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“Fundy, you stupid fucking furry-!”
“Oh, so I’m the stupid one-”
“Guys please-”
Tubbo sighed, slumping into his desk. Being president was terrible. Being responsible was terrible. Listening to Tommy and Fundy bicker while Ranboo tries to calm them down was terrible. He was locked in his tiny fucking office with three bickering assholes, and all he wanted to do was discuss the future of the nation. He didn't want a fucking brawl, he didn't want this spliting headache, he didn't want to be here.
“At least I don’t have a salmon for a mother!”
“Oh, you did NOT just-”
He gripped his soda bottle with a knuckle white grip, using the cool glass of the bottle to ground him. He lays his head against his desk carefully, to not bump his horns. Fuck, he wishes Tommy just took the offer of presidency. Sure, the country would’ve gone to shit, but at least Tubbo wouldn’t have to deal with it.
He glances back up to the screaming trio, and-
A horrible image flashes before his eyes, of them with their heads bowed before him, of them with bloodied fists, and of a sickly familiar voice whispering to him. The ex-president. His boss.
‘Bring them to their knees, Tubbo.’
Another image, of him in a crown and supporting two large horns. Of him grinning on a familiar podium.
Bloodied bodies scattered across the ground, discharged fireworks among the corpses.
‘Make them repent.’
The images, however gruesome they may be, make him smile to himself. A sickly sense of euphoria fills him, the idea growing more and more appealing, despite the growing dread. He knows it's wrong, he knows he shouldn’t want to see his friends in pain, but the feeling of power that fills him at the idea is so appealing.
“And then there’s fucking Schlatt-”
He zones out again. That name, that fucking name. He doesn’t know the context, he’s not paying attention to their conversation, but that name hurts him. He used to cry when he heard that cursed name, but now all it does is make his hands shake.
The call of his name brings him back to reality.
“Tubbo, I fucking hate when you get that look in your eyes,” Tommy spits. “You look like Schlatt.”
That fucking name again. It’s not his fault he has his boss’s eyes.
A boiling hot anger rises up in him, so unfamiliar, so intoxicating.
“-Schlatt-”
He moves faster then he can process, with more force then intended. The bottle smashes into a thousand pieces against the desk, the cold solid glass becoming sharp and warm with his blood.
It felt so fucking good when they all went silent.
“Can you guys just shut the fuck up?!” He snapped, ignoring the stinging pain in his knuckles.
He wants to grin at the way they look at him, but he holds his scowl. They look so scared, so helpless, so powerless.
He loves the way the glass feels in his fists, the way he feels as sharp as the shards. He doesn’t want to be soft anymore. He doesn’t want to be hurt anymore. He wants them to be afraid.
Tommy speaks up first. “Tubbo, what the fuck?” He looks Tubbo up and down like he’s a freak of nature, eyes lingering on knuckle white fists.
Tommy really is pissing him off.
“You heard me!” He shouts back, dropping the glass in hands. He flexes his hands, the cuts stretching and dripping more.
His voice returns. ‘You weren’t born to be soft. You were born to make the world shatter at your fingertips, Tubbo. Make them shake.’
The idea is oh so appealing.
“Tubbo, what the fuck are you on?!” Tommy yells again. Ranboo and Fundy are still frozen, staring at him with wide eyes. “You can’t just break a fucking bottle because you’re a little pissy!”
He breathes out steam, burning hot in his lungs. He feels like he’s aflame. He feels like his blood is molten lava, scorching his hands. He feels like punching someone. “Don’t you dare tell me what I can and cannot do. You can’t fucking tell me what to do. I’m everything you can’t control.”
Tommy sneers at him, but the shaking of his hands does not go unnoticed. “You’re scaring them.” There’s an untold ‘me’ at the end.
Tubbo loves those words. “Goddamn right. They should be scared of me.”
Another image. All of them kneeled again, begging for forgiveness. He’s wearing a suit that fits perfectly with a blood red tie to match. A microphone sits in his hand, and he cackles into it, and the manic laugh is all too familiar.
“Tubbo, dude, fucking chill,” Tommy sounds desperate, as desperate as he was in the image (the vision). It’s a glorious sound. “You’re-You’re my Tubbo! You’re my pal, my buddy, my frien-”
“No,” He interrupts, getting a sick feeling of pleasure from the way Tommy’s face drops. “I am mine. I am mine before I am anyone else’s. I’m not your fucking Tubbo.”
Tommy falters for a moment, glancing helplessly to his nearby friends. They stare back, wide eyed, unhelpful. He sneers yet again and throws his hands up. “Fine! Fucking fine! Have fun dealing with this shit show on your own, asshole!” He yells, turning his back and slamming the door of his office shut.
Tubbo glares at the other two figures in the room. “I reckon you should leave too. I have some stuff to work on,” He states calmly, and the other two scatter immediately without a word.
The office is left empty other then him and a faint horned spirit in a suit.