the sick rooms, you know, the room we put our sick people in to heal them better.” You lie, you honestly didn’t want to know if this man is who you think him to be, and it wasn’t a complete lie. You did have a shared area in the castle with other nurses and doctors where the staff could get medicinal help. It just wasn’t this room. Biting on your lip, the words tumble out faster than you could help yourself, “do you know your name?”

His eyes left you, only staring at the fireplace on the other side of the wall as you refilled the cup. “My name is Wilbur.” Your hands freeze as you realize what he’s said. His eyes catch your mistake, looking at the outstretched, frozen movement. “You know me, don’t you?” You don’t have a second to answer that before the door opens to the right of Wilbur, revealing a lone Lord Craft.

He says your name, “it’s a lovely day outside, go enjoy yourself.” Wilbur’s head turned from his father’s face to yours in a flash and his hand reached out, catching your wrist and withholding you from leaving.

Wilbur swipes his tongue across his lip before speaking, “actually, I had asked if they could stay here with me, I’m- I’m feeling faint.”

“You’re not in any position to ask for a lot, Wilbur,” he doesn’t make eye contact with his father. “But we will talk before tomorrow.” The door closes behind Craft and you’re alone with Wilbur.

Wilbur who left you and never sent the two letters like he promised. Wilbur, who acquired a curse and slaughtered an entire village.

The same Wilbur who stares at you now.

“I thought I heard your name when I was- you know, but I couldn’t be sure. Not a lot of things were-” your eyes turn to his fingers still wrapped around your wrist. “Clear.”

His eyes didn’t leave your face even after you had stopped staring at his fingers.

“Say something.” His voice, not as hoarse, but it brought you feelings you didn’t want to think about. Guilt. Frustration. Anger. Sadness overridden it all. You missed him so dearly.

“What happened to those letters you promised? Two a day, wasn’t it?” You muttered, eyes darting away as you didn’t want to think about the ones you’d sent. Did he even read them? His fingers squeeze you in his grasp.

“I swear I meant to-” you try to tug on his grasp, but he continues, even trying to sit up to hold your arm with two hands, “but it was out of my control, they took me hostage, they made- they’re the reason I am what I am.” He grounded out as if he was about to be overwhelmed with emotion, tears flowing kind of emotion. You look back for a second and he’s clenching his jaw, tears barely holding their ground in his eyes. “I need you to know it wasn’t my fault.” Your chest aches with the amount of air you’re hardly breathing.

“Wilbur,” you breathe in, eyes darting away as a hand comes to cover his own, not knowing how to react. “I need some air.” Pulling your arm out of his grasp, you don’t hesitate to wipe away from your undereyes, moving around the bed to reach the door but then he begs something of you.

“Promise you’ll come back? Please?” Your breath is caught in the back of your throat and it took everything in you to look back at him, the handle of the door already turned in your hand. But it catches you still. His face. His battered body free from harm and his face that you had loved and dearly missed.

“I… I’m not sure I can.” You wrench the door open and just as swiftly close it behind you, breathing in mouthfuls of air, swallowing as much as you could while walking to your room.

Your vision is blurred as the walls begin spinning and you’re just grateful you made it to the door, even if your hand shook as it unlocked it. And as soon as you’re in, you lock it again, tossing the key onto your desk. Angrily sniffing as your fingers messily undid your apron, taking everything out of your pockets. And when there was nothing to undo, to take away from your person, you toss yourself onto your bed, face buried into your old pillow.

Every part of you trembles as sobs tear through you.

Your patient-turned-best-friend had been kidnapped and tortured and though he probably was conscious for half of the slaughter, he was still himself.

And he would still be executed.

It might even be sped up now, due to the fact Ant’s completely healed him and the beast side of him is gone for now. He would be executed for a crime he could not be blamed for.

It was all so unfair.

The next day Craft had found you in the library, reading something from your childhood. You thought it could’ve brought you comfort. It didn’t.

He had reached with a hand and knocked at the table you’ve sat yourself at. Pulling the glasses off from your face, you frown at seeing the Lord, wondering if you had any other tasks to do.

“Will asked where you had been all day, asked if you would have time to change his bandages?” Your lips flatten into a line, he didn’t have any bandages but if somebody had put them on and he doubted the credibility of the person because of who he is… you wouldn’t put it past someone to somehow poison the actual bandages.

And you never did promise him that you’d be back.

But you don’t hesitate to get up, save your place in the book before silently following Craft to Wilbur’s room.

He leaves the two of you be, asking that you come by his room later to discuss other topics of interest. No doubt why his son is asking for you.

You’re stiff as you ask about the bandages and just like you thought, he had casted his eyes away and his mouth open, croaking a little bit before returning his intense gaze towards you. “There are no bandages.” You’re tempted to leave the room at that but he has something else to say. “Phil told me that I have a few days before I’m executed.” Vision blurs once again, and you’re not entirely sure why.

“It was an entire village.” You mumble to yourself, turning away from him. You turn to the window and cover your mouth, eyes looking everywhere, unable to stay still as your thoughts run faster than you could process.

It wasn’t hard to feel as if the ground had been ripped from underneath you. You couldn’t even have him back for long. You couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

You hear the ruffled movement of covers being moved. And at the last second, you turn and you’re faced with his lanky body overtowering you, arms outstretched. And though your mind screamed to turn away, to push him from you… You missed him too much. You could hardly control the sobs coming out of your mouth as you buried your face into his loose shirt, arms thrown around him and clutch at his skin. His arms don’t hesitate to hold you, arms around your waist and shoulder, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Fuck, I missed you every day, wanted to tell them to turn around, wanted to walk all the way back to you.” He kissed the side of your head and your heart ached hearing him spill the words faster than he could keep it in. “Wanted to tell them no one knew how to take care of me better than my nurse, wanted to say- fucking, anything, to get them to go back.”

“It’s not fair, I- I just got you back.” Your voice cracks towards the end of your sentence as you speak into his chest. No matter the circumstances, you couldn’t hate him. You couldn’t stay away from him.

“I know- I know, I’m so sorry.” He then puts pressure on your shoulder, pushing you gently away from his body. Eyes connect and you wonder if he could feel your broken heart and then you can’t think at all, when he ducks his head, slotting his nose against yours, nearly kissing you, lips barely brushing against each other. You suck in a breath before you press into him, arms thrown around his shoulders and pulling him into you.

His arms, again, wrap around your back, and you can feel each of his fingers press into your clothes, digging to feel you. Time doesn’t pass normally as you could barely breathe, kissing him with all you had. Trying to convey what you felt in the time you had lost with him. Both of you had hands moving over skin, his coming up to rest on each side of your face, pulling away briefly.

“We can’t do this,” you say but he shakes his head.

“You tell me you don’t want to and I won’t touch you again.” You breathe in heavy, eyes falling from his gaze to his lips and when he began to move his hands away, you quickly pressed them back into your face, unwilling to let him go.

“It’s not about if I want it, it’s about how wrong this is. You’ve killed people, Wilbur, you’re going to be executed for your crimes.” Fat tears roll down your cheek and he comes in close to kiss them away. He leans his forehead against yours.

“I’ve made my peace with it, you’ll have to as well.” You didn’t want to.

You didn’t want to make peace with the cruel fact.

“I won’t.” You shook your head.

“No? Then do something about it, but I’m not going to taint our last moments together. Let me do something right, darling.” Oh, the pet name, your knees nearly gave out, oh wait, as one of his arms comes around your waist, you realize they actually did. Okay, that’s a little embarrassing.

Regardless, this is a dead man walking. And you can’t help the way you feel about him. He can’t either.

It’d be much harder to walk away than to see what he had in mind. And you wanted as much time as you could have with him, selfishly.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He repeats, angling your head up, cradling it as he rubbed his thumbs under your eyes, making your stomach flutter. You nod, hands squeezing his own. “Okay,” he murmurs against your lips, pulling you closer to him as he walks backwards.

At the last second, he flips you two, letting go of your face to interlace his fingers with yours, and pinning them above your head on his bed. He presses his nose close to yours, breathing your skin in as he teases you with a kiss. “I’ll make it right.” He mumbles to you, and then pressed his lips fully against yours with such fervor that makes your head dizzy.

Then his mouth leaves yours, trailing down your jawline, pressing a kiss into your skin every time he moves down and when he made it against your neck, you wondered if he could hear your pulse beating wildly.

And the way his mouth moves against your skin, it’s criminal. You could barely think, only knowing what you want with him. Legs wrap around his waist and one hand leaves yours to slide down your side, stopping at the meat of your thighs and he squeezes it, holding it there like he couldn’t believe it was there in the first place.

He moves on, pulling at your apron and shirt, desperate to see more of your skin. In an attempt to feel less naked, you tug at the bottom of his shirt, trying to tell him what you need. He gets you to pull it off, and of course, he’s beautiful. You remember getting a brief look at his body the first time you saw it, down in those cells, but that wasn’t for your own perverted gain. It’d been purely medical.

Not this time. No, you reach with your free hands to palm at his uncovered skin, looking close and you could see that he had plenty of scars, all thin and silvery, you traced them all. You wonder why he let you but then after a moment, he didn’t care for it, reaching to kiss you again while he pulled your pants off. Your hands come up to cup his neck, bringing him closer and closer to you.

You felt naked no matter what but ultimately it's this terrifying, vulnerability sitting in your stomach. It’s nauseating, scary. Putting your trust into his hands. Full faith he’d take care of you in this moment because you took care of him as kids. Terrifying because since the many years as his nurse, he’s done horrible things with his hands no doubt.

You don’t notice that he’s taken his own pants off, only feeling his cock against your thighs as your hips roll against his. He moans stiffly in your mouth, hands gripping at the sheets on each side of your head. You aren’t paying attention until he pulls away, pushing two fingers into your mouth. “Suck.” He said, and well, you couldn’t say no to that, your tongue swirling over each groove of his fingers, coating them in your spit and when he couldn’t wait any more, he pulled them out, giving you a brief kiss on your swollen lips.

His fingers prod at your hole, pressing in slowly, until you whine. He groans, pressing them deeper, curling them and it’s a whole new sensation, hands coming up to grip his shoulders as he works at making you see stars with his fingers.

And when your thighs begin shaking, the tightening, delicious sensation of a building orgasm under your skin, he pulls his fingers out. You gasp, the feeling fading and leaving you starving, he doesn’t say much before he presses the head of his cock inside of you, that’s when he steals your air.

It’s safe to say that all thoughts were being fucked out of your head, his hips rocking and fucking into you. Dragging his cock against your walls. Kissing the side of your neck, tongue leaving trails of spit on your skin that lead to nowhere. Hands constantly shifting from fisting the sheets to squeezing your waist, holding your own hands and keeping them above your head.

“Fuck- ‘m gonna, gonna cum.” He curses as he presses a kiss to the corner of your lips, missing the way they gape for any source of air. Hearing him like that? Make your toes curl simply to say.

“Inside,” you stumble over your words, “cum inside.” And the way he stares at you, you’d think you hand placed every star in the sky for his gaze.

His pace quickens and yet his hand comes between the two of you, and it’s completely unfair because you’re immediately barreling towards an orgasm. It washes over you before you could comprehend it, thighs definitely shaking around his waist. And as you do, he cums inside, groaning into your neck.

The seconds that come after… you’re breathing heavily and your vision spins. He pulls out, and you can’t move your legs but oh fuck, his mouth touches your hole, sucking his cum out and licking inside. You cry out, reaching with a hand, grabbing a handful of his long hair to hold onto as he tries to make you cum again and it’s just all too much too fast, too sensitive and he just keeps going-

Your vision blurs dangerously into white as he kneads the soft skin around your thighs, kissing it every now and again.

“Are you feeling okay?” He hums, placing your legs down as he moves to hover over you, a finger trailing down the side of your face.

“I feel-” you couldn’t finish your sentence, noticing how he still pants, sweating the same as you, but his cock hangs hard between you two. “Oh my goodness gracious,” you laugh a little and you reach a hand to grasp him, and he only moans into the air, his head dropping and hair tickling your sticky skin. Your limbs feel like jelly but it’s all fine, you’d work through it if it meant pulling those divine noises out of him.

His hand dives between you two, wrapping around yours and speeds your pace up. And watching him fall apart in front of you is better than you could have thought. He curses as his head comes up, his other hand gripping the two sides of your face and kissing your lips, shooting ropes of cum over your stomach. He groans into your mouth, hand leaving your face as he catches your slight huff of disbelief.

“Did I do that?” You ask teasingly, and he smiles. Oh does his smile haunt you in your stomach, in your chest where your heart skips and pounds and begs for him.

“You do a lot of things.” He says, stealing another kiss.

The next day you had to be normal.

Yes, there’s a new ache in your lower regions, yes, you could hardly think about how you spent all night with him. How tired you are because of it.

No, you needed to be normal because his words before it started echoed in your ears.

No? Then do something about it.

And it truly is that simple. You cannot let him die. For all his crimes, for his curse, you could not let him die for the life of you.

So…

What are you to do?

On the day of his execution, he was told by his father that he’d be placed into the holding cells, he’d been healed and he’d been given too much comfort and luxury for a murderer. He couldn’t even look him in the eyes when he was told he’d be hanged for his crimes.

He didn’t want to die, nobody did, but he had this coming to him.

If he’d fought a little harder, if he escaped faster, maybe if he never left his father’s castle, maybe he’d have a chance. None of that happened. He didn’t have a chance at life.

This is what he deserved.

Clothes already dirtied by the holding cell he was placed in, he heard commotion. Chains rattled and more prisoners came down the stairs, shoved into their own holding cells. He doesn’t look up when they recognize him and start to jab at him with words. His hands had been tied, and he assumed theirs had been too, that is until somebody had grabbed him through the bars of the cell. Turning his head, he sees a guard, and he could recognize them. His beast curse left him with little memories but he’s the one who’d been with you when he turned back human.

Connor, had it been?

With his back against the bars he could only listen if he wanted to keep his neck, “watch for the blue birds, and when you see them, let go,” what? After the short, confusing and quite cryptic message, he assumed it to be Connor, to let go of his neck. He watched out of the corner of his eye, blowing a hair out of his face as the man proceeded to climb up the stairs.

There was no natural light here. No sun or stars. Just dangerously close to blowing out lanterns. He watches them sway to pass the time, he doesn’t know when they’ll take him but they will at some point.

And thinking about Connor’s message left him confused every time he tried to think about it, but in the end, he doesn’t think it matters. They drag him out all the same, making him walk out to the courtyard where people have come to watch. He supposed it’s all the same. He almost wishes they had shot him to death or maybe used the old fashioned big axe to the neck. Quick deaths sure, a little brutal but hanging?

Nobody wants to hang.

And maybe that’s exactly why they chose it, chose the area, the people watching. He assumes relatives and family friends of the village had been let in, unless it's been an open to everyone sort of event. He’s not exactly sure, never got the chance to attend a hanging himself.

What fun it’ll be, his first, and fortunately, yes fortunately if you thought about it for a second, his last hanging.

What he didn’t know is that there is a plan set in motion, one that he’d sort of been privy to, the honors done by correctly guessed Connor. As Craft went on about his crimes, his murders, there’d been somebody behind the person who pulls the lever.

This someone had been expertly arguing with another person, both had been asked to do so and paid to do so by yours truly, Michael. So while the executioner would’ve been on time to pull the lever after expertly tying the noose around Wilbur’s neck, he was so annoyed that he hadn’t even realized that the rope he’d used had been a transfiguration. Someone at the same time had been in the crowd and knocked over a cage.

Holding an incredible, also kind of confusing, amount of blue pigeons that promptly flew to the sky.

Ant was properly paid his dues under short notice and while the floor did disappear from him, the special hatch leading to a drop that, had anyone cut themselves from the rope, they’d surely die from the jagged rocks of the mountain. However, as Wilbur is continually amazed by the turning of events, he is amazed once again when a net catches him right below.

The net hangs and catches him, holding him as the two butchers pull him over the edge, one of them taking a second to tug the rope off. It seems that in the matter of days or years, there’s a little bridge, “right this way, watch your step,” one of the butchers says, mostly singing to himself now but he’s got a grip on his shoulders, making sure he’s steady. For some reason, he is still bound by the wrists. Probably not for some random reason.

“Don’t forget to thank your little friend in high places,” the other butcher tells him, clasping a hand over his shoulder as he helped him into a little corner, past the hole in the wall is a hatch that the first butcher had disappeared down. (They could still hear the crowd’s gasps and shouts being thrown across the court, the bridge being dismantled as fast as they had dropped him.)

“Is this friend a god?” He asks with an almost sarcastic tone, key being almost. The butcher doesn’t like it as much as he had hoped so.

“Should they be?” He throws it back at him.

Wilbur hesitates, “suppose not.” And then he dropped down the hatch.

Wilbur finds himself in a different type of cell, it’s not as dark and he does have a bed. But it’s all the same. He could have the same room as a god, and he’d still be a prisoner if he was unable to leave. Which judging by the locked door and still tied hands, he is.

He doesn’t know how long it had been since the two butchers had passed him off to this crude carriage driver, took the scenic route he claimed, perhaps he took the scenic route on top of some lovely mountains and then proceeded to toss the two of them over a cliff.

Once his body stopped puking out whatever they had given him in that cell, the carriage driver dragged him to the cabin where this strange person was. He really didn’t know how to describe him. He might’ve been hallucinating but this person seemed as if he could transform parts of himself into stretchy, vibrant bits of rope. That’s how he probably dragged him into this prison.

The binds on his wrists, they’ve got an irritated rash going on already.

And that’s when he hears a door slam open and shut a minute after. He hears your voice fill the cabin. “Oh it’s so cold, Karl, how have the two of you been holding up? Not too bad I hope?” Not too bad? What the actual fuck? Anger really digs into his skin, flaring up and he’s trying really hard, using those breathing techniques that pig guy had shown him. Fuck, he really had a grip on his own shifting, why can’t he?

“Here, go get Sap and Quackity, they’re going to need help with the move.” And the door opens and closes again. This time he hears your footsteps across the room, moving towards the locked door.

Anger and frustration just keeps building up as the door unlocks and then you enter the room, dressed in head to toe, warm clothes. Whereas he’d been less than ceremoniously wrapped in a blanket.

“Did they treat you okay?” You ask but before he could answer, your eyes darted to his figure, wrapped in a pathetic cloth called a blanket. “Shit, I told them-” you say, moving towards a closet he hadn’t seen before, pulling out piles of clothing and two big lumps of blankets, barely able to see over the stack as you walked towards him.

“I told them to give you something more.” You mutter, biting your lip as you pull out a knife. Cutting the binds from his wrists. “Apparently they’re not as big fans of you as I am.” Hardly the truth. He knew they weren’t exactly his friends but the truth? Getting to live another day is quite a rush. Getting to live another day just to spend it in a prison again is hardly a life he wanted to lead. He almost wished he was left to be hanged.

Then you tend to his rashes, biting your lip and flickering your eyes between his face and his wrists. And when they were done, you started pushing his shirt up and he had to hold your wrists, catching your eye when they looked up, eyes wide and panicking.

“Hey, I think you need to calm down okay, I can dress myself.” Although he may have snapped at you, you didn’t hesitate to give him the space he asked for.

“Course! I- uh-” you clear your throat, wiping your nose for a second as you stand. “I’ll be in the other room whenever you are, um-” patting your thighs, you give him a brief smile, “ready!” And then you close the door behind you. The lock never clicks.

He still feels bitter about the prison part, being toted off to different handlers didn’t make it any easier when they’re only doing it to appease someone, not to save him.

Though, remembering why he’s in this mess, he receives a huge wave of humility and also guilt. He definitely didn’t deserve getting a second chance, and he definitely doesn’t deserve your space and materials. But to turn them down after probably risking your life in helping him, it would probably be a slap to the face as well.

He sighs to himself, slipping his old, torn clothes into the softer, cleaner set you had put out for him. Wrapping a coat around himself, he found it wasn’t necessary to wrap a blanket around himself. Already running on a hotter temperature, more than one coat is just overkill.

In any case, you turn around to see him dressed better for the season and the extra added blanket wrapped. You nearly smile but you keep it to yourself, turning around as you look back at the map. “We still have a long while to travel, but I think if we leave around sunset, we could get a decent amount of ground between us and the castle. The farther the better.” Speaking into the silence is relatively harder, knowing someone is listening but you can’t hear a single thought they have. Especially about your plan. “But with the help we need, they all pretty much have the same requirement.” That’s when you turn around, bracing yourself for a reaction, avoiding his eyes. “That you’re either bound or sedated.”

He doesn’t respond.

He moves sluggishly across the floor. He settles himself by the window. “No.”

You feel your body reacting faster than you could think rationally. “No? Wilbur, it’s just for a few hours at a time, and this time, I will be with you every step of the way-”

“I don’t want to be bound by rope or chains or even by silk, and I refuse to be sedated. I never wake up the same… person.”

You don’t want to do that to him. You didn’t want to but you need him safe, and going through this process is necessary for his survival.

“What if they’re loose or what if I just gave you some lavender and you pretend you’re knocked out?” He says your name after you start rambling, trying to come up with solutions time and time again. “Please, just trust that you’ll be safe, I will make sure of that,” you end up by his window, close to his body. Wanting nothing more than to be far away from any society that’ll hurt him.

Wanting him all to yourself was a nice touch but that’s not the point.

His hand reaches out, grabbing your wrist. This time, his thumb rubs over your veins, nail gently scratching at your skin. “If I’m not completely free, saving me was a wasted effort.” Then he let go. He stands up, pushing the thick blanket off of his shoulders, walking past you and back to the room. “I’ll be gone before it gets too thick outside.” And you’re desperate to fight against that stupid, idiotic plan of his but he nearly slams the door. But he doesn’t slam it. He doesn’t even close it.

Your eyes sting with tears, trying to calm yourself down. All you wanted was for him to be safe, all you did is keep him safe.

Sucking the snot back into your nose, you turn around, looking at an approaching wagon. And a soft call of your name. But because your vision is a little blind and it does look like three guys you knew, you don’t hesitate to open the door. It is now that you can hear the sound of shouting after a particularly hard blow to your forehead, you don’t even comprehend falling to the ground but perhaps that is just how being knocked by a gun works.

The next time you are conscious it is surrounded by the dark and the cold. Snow greets you with a particular bite, and when you are completely aware of your surroundings and the increasing headache pounding against your skull, it’s now that you are nowhere near the cabin you’d bought with the money your mother left you. (The very same you were going to give to Karl to pay for his help.)

In fact, you’re alone. Completely and utterly alone. You move to sit up, hissing as you notice your bruised limbs, as if you’d gone through a little hell before waking up.

Hearing the woods surrounding you not be completely silent, though, is a blessing. Surviving five minutes of it is not one of yours. Shivering from the lack of clothing needed for this weather, you bear through it, you look around, finding very little luck until you see a familiar lump of fur. Crawling over to him, you wince and let out little gasps of pain, grinding your teeth to get past it as you finally made it.

Whether he’d be nice like this, you’re not sure if you care, you just need his warmth.

Sinking into his fur, you let out a sigh, feeling a little better. A low rumble vibrates through your body, but even like this, you know it’s him. “Sorry if I woke you…” you mumble, turning against his body to curl even more against him.

You know it's probably not a safe time to fall asleep but he’s so warm, and he keeps vibrating and it’s easy to lose yourself in it.

Truth be told, Wilbur wasn’t a total pain in the ass when you woke up, all human and everything and dressed in the same things as before you had been knocked out. Of course you asked him about it, but he didn’t share much, just that the bare minimum.

Three people heard about the two of you through a grapevine and decided they wanted a bit of reward money. Either that or be paid thoroughly for their services underground. He made sure they couldn’t hurt the two of you anymore, and when he came to as a human, feeling better in his skin… he took the two of you away.

No doubt after helping him, you wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms. Chances are you’d receive his sentence. And after everything the two of you went through, he didn’t want that.

So he walked with you on his back, walking until he couldn’t even recognize the smell of the trees. Couldn't smell another person for hours before he finally collapsed. And by then, being a beast was easier on him, energy wise, so that’s where you woke up.

Of course, waking up away from him didn’t make sense whatsoever, but you figured he was holding something back that, should it have been important, he would’ve told you.

So, you didn’t bring it up again. And when you try to stand up, and inevitably fall because of the giant pain in your leg, he’s there to catch you. (And when he pulls you onto his back, saying nothing about your weight, and then loading a bag onto his arm, he begins a trek, he says nothing then. Nothing about anything. You wish you knew why.)

It’s almost noon when he puts you down, setting you on a log when he decided it was enough.

“Why didn’t you escape by yourself?” It would have been easier to ditch you. Especially since your way made him uncomfortable in the worst ways for him.

He drops the firewood into a pile, cracking his neck as a hand comes up to ruffle his hair. Turning around, he doesn’t make eye contact as he moves past you to get more of the wood. And by the looks of it, if he’d been normal, it’d take five men to carry what he did. He’s avoiding the topic at hand, though.

“Is it so hard to believe I didn’t want you to die?” He asks, finally turning to you after you had grabbed his arm, giving him your own specialty begging eyes. “Do you think that little of me, that I’d rather save my own ass than take the time to save yours?” His voice is bitter, and you wonder if you’d made a mistake in asking.

You don’t let go, even using him to pull yourself up, ignoring his silent huffs. Even standing next to him, with his help, you can’t help the way you look at him. “It doesn’t matter what I think, you saved me and I’m alive because of you.” You want to tell him he’s more than what they forced him to be, you want to tell him he’s more than capable of being kind. You just don’t know whether or not he’d listen or ignore you.

“Maybe,” he said, like he was trying to dismiss it, like it didn’t mean anything to him, but you can see, you can see it in his tense muscles, his eyes looking everywhere but you. Shaking your head, you use both hands to squeeze his shoulder.

“I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.” And because he didn’t seem like he could handle anything else, you decided to leave a simple kiss pressed into his clothed shoulder. Moving away to sit down, he pulls you in for a hug, breathing deeply into the side of your head, unwilling to let go.

“Is this how it felt the first day you saw me?” He asks but you don’t answer. You’re not sure what he’s feeling but if he’s comparing it to the day you saw him as a human- you’d have to guess that it’d be a little bit strong for him.

You wonder if the day after will be like that as well for him. Where his emotions ran faster than he could process, where he gave you the idea to get the two of you out of there. (You knew him better than any doctor could in this world. Sort of. You knew how to treat him. You knew how to help. You knew he never liked any of that.)

He didn’t say anything, not that he didn’t want to, but it seemed for the first time, he was at a loss of words. You could hear him open and close his mouth, but every time you heard him begin, there wasn’t a finish. You didn’t need him to say anything. You understood.

Tilting your head back, you watch him with curious eyes until he pressed a shaky hand against your cheek, holding you in his palms. “I genuinely don’t know what I’d do with myself if I let you die.” And then as shaky as he breathed out, he kissed you, hands holding you like he couldn’t quite believe the two of you are okay.

It’s here you collapse in his arms.

When you come to a second time, you’re in an actual bed, with a doctor tending to your arms and fever, one you had briefly thought you had as a joke before you had passed out on Wilbur that first night. And like you thought, one superhuman with a regulated body temperature way out of the normal range for most ovens could not keep the two of you warm enough.

Wilbur sat in a chair beside you, listening tentatively. You’re sure he never looked tired before, maybe slightly exhausted but the bags under his eyes betray his cool exterior.

Not that he had one before, but it did show just how much you truly did affect him. Not that you’d put yourself in danger but the reassurance is nice here, smiling at him when you could. Settling his nerves whenever he got concerned over how much you’ve been smiling. Said that you’d never smiled that much, never whenever he was around and only when it was about books. When you were kids.

Well, you remember liking the way he told the stories in the book, how he made them come alive in a way he couldn’t with himself. It always made reality feel that much duller. Still, the doctor said to rest until he dismissed the two of you.

It’s on the fourth day of sitting on your bum, reading books to Wilbur with his head in your lap. The relationship between the two of you confused you, no doubt it does the same for him. Just because he gave you one amazing night between you two didn’t mean you had to marry him, despite there being a history already there and the chemistry never faded. Things just take the forefront of your minds, like surviving this trip. And this bedrest.

And this is when you are put into custody when the doctor gets word about Wilbur, shoved into a cell with your hands bound alongside Wilbur. “You can’t just leave them here, they’ll die!” Wilbur shouted so many times at the guard to get a doctor and get them medical attention but no one was listening. Not a single soul. Except you.

You begged him to hold you if you ought to be dead in a cell.

His bound hands lifted straight into the air, wiggling you in his lap as he pulled you in, draping his arms over your shoulder, giving you the perfect place to get warm and a nap.

He held you for days, until he could physically not. They dragged you away. By the bandaged arms. He had shouted and screamed until his throat was raw and hot tears poured down his face. He didn’t know what to do with himself at that point. Slumping against the cell wall, he closes his eyes, breathing every now and again to see if he could find you.

You weren’t being held with the other prisoners, but he knew you were in distress.

The burning anger began to build when a metallic scent grew stronger, mixing with your pained screams. Steam came off of his skin as he seamlessly shifted from a man to a beast. The rest is history.

“Tell us what you know about the man who can turn into a beast.”

He asks many questions about Wilbur, about his weaknesses and strengths,but all you can do is weep, letting out a scream that tears up your throat as he shocks you again and again. Then the door literally rips off the hinges.

Something tackles your torturer and though you’re still dealing with the aftershocks of electric torture, you’re on the brink of consciousness. Watching as after a second, the man stopped screaming and the beast stood up, maw dripping with blood. But you could only spit out your own and smile, he was your beastly friend after all. He tears your bindings off, letting you lean on his fur for a second before the fur in your face turns into the clothing you saw him in when they took you away.

“You’re okay,” he says and you have half a mind to wonder if he’s saying it to reassure you or himself, and he keeps repeating it as he bends down for you to lay yourself on your back. And after doing so, he shifts again, fur returning to your hands and face.

You’re not conscious for the rest of the escape but after you come to, you’re in a warm bath, with Wilbur washing you. He pauses as he watches you wake up, and yes of course his face burns a pretty pink but this is the second time he’s seen you naked. And this time, he’s not doing it for his sake, you need to be washed down. All the dirt and grime can do a nasty number on your injuries. You tell him to continue, you’ll lead him in terms of bandages.

And when the water drains and all that’s left is your shivering body, he helps you sit up, draping a towel over your body. He helps pat you down, hoping that his warm palms help in any way before he reaches under your knees and cradles your back, heaving you out of the tub and out of the washroom.

You see the room it’s connected to, a bed with a chest at the foot of it. And really, nothing else, curtains shielding the windows, a rug on the floor. You don’t catch anything else when he sits you down on the bed, reaching for something on the bed you didn’t see.

“Did you really steal medicine, Will?” You ask lightly, hoping to be able to tease him for it. He barely smiles as you guide him through it, rubbing a salve over your burns, he wraps them with great care, apologizing profusely as you’d wince and hiss every so often. When you were done, he helped pull a shirt over your head, bottoms to cover your ass, and though it’s been a rough week, you could still appreciate when a pretty man is on his knees helping you get dressed.

And when he’s done, he stands in front of you, unsure of what to do, but you do. You pull him down to lay with you on the bed, scooting aside so he has room. He’s stiff as a board but you pat his arm, laying your head on his shoulder and trying to go to sleep.

He shifts from under, moving to hover over you, hands at each side of your head. Your eyes open slowly, smiling as you catch him in the act. Knees pressed into either side of the mattress, he had you trapped. Like you could go anywhere to begin with. As if you would leave if you had a chance. “Come on, Wilbur, kiss me.” Your bandaged arms reach up to drape over his shoulders but he’d bitten his lips till they bled. Worried over you. You could see the thoughts turning in his head. You had enough of those thoughts.

“It wasn’t your fault, Wilbur. You know that right?” You ask, watching as one of his hands came close to your face, thumbing over a particular mark on your face, just watching it.

“I could’ve stopped them at any time,” he said, “I could’ve gotten you out earlier.”

“I’m out now.” You say, each word stressed and enunciated. Clear.

He didn't say anything else, under his breath you might’ve heard him agree reluctantly but by then, he had leaned his head down, bumping his nose against yours as he kissed you rather gently, hands moving down to cradle your jaw before you press your mouth harder against his. Wanting something a little more.

That’s when he breathed in through his nose, moving one of his hands to the back of your neck, moving his lips against yours with every intent of stealing your breath.

Your hips buck up against his, moving to wrap your legs around his body, trying to get closer any way you could. He breathes heavy in your skin, trying to commit every part of you to memory, the way you sighed when he palmed your waist, the way you whined into his mouth when he dipped his fingers beneath your bottoms.

How your head tossed back after he sank his cock inside of you, bandaged hands reaching up to grab at the pillows by your head, eyes lost somewhere before he had to reach up with a hand and pat your face, “still with me?” He murmurs, genuinely scared for the answer, stopping fully before he has the chance to fully bottom out inside. Your eyes reach his and you couldn’t help yourself, rolling your hips.

“Still here,” and you reach up to hold his face as he trembles a little bit, from the pleasure or something else, you’re not exactly sure. You hope it's mostly because of the pleasure. “You?”

He nods, fast and then asking if you were ready, you smile, taking one of his hands and interlacing your fingers together. He smiles this time and when he pulls out of you, leaving just the tip in, you hate the emptiness you felt. You didn’t have time to complain before he, just as slowly, thrusted back inside of you, catching the way you keened when the veins on his cock dragged against your walls.

“F- fuck,” he gasps and your stomach flutters, not just from his cock filling you up that every thought you had leaves your pretty little head, but you loved the way he sounds. Like you had this hold over him, a chain around his neck that only you had the key to. That idea didn’t stay long.

Losing yourself in him, the way he smells, the way your mind spins when his hands roam your body, the way when he reached a certain spot and you keened, soft whimpers pouring out of your mouth as he fucked into you faster, pushing your legs up by the back of your thighs. Your hands placed over your head, gripping onto the metal bars as you could feel yourself come undone by him, that delicious burning feeling overtaking you. Squeezing his cock as you cried his name, Wilbur didn’t last that much longer, pleasure burning in and under his skin, licking at his nerves as he came inside of you.

Breathing is the only thing filling the room, and as he pulls out of you, he kisses you delicately, as if he didn’t want this to end. Neither did you.

He sits up, using the towel you had used to clean you up, taking extra care of your sensitive hole, leaving the room to get water, you shuffled underneath the blanket. You needed some rest.

Though you still had some questions.

So when he came back, hair falling into his eyes as he came back dressed lightly. “Tired already?” He smiles this time and you can’t help the way your heart pounds faster, losing more feeling out of your knees even after having been fucked. You take the glass of water and before you could stop yourself, you ask.

“So who’s house is this then?” You ask and he scratches his face, sipping at his own cup.

“Apparently my father’s, found his name on some documents. Found an old painting of his father. Didn’t even recognize him.” You look at him, watching as he stares at the wall. Dirty liar.

It’s fine though.

“Will anyone find us here?”

He looks back at you, his lips almost curling into a smile immediately when he catches your eye. It dropped when he looked back at his cup, taking another sip while shaking his head. “Nobody should find us here, not for a long while.”

“So we’ll be all alone, then, huh?” And his eyes gain a little bit of that sparkle, smiling at you completely this time.

“Do you not want to be alone with me?” You could hear it though, you could see him withdrawing the tiniest bit. You reach for his hand.

“It’s all I ever wanted,” and his shoulders relax.

“Good,” and from the look on his face, it was the thing he needed to hear.

The two of you have plenty of time together to say the rest of the words you buried deep in your throat, plenty of time to say whatever is left in your heart.

But when the two of you have slipped underneath the covers and you’re pretty sure he’s drifted off to sleep, you say three little words underneath your breath. They weren't a big deal, only a truth you struggled with for a while there. And though as you’re falling asleep, you wonder if you feel him press those same words into your neck.

#wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot x y/n #wilbur soot x you #wilbur soot fic #minors do not interact #mdni #eggplicit #ktober 22 #hot hot hot #k: monster #honestly its pretty vanilla #i've only got feelings in this fic no kink no monsterfucking i am a mess #you guys should still love me though #no i didnt edit this why would i

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