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The world is fucked up, filled with fucked up people who seek their fucked up goals without any care of their fucked up peers. Wilbur came to peace with such an observation years ago, long before he ran away from the main lands of the DSMP with his family to start L’manburg. Somewhere along the way, he became one of the fucked up people, fell into his fucked up ideals and his fucked up need for power.
He had always been a troublemaker. Tommy had always been by his side with the mindset that if Wilbur was going to cause trouble, he may as well be there too. And when he looked at Wilbur with those shining innocent eyes, he couldn't help but feel a little guilty about what he was doing. It never stopped him.
The satisfactory result was more important. It always was.
He knew things would go further south than they ever had before — and that was a difficult thing to accomplish, because he and Tommy were living out in the middle of nowhere with nothing more than the clothes on their back and the tools in their bags — when he stumbled out of the shower to a yell of his name. He didn't bother to dry his hair, uncaring as it left a damp spot on the shirt that clung to his skin. Tommy yelling for him meant that he needed to go.
When he made it outside, he was met with an unpleasant sight. Tommy stood next to Tubbo, who was staring intently at the grass and picking at the hem of his shirt. The horns on his head poked out a little more from his hair than they had last time Wilbur had seen him, and he suspected that was Schlatt’s fault. Wilbur didn’t have the capacity to feel bad for him.
“He’s ordering you to his doorstep,” Tubbo spoke without looking at him, trying to make himself appear smaller, timid and quiet as ever.
Tommy pleaded with him not to go, said that he didn't have to follow orders from a man like Schlatt. He said that it was most certainly a trap, with how scummy and cunning he was. Wilbur knew. How could he not? But he went anyway, and he wasn't even sure why.
There was a tug in his gut, an ache in his heart that led him to Schlatt’s office. Perhaps it was the fury that drove him, the itch in his hands that begged to drive a sword through the President’s heart. Or it was the despair, the emptiness that starved for something ro fill it, the flicker of flames behind his eyes and the longing for him to burn along with it.
He was nothing if not violent and destructive.
The door of the office hung open for his arrival. It was completely empty aside from the man himself who sat, hunched over a nearly empty bottle, in the lavish black chair that he had bought as soon as he owned the place. Fury burnt like a forest fire in his chest at the sight. He had made the place his own, and made it ugly in the process.
“Soot.” Schlatt greeted him without looking at him. “Take a seat. Join me tonight.”
He didn't. Schlatt didn't wait for him to.
“Did I ever tell you why I banned you and Tommy from this nation?”
Wilbur blinked. “You did not.”
Schlatt stood up with a sigh. He approached and, for a moment that lasted too long, Wilbur thought that he was about to prove Tommy right and die. The thought should have unnerved him more than it did. He should have flinched under the raised hand as he had seen Tubbo do many a time, should have backed away as the door behind him was shut and locked.
He should have protested and fought as Schlatt towered over him, pressed at him until his back hit the wall. Schlatt was a large man in every sense — his shoulders were broad, his hands huge and scarred, the horns atop him larger than Wilbur’s head and curled dangerously. Wilbur himself was not a small man but even he felt dwarved in the presence of someone like Schlatt.
Every sense of danger should have gone off, but it didn't. Wilbur stayed put, his head tilted up just enough to meet Schlatt’s glare. He wondered how he looked. His hair was still damp, hanging over his lifeless, dull eyes in loose curls. His shirt was on crooked in his rush to arrive and the laces of his boots were untied. He hadn't even had time to put on his coat.
Schlatt grabbed ahold of his chin. His hands were hot and, somewhere in the back of his mind, Wilbur was aware of the heat flitting through his chest. At such a simple touch, such a vague display of interest. He felt pathetic. Schlatt’s lip curled with disgust, just barely revealing the sharpness of his canines.
“I did it because you're a ticking time bomb, Soot. You have lived your whole life at the edge of a cliff, ready to dive off and take everyone else with you at any second. You hate yourself as much as everyone hates you, and you're going to kill because of it.”
Wilbur couldn't help it. He laughed, a dry, annoyed sound. His glare didn't hold as much bite as he wanted it to, but the message got across. Schlatt let go of his chin in favour of trailing that hand downwards, brushing fingers over his stomach before dropping his hand back to his side. Wilbur wanted to grab him and sink his teeth into flesh until blood stained his clothes.
“Do you consider yourself a psychologist? Because I'm pretty sure the only degree you have is for being an annoying dickhead.” He shot back, lurching forwards to grab ahold of Schlatt’s wrist in a vice-like grip.
Schlatt didn't even flinch. He just watched, his lips curved ever-so-slightly, as Wilbur dug his nails into skin. Bloodlust crawled through him, up his spine and into his mind, muddled his thoughts with the need to hurt someone. He trembled with the intensity of it, twitching and shaking under the stare on him.
Everything came to a sharp halt when Schlatt smashed against Wilbur, slammed him against the wall. His fingers dug into damp curls and yanked his head to the side, putting his neck on display. The other hand planted firmly against his chest, keeping him from squirming out of the grasp. As if he even wanted to. He just stared at Schlatt, a silent challenge behind his eyes, a push to continue, rough treatment and all.
If he had stopped for even a second to think, he might have left then and there. He might have returned to Tommy and Tubbo in one piece. But Wilbur was, at the end of the day, impulsive and selfish.
Schlatt’s teeth gnawed at his neck and he gasped despite himself, breath hitched in his chest. Pain shot upwards to fog his mind even further and downwards to his crotch at the same time, dizzying him and making it difficult to see straight. He was somewhat aware of hot blood running down his neck and surely staining his shirt, but he didn't care.
Open-mouthed kisses and bites trailed all along his neck, shoulder and collarbone until he was sure that he would be all black-and-blue for the next week and a half. He kept his mouth firmly shut, swallowing back any groans or pleased sighs that threatened to surface. He felt like he was burning alive. He wondered if he could burn Schlatt along with himself.
Schlatt paused for only long enough to shove his hand into Wilbur’s pants. His fingers wrapped around his dick, already stiff and eager after such a short time. It had been too long since he allowed himself to get caught up in the painful aching hole in his chest and the lust that melted like wax in his stomach. He bucked his hips into Schlatt’s hand and longed for him to shove it into his chest and tear out his heart instead.
“You’re so fucking annoying,” Schlatt hissed against the shredded skin of his neck. “Always preaching some shit like you own the place. Always actin’ like you’re not just some desperate whore begging to be put in his place.”
Wilbur couldn't help it anymore. He moaned and squirmed, thrusting harder against Schlatt as if that would make him finish faster. His words dug under Wilbur’s skin and lit his veins on fire like some kind of venom, and he couldn't even be angry because he was right. He needed this, needed to be knocked from his pedestal by someone who could keep it straight with him.
He needed Schlatt to tear him apart and splay his gore for all to see.
He needed Schlatt to kill him.
“Fucking asshole,” he spat through his wavering, unsteady voice.
Schlatt just chuckled lowly and occupied himself with the other side of Wilbur’s neck. His hand tightened slightly against his dick, and burning heat spiralled through him. Somewhere through the fog, he noticed that other hand shove itself down Schlatt’s pants and he couldn't help the spark of pride at the thought of getting him off.
It wasn't until Schlatt bit down with enough force to make Wilbur scream that his vision went white and he came harder than he ever had before. His breath caught in his throat and the world disappeared before his very eyes. The only thing that was left among the ruin was him and Schlatt, with those vicious fangs in his skin and his own nails digging through that stupid, ugly suit into his shoulders.
“I hate you,” Schlatt snarled into Wilbur’s ear, his own hips thrusting messily into his hand as he joined Wilbur over the finish line. “I hate you so fucking much, Soot.”