Work Text:
Tubbo thinks he's paced the entire length of the Regime’s factory before the sun even began to set.
He can barely hear his footsteps echoing off the concrete floor, the hum of dormant machines filling the spaces between each step, a hollow pain making itself acutely aware each time his boots meet the floor again.
His dragon tail lashed in uneven arcs behind him, he could feel it swishing about, searching for any predators that would be behind him—Thankfully, there weren't any, at least in the small vicinity it covered, but his tail seemed to have a mind of its own.
The air smelled of metal and oil, which was usually comforting to the mechanic, but now it just brought on a migraine that made Tubbo's ears ring.
In response, his hands reached to yank at his hair, which obviously, didn't help. His fingers tangled in grease-streaked strands as guilt began to gnaw at him, as rust did on metal.
Ash had told him what happened to Haiper the other day, informed him how Haiper was borderline tortured. The Federation had tortured him—on the one day Tubbo wasn’t there. All because of some rule they had instated as soon as they murdered him, a childish excuse to justify what they did.
He couldn’t shake the image of Haiper alone, even if he wasn't there when it had happened. he was all too familiar with the sterile cruelty of the Federation descending without warning. They had been aggressive on the new island, bolder for seemingly no reason. Attacking unprovoked. Stalking anyone they pleased. When Tubbo first arrived on the old island, at least they took the time to see if you were okay and then shoot you, but now they just aim the gun at your head point-blank! It was stupid. Infuriatingly, disgustingly, unbelievably stupid.
His breaths came fast, hitched, and uneven. He wasn’t used to feeling this cornered and paranoid, so unbearably useless. Usually, he could do something about it, try to annoy the Federation till the point of them giving up on retaliating. That didn't feel like an option this time, and Tubbo was afraid to ask why.
I mean, he'd built his life on being adaptable, being able to be flexible and change when people need it, he'd been shrugging off this type of pain, on laughing at things that should have broken him. He had always been content to ignore the Federation, to pretend he could live in the gaps of their world, invisible and unbothered.
But now he couldn’t be afraid.
Not after what happened to Haiper. Not after seeing the fear ripple through the other Regime members, and even further beyond. Shit, after the stunt the Federation pulled, their gaze might already be on him; maybe it always had been. He paced faster, pulling on his uneven sideburns even more, the resounding pain in his head, obviously, not getting any better.
He heard the faint sounds of metal clanking beneath his boots, he didn't know how long he had been walking. pacing around the entirety of The Regime, but he wanted to believe that maybe just motion itself could stave away the panic currently solidifying in his chest.
His eyes flicked to and fro the shadows that stretched between the machines, and for an instant he imagined them moving. Watching. Judging.
He wanted to scream, he wanted to break something, he wanted to rip every piece of the Federation out from the island with his bare hands and scatter it to the ocean.
He knew he couldn't achieve that, so he stopped pacing, just for a moment, gripping the edge of a workbench until his knuckles burned. Sweat beaded along the back of his neck, running across scales that covered some parts of his body.
He felt small again, the way he had when he first arrived on the island, before the Regime, before he had purpose. He hated that feeling, and more than that, he hated how suddenly the Federation had the power to make him feel it again. He hates how familiar it felt, how he wanted a form of familiarity at the same time.
“I should’ve been there,” he whispered to no one, the words swallowed by the factory’s stillness.
He doesn't know why, but he started to think of Ash, of the supreme leader’s half-smirk and casual dismissal of anything that wasn’t under his control, of his unwavering discipline that can turn into the sweetest lies that Tubbo would give anything to hear right now.
But Tubbo didn't want reassurance, not really, he wanted to hurt something. Someone. He wanted to go back to the times when he could just lash out at someone, whether physically or verbally, he wanted to use chainsaws at his disposal, to take a cruel amount of satisfaction in the feeling of someone's skin slicing so easily under an enchanted sword, blood dripping into the snow-ridden land that made him feel lethargic just being there.
The machines stared back at him in silence, for a second, he debated letting his fist into the metal, but then he realized that he'd take too long moping over fixing it, rather than feeling better. The smell of oil and iron was thick in the air, still clinging to his clothes.
Tubbo’s claws dug into the worn threads of his cardigan as he shook his head again,maybe walking more would make him feel better. Fresh air was supposed to help clear your mind, right? He remembered Phil telling him that.
As he began to try and get up, exiting the factory, just near the bridge, practically near the train tracks, he heard a warping sound, and then he heard a familiar voice, tinged with something unrecognizable.
“Tobias?”
The man's voice had pierced through his haze, and Tubbo’s ears twitched involuntarily at the noise.
He stiffened, shoulders hunching, claws still locked in the cardigan. Ash’s footsteps were light against the concrete, careful but unhurried, and the sound of them burrowed into Tubbo’s awareness like water dripping onto a stone.
He didn’t turn. He couldn’t. “Shit, sorry man, just go away for a sec,” Tubbo muttered, the words raw, shaking slightly with the effort of holding himself together. He squeezed the syllables out through clenched teeth, almost hoping they would sting enough to drive Ash off. “I—I don’t… Just—... Ash, I don’t really feel like talking to anyone right now.”
From behind him came a pause, a soft shift of air as Ash tilted his head. Sort of like a dog. “Why?” His tone was calm, almost lilting. “Did I do something wrong, Young Tobias?”
Tubbo whipped his head partway over his shoulder, half-heatedly yet sharply, but his gaze faltered before it could meet Ash’s. His jaw worked as he forced the words out. “No— You didn’t, it's just—” His voice cracked, rising in pitch before it snapped tight again, bitter and harsh. “'m just… angry.”
His claws trembled against the cotton fabric once more before falling to his sides, threatening to dig into the denim material instead, as it fell down, it snagged on threads he would later have to fix, but didn’t care enough about now.
He wasn't even sure if what he was feeling was anger, it felt shameful and weak, shallow and impure all at the same time. It felt like something raw and primal and found its way festering inside his body. He hated how it made his hands shake, how it knotted and tightened in his stomach and pushed up into his throat, creating an obnoxious pressure that made it hard to speak, his mouth tasted like chalk every time he did.
His tail lashed again, a frantic, involuntary motion that seemed to give away all of his emotions in an instant to Ashswag.
Ash finally stepped into his peripheral vision. Tubbo hadn't even heard him move. His hands were clasped firmly behind his back, his black curls catching the low moonlight, that of which was slightly hidden by the overcast sky. Tubbo could smell that it was about to rain; maybe he just knew.
Ash's eyes seemed to narrow as he tilted his chin up, leaning over just a fraction. His sharp eyes flicked from Tubbo’s tense shoulders to his agitated tail, and something like a smirk ghosted across his lips. He didn't say anything. Why wasn't he saying anything? Tubbo's fists clamped again, claws deeply indenting the thick, fingerless, leather gloves he wore.
Tubbo swallowed thickly, chest heaving with a mix of exhaustion and restless heat. He wanted to scream. He wanted to smash his fist into the nearest wall just to hear something smash and clatter to the floor.
He wondered what sound Ash would make if he punched him—
“Are you sure you’re alright, Tobias?”
The voice cut through the noise in his head, soft but insistent. He flinched, shoulders jerking up, his own pulse thudding loud in his ears.
“I just fuckin' said I need a minute, Ash!” Tubbo spun halfway, the clouds overhead darkening making the golden-shimmer in his horns start to look more prominent, the words ripping out of him like a torrent of waves, high-pitched and sharp. “Talking to me isn’t fucking making it better!”
The echo of his voice bounced off the factory,. He hadn't meant to yell, not at Ash, at least, but once the words were out, he hated how much they sounded like a pitiful plea.
Ash stood there in silence, just staring at him. Tubbo's fists tightened around his sides. Now that he was facing ash, he could see something start to warp in his expression, even if just a shift, a tilt of the head, a small quirk of his eyebrows.
And then...
Ash... smiled?
It was brief and cutting, just barely flickering across his face. And for that singular heartbeat, that same face stuttered, glitching, akin to a reflection being hit in clear, rippling water.
“Then hit me,” Ash said.
He said it so simply, too, like it was the commonest, most mundane action to do, the first thing you think of to do when you're pissed off.
It made Tubbo freeze. His thoughts suddenly jammed, sputtering like a broken motor. His pupils dilated in the low light, his breath caught in lungs that didn't fully exist.
The words repeated in his head, over and over, like a mantra, refusing to make sense.
Ash wanted Tubbo to hit him?
At first, Tubbo thought it was a simple test, a standard yes or no answer to see if his loyalties truly lay with the Regime. If he said yes, he'd be demoted, or worse, exiled from The Regime entirely. But if you said no, then maybe everything would be fine, Ash would see that everything Tubbo dies is for The Regime; all Tubbo lives for is the Regime.
“I’m not gonna hurt you just because I’m fucking mad, man. That's stupid as hell." he halfheartedly whispered, voice low, choppy. His hands shook. The claws dug small crescents into the leather, and his tail jerked again behind him, betraying everything he wanted so badly to hide.
Tubbo swore he heard Ash laugh in response, if not just a huff of air.
Ash moved a little closer. Only a step, gentle, almost unnoticeable. “Do you want to, though?" he asked—More like stated, and took another step closer to Tubbo. “You’re thinking about it.”
Tubbo squeezed his eyes shut. He was used to hurting people, Gods below, it was all he did for a month straight because of the Federation's will. He wanted to punch something until the ache stopped. He wanted to scream until his throat bled. He wanted to just— hurt something.
But not—… Not Ash. Not his supreme leader, that would just be cruel, in all honesty.
He opened his eyes, blinking away newfound static. Ash was closer now. Standing in easy reach, head tilted slightly, offering the line of his jaw like a target, quirking his head up as if to invite Tubbo's fist. His face was scarily calm, almost tender, eyes narrowed in a knowing way that made Tubbo hate him and need him all at once.
“Go on,” Ash whispered. “One hit. It’ll help.”
Ash wasn't a stranger to being hurt, far from it, however, it was certainly new ground for him allowing others to freely hurt him. It was unfamiliar ground. Shallow waters that he didn't know quite how to traverse. However, he trusted Tubbo with his life, his co-founder, the mechanic of The Regime, the lifeblood of the dragon. His Tubbo.
His Tubbo shook his head in response, jerky and desperate. His fists trembled, arms rigid at his sides. He could feel the heat slowly spreading in his palms, the tremor that started in his chest that traveled to his skull, the scream stuck in his throat clawing to get out.
The worst part was that Tubbo did want to hit him. He hated how Ash convinced him, silver tongue seeping into his brain making him think things he didn't even know he wanted to think. He needed to feel the heat beneath his knuckles, the sudden adrenaline coursing through his blood, the pained groan that would come from the other man.
“I’m not—” Tubbo's voice cracked. He tried again, louder, harsher, as if to convince both Ash and himself in one, final plea. “I'm not fucking punching you, Ash!"
Ash’s smile twitched wider. He leaned just a little closer, not touching, but close enough that Tubbo felt the weight of him, the static hum of his presence. His face flickered again, a brief moment of distortion, the spams of multi-colored nothingness flashing into view as he bared his unmarred skin once more.
Ash's smile widened, and dread seeped into Tubbo's body. A low laugh rolled out of him, smooth and deliberate, echoing off the concrete walls like a provocation.
“Come on,” Ash drawled, voice steady, soaked in a taunting warmth. “You know you want to, yeah? Tobias, I'm ordering for you to hit me.” He cocked his head, the dim glow from the moon catching the faintest shimmer in his black curls. “You wouldn't disobey your supreme leader, would you?" Ash cooed at him, a coat of honey practically dripping from his words.
Tubbo stiffened, the words slithering under his skin like piercing thorns.
This was an order. Ash was ordering Tubbo to punch him. That means it should be okay, right? His chest constricted, a white-hot fire of shame and fury lighting in his gut. His hands curled into fists, claws indenting leather until he felt it indent. His tail lashed somewhere behind him, smacking the floor with a muted thud. A goad, a give, a tell-tale sign.
Ash took a step back, slow, unhurried, like he was already certain of how Tubbo would respond. “Come on, my dear Tobias," he teased again, hushed, voice lilting, almost in a sing-song tone. “I mean, if you want to disobey your supreme leader, then go ahead, that's not my problem.” He shrugged noncommittally, turning his body slightly, giving Tubbo a clear line at his face, chin lifted, smirk practically inviting him.
Tubbo’s heartbeat roared in his ears. His body trembled in its entirety, vibrating with a caged tension that felt like it would split him open from the inside out. He could feel the sting of tears threatening to burn at the corners of his eyes, and he hated it.
Tubbo should probably work on his self-control. He also, probably, should have realized this fact sooner.
He doesn't even register his feet moving, his right arm reeling back, the haze clouding his brain until he's withdrawing his sore fist, stained red with the blood of his supreme leader.
"Did you fucking want that? Huh!?" He doesn't even realize he's screaming until he hears it echo back faintly in his ears, being drowned out by the sound of his own heartbeat.
Ash, who is half-sitting on the floor, one hand on the asphalt, the other now covering his nose bridge from the brunt of the impact, a searing pain rolling up his spine and making his head spin.
Ash wipes the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. His head is dazedly bobbing, eyes wide and face glitching rapidly. Tubbo swears he sees the distortion seeping out of him along with the blood.
It’s almost instantaneous how much Ash's nose starts to bleed, practically dripping a river’s worth of blood as his fingers twitch in time with each profound blip of his face. The blood drops onto the ground, each droplet staining the stone ground like raindrops.
Ash's breath hitches, and he internally prays that Tubbo can't see his pupils expand inhumanely as he lifts his hand away from his nose, seeing the red tinge on his fingertips, now smudged and rolling down onto his upper lip. He doesn't form a single word, eyes beginning to water and eventually letting hot, unwanted tears roll down his cheeks.
The adrenaline quickly fades, however, leaving Ash still keeling over on the floor, his hand still pressed tightly to his bleeding nose. His vision swims for a moment, static crawling across the edges of his sight like stained glass, and the only sound he hears is the heavy drum of his own pulse.
...Ah.
Ash doesn't think about how his heart skips a beat at Tubbo's strength, nor does he think about how much his heart is beating in general, whether from pure, exalted thrill or fear, he doesn't know, he doesn't care to. He doesn't think at all, actually.
Well, that was a lie, Ash does think he wants Tubbo to punch him again, maybe harder, maybe in his stomach, or his throat, or—
“Shit—shit—Ash!” Tubbo’s voice shatters the haze, high and panicked. He drops to his knees beside him, hands twitching, and grabs Ash under the arm without thinking. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—awh shit... man, come on, sit up, yup… just sit up—”
Ash wants to speak, to tell him something, anything really, but all that comes out is a sharp hiss and a faint, dazed, "You... punched me." Tubbo hauls him upright and half-drags, half-carries him over to the nearest bench. Everything swims in Ash's vision, as if playing on a laggy CCTV, each second delayed behind itself, staggering.
The metal of the bench feels unnaturally cold against his back, and it provides a second of respite from the heat rolling through him. Tubbo holds Ash's hand on his nose, as if affirming that yes, this is what Ash is supposed to do. So he does. He obediently keeps his hand cradling his nose as Tubbo backs up, taking off his gloves as he throws them somewhere on the ground.
Tubbo hovers, frantic, his tail flicking and curling behind him as his hands flutter in indecision. “God—ah, your nose, it’s—uh—actually, just—hold on, man!" He bolts away, his boots clanging against concrete, and Ash dimly feels the wet warmth of blood dripping between his fingers, down his wrist, onto the floor.
He leans back with a shaky exhale, eyes closing against the pounding in his skull. The world feels far away, muted, peaceful, until Tubbo comes skidding back in, panting and wide-eyed, with an ice pack in one hand and a pair of small, shimmering health potions in the other.
“Here, here just hold this—no, wait, fuck—uhmm... Lemme—” Tubbo fumbles with the ice pack, pressing it gingerly to Ash’s nose before shoving the potions into Ash's palm, in which he has to pry open slightly. His claws tremble as they linger near Ash’s shoulder, not quite touching.
Ash blinks up at him, nose pulsing with a now subdued pain, blood still dripping onto his shirt, and in that moment, despite the pain, he feels an unfamiliar, selfish, loud satisfaction bloom within his chest.
Tubbo can only stare at him with frantic and guilt-ridden eyes, waiting for him to drink the potion or speak, or scream at him. For Ash to do anything.
Ash has never been very good with words. He's not actually used to conversing with someone after they attack him; usually, it's just one hit and they're dead. When Ash opens his mouth to talk, Tubbo expects all hell to break loose. He shuts his eyelids closed and waits for it, ears pulling themselves taut beside his head.
"Are you hurt?"
Neither of them looked like they expected that to come out of Ash's mouth,
"S—Sorry?"
"I saw you wincing when you pulled away. Did you hurt yourself, Tubbo?"
"I'm sorry for punching you, man," Tubbo says instead of answering Ash, stupidly and pathetically, in a small voice, and Ash shushes him and takes his hand in the other hand that wasn't being occupied currently, setting down the potions.
"Your knuckles are bruised," he comments, his words slightly slurred. Tubbo's lets hand be pulled in between Ash's long, slender fingers. Ash takes the ice pack off his own nose and places it on the bruise, both boys shuddering at the cold. Ash softly massaged Tubbo's palm.
The feathery touches make his skin tingle and his heart beat faster. Something deep within Tubbo starts to purr.
As Ash removes the ice from Tubbo's still red knuckles, he can feel a giggle start to bubble up within him.
It began as a soft, broken sound, shaken loose from his chest like a hiccup or a sneeze.
Then it grew, bubbling up into something brighter, richer, carrying a strange, almost childlike glee. He feels his words saturate into full-color, yellows becoming more prominent. He never realized how Tubbo's eyes have small, yellow specks in them until now, like intricate marbled gold. He doesn't think he realized how many shades of green were so beautiful on his Tubbo until he stared at his horns, his scales, his tail, him.
His shoulders trembled with the effort, and his head tipped back against the cold metal bench, black curls falling messily across his forehead.
Tubbo froze where he knelt, still clutching Ash’s hand in his own. His ears twitched at the sound, tail curling subconsciously behind him. “...Ash?” he whispered, uncertain, his voice cracking a little. “What the hell are you—why are you fucking laughing, bro?”
Ash removed his hand from Tubbo's—With great sadness—and pressed his fingers gently over the bridge of his nose, pausing at the dull ache that resided, but he didn’t stop giggling. Blood still trickled down along his lip, smearing warm and sticky across the back of his hand, yet he smiled wider. His pupils were a little blown, shimmering faintly, and the glitchy stutter of his form seemed to settle.
“Gods, Tobias…” he wheezed between soft breaths, his voice lilting, airy with delight. “That punch—hah—” He lolled his head forward to meet Tubbo’s panicked gaze, his sharp teeth gleaming faintly in the low light. “You’re… you’re strong. I should have guessed that with your biceps you would throw a good punch.”
Tubbo sputtered, now acutely aware of his body, and how Ash thought about... a certain part of it. It made him flush. His pulse skipped unevenly, and all the words he wanted to say tangled into a useless knot. “What?—Okay, No—I—are you seriously okay right now?” He gestured frantically at the blood still running from Ash’s nose, his tail lashing once behind him. Maybe he was concussed, did he really hit Ash that hard...? "You’re bleeding all over your shirt, man, that’s not, like—normal! You’re not supposed to be smiling about it! I swear I'm gonna go Phil's house or something to get a second opinion."
Ash just beamed back at him, shaking his head at the very notion of Tubbo leaving, his sharp eyes half-lidded, drunk on the strange cocktail of pain and exhilaration, and maybe something else entirely.
"Nahhh... I’m fine. Better than fine, actually.” He wiped the blood absently along his knuckles, leaving streaks of ruby with the movement. “You’ve got quite the impressive right hook, Tobias. Really… impressive.”
Tubbo’s chest tightened in frustration and something else he didn’t want to name. “Wha—Ash, c’mon, stop—don’t talk like that! You just… You got decked in the nose. Cause— By me!” His voice cracked halfway through, getting higher in octave as he drawled it out slightly, tail swishing erratically. Maybe Ash was insane. He should have seen the red flags in his face before.
Okay well, he saw them before, he just didn't care.
Ash’s giggle softened into a high-pitched, humming chuckle. He tilted his head, letting his curls fall into his eyes.
And then Ash picks up his hand, lifting it higher.
Ash lifts it all the way up to his mouth, and then before Tubbo can flinch away, oh-so-soft-lips press an open-mouthed kiss on Tubbo's red knuckles.
Ash is staring right into Tubbo's eyes as they make contact, his irises full of light, and yet completely overtaken by his pupils. Tubbo's tail hit the floor as soon as he felt the contact, going completely weightless with surprise.
Tubbo stares back, and nobody pulls his gaze away, nobody is around to witness them like this. The mechanic can feel the room getting hotter and hotter by the second despite it being a perfectly cool night a minute before.
He almost moans like the pathetic fucker he is, but he pulls himself back together at the last second.
And then it's over.
Tubbo withdraws his hand slowly, like it's a foreign limb, and Ash's tongue slides outside of his mouth to wet those pretty lips, the taste of metal filling his mouth like he swallowed a coin.
Tubbo suddenly has a very vivid vision of his hands, stained with blood that isn't his, cupping Ash's face and pulling him into a kiss that tastes like ash and metal. He has to look away, his face burning like it's been lit on fire.
He'll file that thought away for later, however. For another day, and another time and place that is preferably not right in front of the muse.
He had completely forgotten why he was worrying in the first place, his brain empty and replaying the moment where Ash's lips were placed on his knuckles.
...Man, why did Ash always have to be right? Punching Ash did make Tubbo feel better.