Chapter 1: This isn't Harry Potter
Summary:
Chapter word count: 4.7k
Estimated reading time (based off average reading speed of 250 WPM): 19 minutes
Date posted: August 24th, 2024
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Welcome to L'Manberg University!” declared the man in green. “I’m helping out with the orientation stuff today. All the official tours are happening tomorrow, but I’ll make sure you all end up at the right dorms tonight. My name is Philza, I work mostly with Literature students, but you’ll see a lot of me if you’re taking advanced history courses.”
Tommy perked up, taking a closer look at Philza. He was doing a BA in literature, and apparently now he’d have to deal with old people, too. (What, you think big men like him couldn’t be literate? Stop stereotyping you right wing piece of shit) But the only noteworthy thing about Philza was his fashion sense—and not in a good way. He wore a long green garment that certainly wasn’t western fashion, Tommy wasn’t even going to try and name it. Hang on a second, was he wearing sandals and fucking socks? There was no saving that man.
“The first thing we’ll do today is sort everyone into houses, then we’ll have a point-and-walk tour.” Philza pulled out a bottle of nail polish, the L'Manberg University logo indented in the glass. “Alright, who’s up first to find their house?”
Someone snorted.
Philza looked up. “Ah, I heard that. Come on, get up here.”
A white dude Tommy’s age pushed through to the front, his brown hair slicked back with far too much hair gel.
“What’s your name?” said Philza.
“Charlie, sir.”
“None of that sir business with me, Charlie. Hold out your hands.” With the precision of a toddler, Philza slapped the clear polish on Charlie’s nails. “Wait for that to dry, who’s next?” As Philza moved from person to person, he explained the house system. “All the students in this university are put into three teams to encourage relationships and participation in the community, yada, yada. You can get competitive about it if you want to, but you should definitely join the events. They’re always a blast, and just what you need in assignment hell.” He looked up, face sobering. “And trust me, you will end up there.”
Philza took Tommy’s hands, slapping on some polish before moving to the person next to him. “As the polish dries the colour will come through, and you’ll join either the red, blue or yellow house.”
A hand shot up at the back of the group.
“Yes, what’s your name?”
“Karl,” he said, In a split black and white hoodie. “And where’s the green house?”
“You looking for the sorting hat, too?” said Philza, chuckling. “Nah, I shouldn’t be bullying students on the first day. L'Manberg is far older than Harry Potter, the houses are just primary colours. We’ve got to get moving soon, but I can answer questions about the houses as we wait for everyone’s nails to dry.”
Tommy tuned out, It's not like he needed to hear this. He already knew the polish would appear whenever he was on campus—he hadn’t spent months hounding his sister for nothing. Shubble was accepted two years earlier and came back with bright eyes and hours of stories; magical mascots, scissors relays and tales of legendary pranks. She was part of the red house, and promised Tommy they could room together if he was, too. Tommy always knew L'Manberg would accept a big man like him (and it had nothing to do with nepotism, ignore whatever Shubble told you) He just needed to deal with this weeb-ass professor until his nails changed.
Oh, his nails were darkening. The clear polished had shifted to a muddy maroon, sharpening into a vivid red, strong enough he couldn’t see the halfmoons of his nails. Tommy smiled, the others exclaiming as their own colours came through.
Philza pocketed the polish, clapping his hands together. “Let’s head to the quad, then we’ll split up.” Once everyone had their bags, he took the group through the campus. He said lots of boring history stuff, and pointed out the robotics lab, the archaeology building and the library. Tommy scanned the other groups going past, trying to catch a glimpse of Shubble. Philza took them to a grassy section nestled by buildings, a clock tower on the northern one. In the centre was another group, three decked out in house-matching outfits. Oh shit, those were the mascots, weren’t they?
The red house mascot was a tall woman in a red ballgown, a butterfly mask across her eyes. That dress was—was a sewing miracle. The skirt had a large bow at the back, shaped like butterfly wings before flowing into the rest of the hoop skirt, the entire dress flowing when the mascot shifted. It even looked like the wings were flapping, holy shit.
The mascot turned towards him, meeting Tommy’s eyes. After a moment of silence, she smirked, giving a salute.
Tommy automatically did it back. “Ayup.”
The mascot rolled her eyes, then tapped a student on the shoulder.
“Oh shit, right,” said the guy, pulling his hands out of an adidas hoodie. “Greetings fledgling students! I’m Quackity, and I’m sorting out all the new red house students. Whoa, don’t look that excited, I’ll have to take my shirt off.”
The red mascot shoved him.
“Anyways, our primary dorm is in the East Quad. Follow me.” They broke away from Philza’s group and marched to the eastern building, Valiance carved above the doorframe. Tommy glanced to the guy next to him, who rocked a buzzcut. “Cool shit, innit?” he said, when the dude met his eyes. “I’m Tommy.”
“I’ll say. I’m Jack.”
“They let northerners in here?” Tommy blurted.
Jack rolled his eyes. “I thought they didn’t let children in, either, but here we are.”
Tommy sputtered. “Children? I can assure you, my good sir, my kindest lad, that I am eighteen years of age.”
Jack smirked. “Got any proof?”
“What are you, a cop?”
Jack snorted. “Fuck no. But until I see proof otherwise, you’re fourteen.”
Tommy groaned. “You’re supposed to try make a good impression with me, it’s your first day.”
“You literally insulted my accent.”
“Fine, fine, we’ll start from scratch. I’m Tommy, BA literature.”
“Jack, structural engineering.” He clapped a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “That wasn’t hard, was it? Us Brits have to stick together.”
“We’re an endangered species, here,” he agreed. “Just like badgers.”
Jack gave him a look, and Tommy burst out laughing.
The conversation flowed from there, Quackity leading the tour through the dorms. The red mascot didn’t say a word the entire time, just giving nods to those who passed. Tommy didn’t mind, women could speak as much or as little as they liked. Eventually they arrived in a central area, couches dotted around like a retirement village. Quackity came to a stop in the middle, a collection of pens stabbed into the roof above him. A little metal plaque sat next to it, but Tommy was too far away to read it.
Quackity caught his gaze. “Don’t worry about it,” he winked “Alright, all we have to do between now and midnight is sort out roommates. Before this goes to shit, is there anyone moving in with a current student?”
Tommy shot his hand up, the only one to do so.
Quackity winced. “Alright, who’re you rooming with?”
“Shubble Berry.”
“Wait, you’re Tommy, right? Her little brother?”
In all the ways that mattered. “Yep, that’s me. Big T himself.”
“I had a bunch of classes with her in first year, it’s good to meet you, dude.” Tommy shook his hand, then Quackity scribbled down his details. “You’ll just be in room 198, the door code should be that in reverse.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. Of course Shubble wouldn’t remember her password.
“If you see her, tell her she better not miss the lettuce club, alright?”
“I’ll pretend I know what that means,” said Tommy. Too much plant nerd shit for him.
“Oh, don’t worry, you will.”
With that threatening note, Tommy went down the hallway with his bags, wandering through the maze of corridors. Shubble spoke about the pranks culture of the dorms, but he hadn’t expected the sheer number of odd things about. Unflattering pictures of students were framed on the walls, tables with pamphlets sat on mismatching legs, and he even found a banana duct-taped to someone’s door. He ended up going in circles for a bit as he tried to go up, but he eventually found an elevator—a sign with a minimum height requirement stuck to the door. According to the sign in the elevator, room 198 was on the fifth floor. That floor had just as much stuff going on—but it also had a trophy cabinet, the largest one dedicated to prank of the year. Holy shit, he was born for this house.
Finally, he found room 198, putting in the code and shoving into it. A bed sat against either wall, with a door on the right leading to the bathroom. No sign of Shubble.
“Well fuck me,” he muttered, chucking his stuff on the bare mattress. The other was already made, Shubble’s pot plant sitting next to the window, mushrooms growing at the base. At least there were signs of her. Tommy kicked off his shoes and pulled out his phone, texting Shubble.
I got red lesgoo
Where are u
I’m in ur room btw
*Tommy sent a photo*
Cant beleive your ditching me
If your not here by tonight im sleeping in your bed
None of the messages were read, so Tommy spammed another twenty or so before giving up. Not wanting to go for a tour by himself (and get lost in the process) Tommy just scrolled through his phone, ready to waste a couple hours.
There was a rattle at the door. Tommy looked up, spotting a bracelet on the ground. Who would shove a bracelet into a dorm? He opened the door and glanced either way.
“Is someone missing a bracelet?” he said, to the row of closed doors.
None of them answered.
Tommy sighed, shutting the door. Maybe it was Shubble’s? It was pretty simple, dark red beads threaded with a brown string. Not the cheap friendship bracelet shit, either. These were wooden beads.
If this was Shubble’s, he absolutely had to wear it. Tommy picked it up, opening his camera—no, he should wear it, too. He grinned, slipping it on.
“Hello!”
Tommy jumped. “Who the fuck said that?” He spun around the room. Empty. He looked up, then shrieked.
“Whoa, I’m right here.” A red-haired woman hovered above his bed, hair floating around her like a halo.
“What the fuck are you?!”
The woman laughed. “I’m the shadow for the red house—and you’re the new red mascot.”
Tommy ignored them. “Get out of my room—there’s only room here for one big man, and that’s me. The mascot’s down with Quackity.”
“Nope,” she said. “As of twenty minutes ago, that mascot is retired. Out of all new students, you’ve been chosen for this prestigious role. You’ll get to represent the red house at all college events, boost morale and guide the—”
Tommy, a drag queen? “—Nope, you’ve got the wrong person. I consider myself very masculine and manly—not that feminine things are bad, or that heels can be masculine, of course—but it’s not for me.” He blinked, then added. “And also! I am a busy university student, with no experience in the art of makeup or being sexy. That is, sexy in a womanly, feminine way, and I do not have the time to learn. You’ll have to find someone else.”
“You’ve got plenty of time,” she said, then pointed at the red bracelet. “But you’re the next mascot, got it?”
“Nope, I do not consent. Get the fuck out of my room.”
She rolled her eyes. “Performing your mascot duties will nullify your college fees, so you don’t have to focus on income alongside—”
“Free college?! Why the fuck didn’t you start with that? Do you want me to wear pumps or stilettos?”
She snorted. “Let’s ease into this, alright? We’ll go over the basics, you take a little test run, then we can talk outfits.”
“Trust me, I can keep talking all night.”
“Okay, I think I’ve got it,” said Tommy, after the third explanation. He paced back and forth as the ghost floated above his head, red bracelet thrown on the bed. “I put on my miraculous ladybug bracelet, shout mask up, then I turn into the mascot and do woman things—I mean, mascot things.”
“And you can’t talk or the magic breaks. No humming, laughing or anything like that.”
“—And I’m like Cinderella or some shit, can we start now?”
The ghost sighed. “Sure. Mask up, go for a walk through the common rooms, then find somewhere private to unmask, got it?”
Tommy grinned, grabbing the bracelet off the bed. “Free uni, here we come. Mask up.”
The maroon bracelet burned, the beads unfolding into rose petals that rushed across him. The burning spread till it covered his body, his eyes fluttering shut—no, not fluttering. His eyes closed in a manly, masculine way, and when he opened them again, all he could do was stare.
His hoodie and pants had been replaced with a fucking quince dress. It was bright red with a glittery skirt, the sequins thickening into detailed embroidery as it climbed the bodice.
Holy shit, back the fuck up. He had fucking boobs.
Tommy grinned, something shifting on his face. He touched—oh it was the masquerade mask. Tommy pushed into the bathroom, walking on tip-toes from his heels. He flicked on the light, and holy shit. A woman stood in place of his reflection, one with tawny brown skin and a flat nose, a cold red mask hiding her eyes. His dark hair was pulled back into a bun, strands framing his face and perfectly coiled. He pursed his mahogany lips, the mirror copying. Then he winked, splitting into a grin. Someone tapped his shoulder, and he flung around.
Tommy stood in front of him. Wait, not Tommy, that was the red ghost. Why the fuck did she have his body?
The ghost tugged his arm, then pointed at the door. Right, he was meant to have a test run or whatever, while the ghost got his body? That was—that was fucked, to be honest.
But Tommy hesitated before pulling out. Heh, that’s what she said. Anyways, college was fucking expensive, and loans were the death of community. If he got a degree out of it, surely being possessed was worth it, right?
The ghost pointed at the door again.
Tommy sighed, then stepped out in silence. Nothing was worse than college debt. His heels clunking on the carpeted wood, Tommy searching for the elevator. His dress was really cool, actually. He could spin around and it would flare out, whipping everyone who was too close—that would show those fascist personal space hoggers.
He came to the elevator, pressing the button with long nails. How did women grab things with nails like this? He stepped into the elevator, heels making him slay so fucking hard. They gave him an extra height boost, and he could lift his toes and spin around on them. The elevator slowly dropped floors. Tommy fidgeted with the skirt sequins, glancing around. His dress almost filled the lift, but luckily it was just him and the—the microwave plugged in at the corner. The doors pinged, and Tommy stilled. It was time to blow the common room away.
He glided into the chatter and laughter, people sitting at tables and couches. Bags were littered on every surface as students caught up with old friends and new. Fuck, what did he do now? The ghost said he just had to walk, right? Tommy roamed between the groups, squishing his skirt between the couches and tables. Eyes kept flicking to him as he moved, but Tommy averted his gaze. Most people soon turned elsewhere, but some would continue to stare—the new students, probably. Wait, it was only dudes staring at him. Tommy swallowed, something shifting in his chest. Why the fuck did that make him feel so small?
A girl with cornrows waved at him, and he held her gaze. Tommy lifted his hand in response—that counted as mascot things, right? Tommy continued to drift through the common room, catching pieces of conversation. But he couldn’t add anything to the conversation, couldn’t drop in with a well-timed joke, or even introduce himself—did he even have a name? Tommy’s heart began to race, and he hurried away from the guys that were still staring at him. He gravitated to a group of ladies in the corner. The closest looked up and smiled. “Hey girl, you miss us?”
He blinked, then nodded, giving a cheerful wave. None of that queen shit, just a waggle of his fingers.
“Awww, we missed you, too. Way more than Professor Monothomas, right Stephanie?”
Stephanie cackled, her glasses almost falling off.
Tommy batted his eyelashes, pressing a hand to his chest. What else did women do to express their emotions? All he had was Minnie fucking mouse for reference. The conversation flowed between the women, Tommy sidelined once again. He tried to react to Stephanie’s exam score and Hannah’s road trip, but he didn’t even know if they noticed him. His heart raced, sweat creeping across his forehead. Fuck, what if his armpits were sweaty? He needed to check.
Tommy eased up from the couch, only for Stephanie, “You’re leaving without giving us a good luck kiss?”
Tommy stared at her, Stephanie’s brow creasing behind her red glasses.
He…
No. Tommy could never kiss a girl who didn’t even know his name. How else would she know who gave her the best kiss of her life? Nope, Tommy would be keeping his kiss virginity tonight. (everyone knew kisses from his mother didn't count, just the same as being born from a woman's—actually, never mind, he got the point across) But he couldn’t deny them while he was the mascot, he wasn’t a tory. He ended up blowing an air kiss, then following with a wink, surely Stephanie would accept that.
Sure enough, she made a show of catching the kiss, to the delight of the other ladies.
Tommy gave a final wave before leaving, ducking into the closest door and finding a commercial kitchen, a door at either end. A steel bench lined each wall, various appliances scattered above and below it. Tommy took a shaky breath, taking a cup to the sink. How did the mascot next to Quackity make it look easy? Everyone stared at him, and he had to participate when he couldn’t even talk. Tommy filled his glass and chugged it, putting it down with trembling fingers. He wiped the water from the top of his lip, lipstick smearing on his hand. Fuck.
Someone in the doorway snickered, and Tommy automatically flipped them off—shit, that was not mascot behaviour.
He met Quackity’s eyes—of course it was Quackity—then pushed away from the sink and out the far door. He better not be blushing. Back in a random hallway, Tommy swiped at his lipstick, trying to fix it. He only smeared it more, creating a look known as la toddler de paint chugger. How did women do this?
Fuck this, that was enough mascot-ing. Tommy clacked down the hallway, his feet aching. He jiggled each door handle until one opened, revealing a stack of desk desks and pile of rugs.
“Unmask,” he said, his voice cracking. Nothing happened, for a moment, then something slammed into him, and the magic unravelled, rose petals rushing over him again. They replaced the sequined ballgown with trousers and a shirt, his heels swapped for heavenly TNs. He leaned against the dusty desks, finally dropping his shoulders.
“So… how was it?”
He didn’t jump at the ghost’s voice. “Fucking awful. How many times do I have to do that?”
The ghost hummed, reclining on the rugs. She had a broad, muscular stance, fat shit it did when she was incorporeal. “It really depends. The mascot has to show up at some events—like tomorrow’s opening ceremony—but you’ll need to mask up at random times, too. Whenever someone works to bolster the red house spirit, you’ll be there.”
A couple times a year wasn’t bad at all. He’d get better and doing mascot things, too, getting the job done in a shorter amount of time. All that minmaxxing shit, masking up could be his side hoe whilst Literature stayed his faithful wife.
The ghost nodded to herself. “It won’t take much time, but I doubt you’ll go more than a week without masking up.”
“I have to do this every week?!”
“More or less. You don’t have to worry about missing coursework, either. Whenever you’re masked up I can shadow you, pretending to be you during lectures and stuff.”
“Sure, sure, as if you won’t take my body for a fucking joyride.”
“I won’t, but you’re not going to believe me, yet,” she shrugged. “You could always get a part-time job. I reckon McPuffy’s is hiring.”
“Bitch.” Trying to buy his degree on McPuffy wages was psychological torture. The UN should ban that shit instead of wanking off.
The ghost flicked out finger guns. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Tommy eventually left the cupboard, ignoring the ghost that hovered above his head. Given that nobody reacted to the woman floating above them, she was only haunting Tommy.
On the way to his room, he bumped into Jack, who somehow dragged him into an impromptu tour. Said tour got them lost and found several times, eventually ending up in the dining hall. Shubble still hadn’t replied to any of his messages, so Tommy was ready to steal her cat plushie, the Lord of the Stars. As they walked, he kept the mascot bracelet in his pocket, every rustle burning into his brain. After another hour, he managed to say goodbye to Jack and made the trek back to his dorm. He entered eight-nine-one into the number pad, then pushed the door open. Fuck yeah, Shubble was still gone. He collapsed on the bed, peeling off his shoes and socks, then massaging his poor feet. The beaded bracelet rattled in his back pocket, and Tommy pulled it out, giving it a glare.
Nobody emerged.
He cleared his throat. “You there?”
The ghost appeared on the bed opposite, mirroring his position. “Always.”
“Bitch.”
She huffed. “So what did you want to say?”
Many things, including some new swears for the fucking prick’s vo-cab-ulary. See, he knows big words. “What am I supposed to actually do as the mascot?”
“That’s the fun part,” she said. “Your only job is to bolster the house morale, be the embodiment of the red house.”
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “So I could be having sex?”
Her eyes widened, so he doubled down.
“Sex is a great way to boost team morale, I could be the red house whore. That counts as mascot duties, right?”
The ghost gave him a look.
“Perfect! I’ll sleep my way to the top, impregnating—wait, I’ll be the one getting pregnant. If I get knocked up in costume, where does the foetus go when I unmask? Is it like a Schrödinger’s foetus situation? And if I give birth to a mascot baby will it look like me or—”
“—You can stop, actually,” she interrupted, face paling.
Tommy groaned. “You told me to ask questions, man.”
“Well, I can assure you, I don’t have the answers to any questions like that. Nobody has ever tried to have sex, let alone a—a child while in costume,” she said, waving a hand about. “And I’d like to keep it that way, please.”
“Well, you can rest easy, for I have never experienced nor longed to experience the penetration of a man.”
The ghost buried her face in her hands. “This is the weirdest introduction I’ve ever done. You know, everyone else asks questions like ‘What if I need to mask up in an exam?’ Or ‘How does the magic work?’ Not ‘What happens if I start fucking in costume?’”
At this point she was talking to herself, but Tommy answered regardless. “You simply don’t understand the Innit ways, because you’re not politically correct, Ghost Thing.”
“Sure, why not,” she muttered, red hair shifting in front of her face. “If it works it works.”
“—What actually is your name, by the way. I can’t keep calling you Ghost Thing.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter.”
“No, what’s your name?”
“I don’t have one, so whatever you prefer is fine.”
Tommy blinked. “You want me to just give you a name. Do you know how hard that is?”
“Well, you don’t have to.”
“I do, and I’ll call you Maggie.”
Her face scrunched up.
“Nah, you want a sophi-sticated name, don’t you? How about… Clementine?”
“Like the fruit?” said the ghost.
“Yep, it’ll keep people in suspense. Is it a fruit? A little snack? Even better: a woman.”
She snorted.
“So you like it?”
“If it works for you then that’s fine by me,” she said, gaze darting away.
“That wasn’t my question, dicknips.”
“I like it,” said Clementine. “It’s playful, you know?” She smirked. “Far better than Dicknips, anyway.”
Tommy snorted, and Clementine joined in. Before he could defend the perfectly good name, the door rattled.
Shubble breezed in, throwing her stuff on the bed. “Hey Tommy,” she said, reaching in for an obligatory hug.
He accepted the warmth, knowing this was their final truce before they devolved back to being annoying siblings. He gave Clementine a death glare over Shubble’s shoulder.
She pulled back, throwing his shoes off her bed. “You can get off my bed, now.”
Tommy groaned, rolling onto the floor. “Fuck you, I was gonna sleep so well with the Lord of the Stars.”
“He would never betray me,” said Shubble.
Clementine tilted her head but stayed, despite Tommy’s glare.
“So how was your first day?” she said.
Tommy starfished on the rug, watching Shubble kick off her muddy sneakers. “Met this Northerner called Jack. He was a bitch, though.”
“Oh yeah?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yup. We got lost together, ended up in the dining hall. Saw the house mascot, too—”
“—Don’t tell her,” snapped Clementine.
“—And why the fuck didn’t you tell me she was hot? I didn’t have time to prepare before I was blessed by her presence.” Tommy ignored his racing heart. “Listen, I get you don’t want to be competing with me on the romance front—you were always a sore loser—but is that really worth keeping secrets from me?”
Clementine groaned. “You do realise you’re talking about yourself, right?”
Yes, he did. It was a rare autophilia W.
Shubble sighed. “You want knowledge? Fine, I’ll give it to you. If you try to hit on Red, she will punch you. She broke two noses last year.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” said Tommy. “Not once I active my charming aura.”
“I will punch you,” said Clementine.
“Please don’t,” said Shubble.
He harumphed, sitting up. “Well I might if you ditch me again. Where were you?”
Shubble sighed, rubbing her eyes. “Sorry, I’ve had a long day. There’s so much extra work for third years, and I—I’m joining some committees, too.”
“Why the fuck would you do that? Is this a cry for help?”
She snorted, leaning back on her bed. “Not yet it’s not. But if… if I manage to pull this off, I’m definitely signing up for therapy.”
Tommy waited for her to elaborate, but she just opened her laptop, the fans whirring as she sat it on her thick quilt.
“Well, what’s your committee for?”
“It—It doesn’t really matter does it?” she said, still staring at the screen.
“Yeah, but I wanna know. I’m your brother, so you have to tell me everything.”
She sighed. “I don’t know if I can, this time. I’ve got a lot riding on this.”
Tommy’s stomach sank. “I can keep fucking secrets. Mum still doesn’t know I crashed into the letterbox.”
“We knew that was you, she’s still waiting for you to fess up.”
“Fuck, really? I better call her.” Tommy pulled out his phone, but Shubble continued.
“And it’s not about you, either. I’ll ask Ka—the committee members if I can let you know, alright?”
“You better. I can’t believe you’re keeping secrets from me, your own baby brother.”
“I’ll disown you again, don’t test me.”
Fuck, she had him there. “Fine, but it better be worth dealing with all those commies.”
She grinned. “Oh, it will be.”
Notes:
Guys what type of shoes did Ponk make a shop for im having a crisis help—
Next chapter will be up tomorrow, leaving kudos is slay but leaving comments is bae ;D
Chapter 2: Soup Shot Euphoria
Summary:
Tommy has to attend the opening ceremony while masked up, and has an awful time dealing with all the bureaucratic bullshit. Big men could NOT become big regal men, no matter how hard he tried.
Wordcount: 6.2k
Estimated reading time: 25 minutes
Date published: August 25th, 2024
Notes:
Cool things about this fic:
- It will have weekly updates
- Updates will happen in real time, so the events in this chapter are one day later than the previous one
- There will be fun quizzes, and later on readers can vote for prank of the year.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Shubble was gone when Tommy awoke, the bitch. He sighed, closing his eyes again. He would get a couple extra hours of sleep as revenge.
“Nope, not happening,” said Clementine. “You’ve been sleeping for ten hours, and we need to get you ready for the opening ceremony.
Tommy peeled his eyes open, Clementine holding her hands behind her back. “’S too ‘rly” he muttered.
“It’s nine-am,” she said. “And you have around ninety minutes until you’re up on stage.”
“On stage?!” he bolted upright, vision fading out.
“It’s called the o-pen-ing cere-mony,” said Clementine. His vision returned, and he used it to glare at her. “Happens every year, and I need to get you prepared for it, okay? It goes for about two hours—mostly just speeches, with a few performances scattered in. You’ll be masked up the entire time.”
He hauled himself out of bed as Clementine continued, chucking on a clean hoodie and shoes. “When the ceremony opens, the Blue, Yellow and Red mascots lead the faculty procession into the grandstand. That’s you three, followed by the new president, the board and all the senior staff, then whatever other professors can be bothered making it. You’ll have a seat in the front row, where everyone else can see you, got it? You’re going to be bored shitless, but you must look interested, you’re representing the house. Towards the end of the speeches last year’s winning house will be announced, but that’s Blue this year, so don’t worry about it.”
“The houses can win?” said Tommy, hand midway through his bed hair.
“There’s a point system, yes, but we can go over that later. The orchestra plays another song, then the mascots lead the procession out.”
“Right in time for lunch,” said Tommy, moving to the bathroom vanity. Shubble’s makeup and nail polishes were scattered across the whole space—she hadn’t changed a bit.
“Nope, after the ceremony you’ll be directed to the president’s lunch, which is mostly for alumni and sponsors. The sponsors will stare at you a lot, so keep yourself in rein. Make a good impression and they’ll be more likely to invest in—are you even listening to me?”
Tommy looked up from his phone. “I’ve gotta tell Shubble I won’t be at the ceremony thing,” he said. “I can’t just leave her hanging.”
“But you won’t be,” said Clementine. “I have a body while you’re masked up, remember?”
He blinked, staring at Clementine. “Right, you can—you can shadow me or whatever. Long as you don’t do anything fucking weird.”
She grinned. “I won’t. After the lunch you’ll have a couple hours free, but in the evening you’ll have to mask up for the red house initiation. I’ll explain that one in the afternoon, but we have to get moving first.”
“Got it, got it,” said Tommy, spitting out toothpaste. He made his way out the dorm, following Clementine’s directions through the campus. The ceremony was held on the basketball court, in the sports centre. Sports, plural, because Americans are a stain on the English language. Clementine urged him to duck into the nearest building, and Tommy found an empty stairwell.
“You’re good to go,” she said. “All the faculty will be gathering in the lobby, do you know where that is?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. Don’t give yourself away to Shubble. Mask up.”
“Good luck,” she said, before the rose petals rushed over Tommy. After a manly flutter of his eyes, he found himself dressed in a sleeveless gown, a golden-beaded corset flowing into a large tulle skirt, one that was covered in ruffles. Tommy’s skin was darker this time, almost charcoal—how hot did he look? Where was a mirror when he needed one?
Clementine stumbled in front of him, then flicked a hand through her—Tommy’s hair. She adopted his signature slouch and shoved her hands in her pockets. Shit, she was good at this. She pointed at Tommy, then up the stairs.
Tommy nodded, and she turned, going back through the main doors.
Opening ceremonies waited for no man (even an incredibly hot mascot man) so Tommy turned to the stairs, scooping handfuls of tulle.
He missed the step, collapsing like a slinky. Fuck, he twisted his ankle, too. Tommy tried to stand, his dress catching under his shoes. He pushed his legs out, pulling the fabric far above his knees. Sure, he could do a bit of a strip tease before the ceremony, why the hell not? Eventually he made it upright, dropping his skirt. His ankle still felt like jelly, but at least he could put weight on it.
For his second attempt, Tommy held the rail with one hand and as much as his dress as he could in the other. It was much easier once he grabbed the base of the hoop skirt, lifting it to his knees. No more slinkies here. He dropped his skirt once he reached to top, marching into the first floor with his head held high. He marched down three hallways before finding the elevator, taking it back to the ground floor and exiting the building. The Sports Centre was a monolith on the horizon, the outside bleeding of brutalism, metal and concrete contrasting the gorgeous brick library beside it. A grassy field stood between them, lined by simple paving. Tommy shifted on his ankle, and after some careful calculations decided he didn’t want to eat shit and die. Keeping an even pace, he made his way around the lawns, gliding into the Sports Centre lobby.
A professor waved as he came in. “The others are just around the corner,” she said.
Tommy gave her a regal head nod, trying to hide his gulp. He needed to stay calm or the other mascots would realise he was new. He glided around the corner, quickly spotting his fellow drag queens in a sea of muted colours. They turned as Tommy approached, and he stopped by their sides, focusing on the administrator instead.
The blue mascot wore an elaborate evening gown, a cobalt offset by navy applique, tiny birds covering the fabric. Her pale blonde hair was pulled into a simple plait, and unlike Yellow and himself, she wore a face mask instead of a masquerade mask, covering the lower half of her face with bird-patterned fabric. Yellow’s mask was also fabric, dark yellow vertical strips running down her mask. He’d call the rest of her dress simple too, if it didn’t make it sound so cheap. The swing dress was made from a soft cotton, flaring out at the waist and sitting just below her knees. Her heels were almost comically high, vinyl peep toes that would kill Tommy. The two mascots held his gaze for a moment, then flicked back to the administrator, perfectly synchronised. “Alright, you three line up at the front, we’ll go tallest to shortest. So Yellow first, then Red, then Blue.” She turned without waiting for them to nod. Dick.
Blue led the way, and Tommy followed, freezing when he saw his reflection in the window. Why did he look like that when he walked? He could see his knees jutting up through the fabric of the dress whenever he stepped, but Blue’s dress—which was a fucking sheath—showed nothing of the sort. Tommy stared at Yellow’s uncovered feet, trying to work out what she did differently.
Yellow rolled through each step, her movements fluid and graceful. Tommy tried to mimic the—oh, she stepped heel-first. Tommy copied, starting on the spike and pushing through with the rest of his foot. So this was how women walked in such sexy shoes. That was a female coming of age thing, right? Learning how to wear heels? Tommy took a deep breath as he followed Yellow, grounded only by the points of his heels. They raised him above the troubles of the world, yet not high enough to erase them entirely, just the right distance to observe everything crash around him. He raised his chin higher, keeping a slow, rhythmic pace. The same pace used for kneading dough before dawn, ploughing miles and miles of fields, for quilting long into the night.
… The fuck?
Tommy blinked, the feeling dissipating as quickly as it appeared.
What the fuck was that? Did mascot magic take over his brain or were his epigenetics fucked? He was not prepared to carry womanly sorrow.
The three mascots paused at the front of the room, the teaching staff drifting into positions as they talked. Tommy could hear a hum from outside the room—no doubt the basketball stadium was full by now. Clementine would already be with Shubble, she better not blow his cover.
“Everyone, get into position!” said the administrator. “We’ve got sixty seconds before we walk in.” She turned towards the mascots. “Enter the stadium when you hear the music cue, got it?”
Tommy nodded, then forced himself to slow, making it more regal.
She accepted it regardless, hurrying off as the crowd quietened. Even looking through the door, he couldn’t see the crowd, only the concrete bleachers on either side. He had to be regal, had to represent the red house and most importantly; had to walk without eating shit. The latter was significantly harder, and Tommy shifted his weight, testing how far his ankles could move before giving out. The answer was fucking nothing, of course. Music thrummed from the stadium, his heart rocketing.
Yellow moved at a gentle stroll, her head held high, and Tommy quickly followed suit, not daring to look back. Don’t look at your feet, don’t look at your feet.
Everyone stood in the stadium as they entered, Tommy hardly daring to breathe. Fuck those guys, couldn’t they just sit and be normal? They drew close to the podium, Tommy eyeing the tiny stairs to climb it. He was not getting up there without exposing his knees.
But Yellow turned once they reached the front row, continuing to the end. She turned to the front but stayed standing, and Tommy reluctantly followed. The staff filed in after them, filling their row before joining the one behind them. How long did this song go for? Tommy felt a thousand eyes on the back of his head, but he refused to turn around.
Finally, the song faded—nope, never mind. It was time for the national anthem. Americans were real keen on this shit, was he supposed to sing along? Even if he knew the words, he couldn’t speak without breaking the magic. He glanced to either side, but the other mascots just held a hand to their hearts. Well, Blue could easily be mouthing the words under her mask, but Yellow certainly wasn’t. Guess they just had to stand there.
And keep standing.
This shit was awful, everyone knew twitch streamers were not gallant.
He continued standing.
Finally, the song ended, and Tommy attempted to sit. His hoop skirt flared up, and he quickly rose, covering his knees. Fuck, Fuck fuck fuck. Everyone was sitting, how the fuck was he supposed to—
Blue leaned forward, grabbing the back of Tommy’s skirt with a gloved hand and lifting it onto the chair. Tommy quickly sat, his dress finally behaving. He stared straight ahead, his cheeks burning and his hands shaking. A staff member climbed to the stage, welcoming everyone with too many multi-syllable words.
Blue and Yellow definitely knew this was his first rodeo, fuck. Could they see his manly blush? No, his skin was far too brown. His gaze flicked to the side, but neither looked back, both sitting with straight backs and hands placed in their laps. Regal—fuck, he needed to be regal. Tommy copied the posture of the others, pulling back his shoulders and trying to focus.
At least he could rest his feet, his toes were already aching.
“—I’d like to welcome the L'Manberg Board representative and Professor Sugamon to the stage to begin the inauguration,” said the announcer, applause rippling through the crowd.
A bearded man with a portly stature took to the stage, smiling and raising a hand, he was followed by the professor who directed Tommy earlier.
The man took to the microphone. “Thank you, Julia—” Oh shit, he was Australian. “It is an incredible honour and privilege to stand up here in front of such a talented cohort. L'Manberg has always been a community where every student, lecturer and staff member work to hold each other up…”
He continued speaking in that nasal Australian tone, and Tommy forced himself to straighten again. Slouching was his natural state, no matter how much Shubble tried to dig at his ‘non-Euclidian spinal cord’. She was just talking shit, because Tommy was very Euclidian. He’d Eucli on every idian he saw. Clementine had managed to find Shubble in these crowds, right? She had only seen Shubble once before, whilst Tommy could recognise her dorky fringe anywhere. Never mind, Clementine had his phone, she would be fine.
President Sugamon laughed, and Tommy snapped back to attention.
“Everyone is welcome here, should they wish to come. I say to you all once again; we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. Over this academic year I hope that as a community we can foster many moments of joy and laughter, laughter to tide us through the pressure and stresses that will inevitably fall upon us. Nothing is more inspiring than seeing these student's love of learning satisfied, from our fresh-eyed high school graduates to our PhD students. That is what I live for, and I welcome this new challenge with excitement and honour. Truly, this year will be held in great regard."
Everyone applauded again, and the next speech began. The speakers blurred together, Tommy making sure to clap in a regal way, adjusting his posture time and time again. Welcome from the board, two prayers from the doctor of theology, another music performance, welcoming new faculty—how were they still going?
Holding his shoulders back was painful, and Tommy already had to suppress two yawns.
“Mascots,” said someone on the stage.
Tommy blinked, tuning back in.
“…Last year’s competition was incredibly close, with only a twenty point difference in the final—” Shit, did he have to do something? Why didn’t Clementine tell him this was coming? He glanced to the other mascots, Yellow leaning forward and Blue sitting up straighter.
“Congratulations to the Blue house!” said the announcer, portions of the crowd breaking into raucous cheers. Thank fuck.
Blue rose elegantly, moving to the stage to accept a trophy. She posed for a photo as last year’s competition was summarised. All the events sounded straightforward, academic achievements, an athletics carnival—hang on, there was a scavenger hunt? That was fucking poggers.
Tommy glanced across at Yellow, tapping her on the shoulder.
She turned towards him, tilting her head at Tommy’s outstretched hand. She accepted the handshake.
“Good game,” he mouthed, and Yellow smiled. The joke was on her, Tommy wasn’t even here last year.
Blue returned from the stage, trophy in hand. Tommy reached out and shook hands with her, her eyes crinkling with delight.
Another song played, this one a solo from one of the senior music students. Surely this was almost over, it had been at least two hours. The administrator returned to the stage once more, explaining the schedule for the rest of the day. Just as Clementine said, the President’s picnic was straight afterwards, followed by official campus tours. Did that mean they were finally out of here?
The band burst into song, the other mascots rising. Hell yes, it was time to slowly meander towards the door. Tommy walked heel-toe behind Blue, only wobbling slightly on his sleepy legs. He scanned through the crowd, catching a glimpse of Clementine. She sat with an empty chair to either side, Shubble nowhere to be seen.
Clementine met his eyes for a second, then glanced away, scrolling through her phone. Tommy was tempted to wave at her, but that definitely wasn’t regal. Instead, he stared at the back of Blue’s head, watching her blonde curls bounce with each step. Being regal sucked ass. Blue led the procession all the way back to the lobby, chatter breaking out amongst the faculty. Tommy stuck close to Yellow and Blue, nobody giving them a second glance, the fucking commies.
He exchanged a glance with Yellow, head tilting towards the crowd and rolling his eyes.
No louder than a rustle of her dress, she huffed, giving a small nod.
Blue tilted her head, so Tommy repeated the sentiment, getting a nod back. They stayed looking at each other, Tommy holding back a wince. He couldn’t even flip people off, how was he supposed to convey anything? What would Minnie Mouse do in this situation?
A short man pushed through the crowd, smiling when he saw the mascots. President Sugamon, wasn’t it? “Ah, there you are!” he said, with his Australian dialect. “I just thought I’d come introduce myself to you three before we duck off.”
He reached a hand to Tommy, and he took it, meeting Sugamon’s golden eyes.
He moved on to Yellow and Blue, giving them both a smile. “I hope we can build a partnership that benefits the entire university,” he said, Blue nodding in agreement. “Truth be told, I can only help this college from the top down, but it’s the mascots that work on the ground.”
Tommy’s eyes darted, but the other two nodded along. Mascot things, things he was definitely aware of and confident about.
“I think we’re about to be rushed out of here, but I just wanted to assure you that when it comes to student matters, my doors are always open to you three.” He clapped his hands together. “We should head over, now. Time to woo some sponsors!”
Wooing? Wooing was Tommy’s middle name.
This picnic was shit.
Firstly, it was indoors, and there weren’t even any students. Only rich alumni and old codgers who didn’t have anything better to do, none of which were looking for Tommy’s wooing. The mascots had split up, Tommy in search of someone ready to flirt (If Clementine didn’t like it she could suck his dick. Mascot sex was a great morale booster) but nobody came close to him. Sure, he had plenty of attention, but it was only people staring at him, or at the very best, whispering about the beautiful mascot, whilst averting their gazes. Now, Tommy was very good at accepting compliments, but even he was hitting his limit. Tables were dotted around with sandwiches and biscuits—and it was the bougie shit, too. Avocado and relish and salmon and other fucking delicious nibbles he couldn’t even eat.
Tommy glanced around the room, but the president was still wrapped in conversation, making sure to greet every person in the room. It’s not like he had anything to say to Sugamon, he just enjoyed being treated like a fucking person. Just because he couldn’t talk, didn’t mean he couldn’t hear.
Maybe he could find company in the other mascots, wherever they were. Tommy journeyed across the room, catching sight of Blue and Yellow in the corner. Yellow’s smile had vanished, but Blue looked as serene as ever.
He click-clacked over to them, pulling his shoulders back once again. Tommy raised a hand as he approached, the two copying. He smiled, leaning on the wall to shift the weight on his aching feet.
Blue raised an eyebrow, Tommy taking it as an insult to his posture.
He slouched more in retaliation. Sponsors didn’t deserve his regal-ness, anyway. Only Sugamon got that honour.
He tried to convey this to Blue, pointing at the crowd, then lifting his rude finger. Fuck, maybe that was too far. He quickly dropped it, cheeks heating.
Fabric-rustle laughter answered the movement, Yellow mimicking the gesture. He held back from actually flipping them off, but the gesture still stood.
Blue rolled her eyes, but her shoulders shook with laughter. She moved forward, beckoning the others to a table. She grabbed three sandwich slices, handing one to each of them.
Fresh lettuce, thickly sliced ham and vibrant tomato. Tommy’s stomach growled. There was no way he could eat this without smearing lipstick—and Blue wore a face mask, what was she thinking?
Blue raised a brow again, her eyes creased. She held her sandwich out to the others, and Tommy leaned in, the three making a silent salute. Tommy took a bite, watching Yellow smear her lipstick on the white bread. Blue slipped the underneath her mask, and Tommy began to nibble. Heavenly tomato hit his tongue, crumbs clinging to his lips. Fuck those rich bitches, Tommy was the mascot, not the picnic’s show pony.
People trickled out after an hour or so had passed, but the mascots didn’t make any move towards the door. Despite Tommy’s frequent glances, they stayed in their corner, watching people drift around them and eavesdropping conversations. He thought he made his “fuck those guys” message pretty clear, but none of them made a move.
Someone tapped a glass on the other side of the room—fucking finally. President Sugamon lowered his glass, addressing the crowd. “Thank you all for spending this lovely brunch with me, and I would like to invite everyone to join our facility tours, starting in the quad. And for those with an interest in the performing arts,” he said, a strange grin breaking across his face. “The L'Manberg theatre is presenting last year’s most popular performance, Mellohi the Musical. You are most welcome to continue enjoying the refreshments and the sociable atmosphere, but unfortunately I must make my leave.”
Voices bubbled through the crowd once again, President Sugamon making his way to the door. Other people began to drift out, but the vast majority stayed behind.
Again, Tommy could not stress this enough, but fuck those rich bitches. His feet were sore, he needed to find Clementine so they could swap back.
He moved for the door, Blue and Yellow following after him. The rich bitches parted for their trio, and Tommy held his head high. They left the building, then ended up hanging around the stairs, in awkward silence once again. Well, it was always silence with the mascots, but it usually didn’t feel like it. How was he supposed to end a silent conversation?
A couple moments passed, and Tommy tried a lazy salute. He received a dip of the head in return, and the two split away from him. Tommy let his shoulders drop, pounding across the paving towards the East Quad. The sooner he could find Clementine the sooner he could swap back and rest. What sort of initiations did L'Manberg have? Shubble hadn’t mentioned anything about it, which either meant it was too lame to bring up, or cult-y enough that she’d keep it secret. Even if this university was a cult, she’d tell Tommy about it, right? She told Tommy everything—well, except her new committee. It was truly frightening how quickly communism had become socially acceptable in the USA, of all places. Tommy moved through the quad, aiming straight for the red house doors. There was a group of parents and students in between, the tour guide directing the group towards him.
The picnic wasn’t enough, these people still wanted to ogle, apparently. Tommy changed direction regardless, inclining his head when the tour guide introduced him.
“Each house has a magical mascot, one that does everything from boosting morale to running novelty events,” said the tour guide. “Red can’t talk, but believe me, she has a lot to say.”
Tommy winked, putting a hand on his chest, and laughter rippled through the group. He did a little bow—shit, next time he should curtsey.
The tour guide continued. “The mascots play a crucial role in organising and running the house competition. Novelty events, sporting and intellectual competitions—in fact, every test and assignment passed earns points for your house. It’s one of the many initiatives used to promote a healthy study life. Some of our other programs focus around…”
He let the conversation drift, the group still staring at him. He met people’s eyes, watching them dart away when they realised they were staring. He was running out of time, but the tour guide continued to waffle. Finally, he mentioned something about the library, pushing the group on and allowing Tommy to make his exit. Long conversations sucked ass, but the ass to suck ratio increased exponentially when he couldn’t talk.
Tommy pressed the lift button with a long, red nail. He stepped inside, relaxing as he stared at the microwave plugged into the corner. Now that he thought about it, he probably shouldn’t go into his room while dressed up. Even a drunk senior could work out his identity. Maybe he could just… roam the hallways, instead. He could still bump into Clementine, and he’d learn the layout of the building better.
Mind decided, he pushed the button for the third floor, exiting the elevator early. He marched down the new hallway, taking note of where everything was. He tried to memorise landmarks like the Robert Pattison cutout and the upside-down door—fucking engineers. He took the stairs down to the next floor, then wandered around until he found the next flight. The first floor was more confusing, with hallways ending in random dead ends and meandering around corners instead of being in a grid. This floor had signs directing people to bathrooms, shared kitchens and different room types—fuck, that sign was pointing the wrong way. Wait a minute, they all were.
He sighed, beginning to take every left turn. He’d eventually get where he needed to go, the only difference was the agony in his feet. His toes were full of pins and needles, pain lancing up his ankle with every step he took. Of course there couldn’t be one staircase that led from top to bottom. No, each floor had one set of stairs, none of them anywhere near the others. When he finally found the stairs, he almost collapsed, carefully traversing down it with his heels.
Familiar territory, at last. Tommy marched—fuck, that hurt—Tommy tentatively walked into the common room, sweeping for Clementine.
The tables and chairs had been shifted about, sitting in clusters that circled the elevators, strangely enough. It was just as crowded as yesterday, people reserving tables and pushing around each other. He scanned around for Clementine, catching a blur of yellow from the corner of his eye.
Tommy swung towards it, watching Clementine pound down another hallway. How did she miss his sparkly red dress? He hurried after her, turning the corner to find… to find no one. Where did she go?
He was yanked into a closet, the door shutting behind him.
“Unmask,” said Clementine, before he could say anything. “What took you so long? When I said a short break, I meant at least an hour, but now we only have—”
The magical rose petals rushed over him, Clementine’s voice cutting out. Something slammed into Tommy as his normal clothes appeared, the woman re-emerging as a ghost.
“—ten minutes before you need to be out there. What were you doing?”
“You didn’t tell me where we were meeting up,” said Tommy, voice cracking from disuse.
“Because we weren’t. All you had to do was say unmask and then I’d appear right next to you. Why were you trying to find me?”
…Tommy had forgotten about that. He swallowed, looking down. “I just wanted to see you have a physical body, yknow? It’s a good body, very handsome at—”
She groaned. “We don’t have time for this. The entire house is gathering outside for the initiation. The student board representative leads it—that’s Quackity, this year—giving a nice speech before inviting all the new students up the front. They’ll be taken into the elevator where they get to choose which cup of soup they want.”
“The fuck?”
“It’s about introducing the meaning of the house, pay attention. They’ll all drink together, the house cheers for them, and the soup starts getting handed around to everyone else.”
And he thought it was just Shubble who was weird. “What actually is the meaning of the house?”
“You’ll work it out,” she said, waving a hand aside. “Now, this event is less formal than the ceremony this morning, all you have to do is keep everyone’s spirits high.”
Tommy’s bracelet began to burn, sending a tingle up his arm. “Sounds good,” he said. “By the way, my bracelet is about to burst into flames.”
“That means we’re running out of time,” she said. “This is an event you have to be masked up for, and the burning gives you a bit of warning before—”
The rest of Clementine’s words were cut off as the rose petals rushed across Tommy once again. They tugged at his hoodie and shorts, replacing them with a dark red ballgown, the boning sitting on the outside and running up the bodice before flaring out into a wide collar, maleficent-style. This time his skin was olive, his hair pulled back tight. He reached a hand up to it—definitely some kind of bun, metal accessories adorning the outside. His heels, thankfully, were only an inch high.
Clementine pointed at the door, giving him a brutal glare.
He rolled his eyes, making a big show of limping towards it, straightening properly when he reached it. All he had to do was improve the house morale, stand up the front and join the fucking initiation soup kitchen. He swallowed, pulling back his shoulder and lifting his chin, pushing the door open.
Holy shit, there were a lot of students here. They parted in front of him, leaving ample room for his hoopskirt and trail. Not knowing what else to do, he made his way to the front, staring at the closed elevator doors. There was a kitchen just across the room, surely they didn’t try to make soup while inside the elevator.
Quackity shoved through to the front, giving Tommy a smile. “Hey Red, I think you forgot to iron your dress, it’s got all these creases in it,” he said, pointing at the knife pleats in the skirt.
Tommy huffed, finding and discarding a dozen comebacks, none he could convey nonverbally.
After a moment of awkwardness, Quackity added, “We’ll kick off everything in twenty minutes, you just start making the rounds, kay?”
He gave a regal-head-dip-nod, trying to do it as slowly as physically possible. Royals were slow at everything, that’s why they always died in car crashes. Not like Tommy, Tommy would just dodge the cars, even with his royal heels.
Quackity turned to the group closest to the elevator, so Tommy took it as his cue, stepping back into the crowd. He’d mastered his serene-regal-airhead smile, one that stopped people from avoiding his eyes. Someone’s jaw dropped when they saw him, so he head-dip-regal-nodded to them, too. They blinked, cheeks reddening, and Tommy smirked. That’s right, he could perceive you right back, bitch
Never mind, smirks were definitely not regal, he shifted to a neutral expression. The next table had a group of guys arm wrestling, cheering every time a fist was slammed into the table.
“Alright, who’s next?” called the ginger one.
Fuck, that looked fun. Tommy lingered, watching the orange-haired dude win another round. He forced himself to move past, once again pulling back his fucking shoulders. He tried to catch the conversation on the next table, all of them wearing American Football jumpers, but he kept drifting away, distracted by other things in the room. He caught eyes with Clementine, who sat on a stool next to Jack, both of them laughing.
She straightened when she noticed Tommy’s gaze, but didn’t pull away.
Loosen up, be yourself, said Clementine, her lips staying still.
He flinched, bringing a hand to his head. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BRAIN. What the fuck. What the fuck.
Clementine giggled—of course she fucking did, she was a fucking cunt, and she SHOULDN’T BE LISTENING TO MY THOUGHTS. I DID NOT SIGN UP FOR THIS.
Be you, she sent, ignoring his—MENTAL ATTACK GO. FREDDY FIVEBEARS EATS WILL AFTERNOON BITE OF SEVEN ELEVEN MARKIPLIER HELLO EVERY WELCOME BODY STREAM TO THE BACK. Fuck, she didn’t even flinch.
Unregal, she sent, so Tommy immediately flipped her off.
She smirked, then angled herself back towards Jack.
He knew there would be more side effects to the possession, of course she didn’t tell him about the fucking mental invasion.
Regardless, she was probably right. Being regal was shit. He finally relaxed his shoulders, scanning the room and landing back on the ginger guy, halfway through another arm wrestle. It was time to defeat him, to let out his true self and end the man’s rein of terror.
He watched the ginger win once again, confidently approaching as the guys around them cheered. The ginger pumped an arm up in celebration, despite being built like a twig.
“Are you up for a round with the Mighty Fundy?” he said, flexing his muscles.
Tommy decided arm wrestling counted as mascot things. He nodded, extending a hand to the student.
When the ginger—Fundy—grabbed his hand, he pulled it forward, planting a kiss on his red-haired knuckles.
Laughter rippled around the table, and Fundy jerked his hand away.
“Are you blushing, Fundy?” said one of the guys.
“N-No!” he denied, cheeks reddening.
Tommy took an elegant seat, remembering to shift the hoop skirt before lowering himself. He pulled his sleeve up to his elbow, resting bare skin on the table.
Fundy laughed. “You’re on.” He sat back on his chair, making a show of positioning himself perfectly before grabbing Tommy’s manicured hand. Another hand rested on top, keeping them steady.
“On three. One, two—”
He met Fundy’s eyes, giving a slow wink.
“—Three!”
Tommy tensed his arm, the two caught in a deadlock. Tommy eyed the smear of red lipstick on his fingers, pushing harder—was this arm stronger or weaker than his normal one?
Fundy tightened his hand, then grinned, slamming Tommy’s fist down. The table broke into cheers once more, and Tommy grinned, leaving his chair in gracious defeat. He moved with a spring in his step, giving finger guns to the next person who waved to him. He found a spare chair next to a group of women, collapsing onto it and miming how tired he was to them. The reaction garnered laughs and a pat on his shoulder, as the group continued talking about the initiation. It was nice sitting down, regardless.
A sharp whistle sounded, Quackity standing on a chair. Fuck, that was his cue. He heaved himself back onto burning feet, holding back a wince as he weaved between tables and couches.
“Welcome, reds, to this wonderful first night tradition. My name is Quackity, and I’m the Red House representative on the student board. Welcome returning students and new students, anyone else can fuck off.”
The crowd laughed as Tommy pushed through to the front, holding his head high.
“For our new students, whether you learned about the red house three days ago or three years, there’s one thing that defines us. I still remember the first time I heard the words, and they continue to echo in my heart.”
Finally, a straight fucking answer, Tommy perked up, the rest of the room hushing.
“But hey, who wants to hear it from me? All our returning students know the truth. Ready? The red house is all about—”
The crowd broke into disjointed shouting, every student screaming a different answer. His confusion sharpened to amusement when he heard “SUBSCRIBERS!” overlapped with “FREEDOM OF SPEECH!” and “SODA!”
“And there you have it,” said Quackity, the crowd laughing and whooping. “Now, our uninitiated members may ask: how do we achieve this great and almighty purpose? And to that, I say soup.”
He gestured to the wall behind him, the elevator opening to reveal several pots and ladles. “If I can have all the new students gather at the front, as you join your brothers and sisters in the eternal soup.” He stepped down from the chair, turning to Tommy. “Come on, we’ve gotta grab ours first.”
Tommy followed him to the elevator, a red-nailed student greeting them. She passed Quackity a cup, then turned to Tommy. “Any allergies?”
Tommy shook his head, a plastic cup of soup shoved into his hand.
The new students filtered in after them, Quackity climbing back up to his chair. “The eternal stew has been running for five years, almost our all-time record. We all share in the soup, and in its consumption, we pledge to meet the purpose of the house, the purpose every student knows about,” he said, winking to the new students. “But before we drink, I’d like to invite the mascot to say a few words.”
Tommy froze up, stuck staring at Quackity’s stupid fucking grin. He was a fucking bitch.
He flipped him off.
That’s what happens to bitches. Then Tommy flipped off the rest of the crowd, all of them applauding.
He beamed, taking a bow. Nobody else knew what the house was about, so nobody could tell him he was doing it wrong.
“To the house!” said Quackity, raising his glass.
To the house, thought Tommy. He downed the glass, chicken noodle soup dancing across his tongue as laughter sung around him.
It was the best soup he’d ever tasted.
Notes:
One of my favourite things about this story is that Tommy does not understand politics in the slightest. He thinks most political words are just synonyms of stupid, and yes, he does think committees are run by communists. Nobody picks him up on it because they can't tell if he's joking or not. He's not joking, he's completely serious, and completely stupid <3
Next chapter will be out tomorrow.
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 3: The Literary Qualities of a Fucking Fridge Manual
Summary:
Tommy attends his first day of classes and makes some new friends. (The friends are Ranboo and Tubbo pspsps benchtrio enjoyers come get yall juice)
Wordcount: 3.6k
Estimated reading time: 15 minutes
Date posted: August 26th, 2024
Chapter Text
The light vanished from Tommy’s laptop screen, lecture notes replaced with a reflection of his scowl. He swore, pressing the power button, the low battery symbol mocking him.
His lecturer, Professor Fable, continued to talk up the front, going over the structure of her lectures as people took notes. Tommy slammed his laptop shut, the noise echoing in the hall. So much for having a good first lecture, without taking notes he’d have to memorise what she said.
Clementine was around too, floating among the rafters and looking bored. Surely she had better things to do than this. He sent her a mental fuck off, bitch, but she didn’t react.
Professor Fable flicked to the next slide. “Here’s the list of assigned readings for our Victorian topic, we’ll be going through one book a week until the end of the semester.”
Fuck, he needed that list. Surely there was a pen or something in his laptop bag—it used to be Shubble’s, after all. Sure enough, after rifling through it he found a pen and a mushroom-themed notepad. He scrawled the titles down, confidently butchering Strange case of dr jekyl and mr hide. Thank fuck Shubble was such a papyrophiliac. Hopefully she still had the books, then Tommy could just steal them. The reading list couldn’t have changed too much since she was a first year.
Papers rustled across the hall, students shuffling and zipping up bags. That must be the end of the lecture, good. Tommy packed up and followed the stream of people out, opening Shubble’s messages.
Do u have ur books from first year reading list
“Why don’t you have the books?” said Clementine, behind his shoulder.
“Fuck me!” he jumped. “Give me some warning next, time, dipshit.”
“Why don’t you have your books?” she repeated. “The reading list was announced in June.”
“It wasn’t relevant in June,” said Tommy, instantly. “And why are you still here? Can’t you just… go wherever you need to go?”
“Nope,” said Clementine. “I’m collecting evidence.”
Fucking liberal-ass bitch. “On what?”
“On how to be you. If I need to have a conversation with Shubble, for example, I need to know how to act, and what you actually did that day,” she said, pointing finger guns at Tommy.
He rolled his eyes. “That’s fucking—you know what? Never mind, I’m wasting my time. Why bother telling you when you can just read my fucking thoughts?”
“What?”
“I said, why don’t you just read my thoughts, bitch.”
“I—” she cut herself off, scrunching her brow. “Where did you get that idea?”
Fuck Clementine, fuck her in the ass with a fucking pogo stick. “Don’t give me that, last night you were saying words in my brain.”
“That—oh, right. That was just telepathic speech, we can do that while in costume,” she grinned. “Did you really think I could see into your brain?”
“Well how was I supposed to know?” he said, as he marched through the hallways in search of an elevator.
“Common sense? Mind reading isn’t possible, but telepathy is much easier. It’s mostly for emergencies, anyway.”
Tommy glared at her, but she just kept drifting down the hallway.
“For example, if you suddenly need to transform back, or if one of us has to say something that really can’t wait, the telepathy gives the other a heads-up. It’s got pretty good range—it should reach anywhere on campus—but there’s a word limit. Last night I used all seven of my words to give you some tips, while you used yours to say get the fuck out of my head.” She snorted. “At least you were picking your priorities.”
Tommy mentally counted the words, and sure enough, it was seven. “That was a perfect use of the telepathy words, fuck you. Why is it only seven words?”
She shrugged. “Always has been. Wait, don’t you have a tutorial?”
“In two hours,” said Tommy. “I’ve got time.”
Tommy did not got time.
After dropping into the dining hall the two hours had vanished, leaving him racing through the Literature and Culture building.
“Just around that corner!” she said, and Tommy swerved, his fresh TNs squeaking on the ground. He skidded to a stop in front of a group of students, trying to catch his breath. One of them snorted—shit, that wasn’t a student, that was the professor that took him on a tour. He had a shit name, what was it?
“Nice timing,” he said, pulling a key to unlock the door. “We’ve got good numbers for a first day—actually, that might be because I don’t have the nine-am timeslot. Anyways, everyone in—but don’t get comfy.”
Tommy filed in with the rest of the students, his heart still racing. The class was a good mix of the different houses, but not anyone he recognised. Eh, he’d just win them over with his dashing charm and intellect.
“Alright! The name’s Phil—” Tommy knew he had a shit name. “—And I’m your tutor for the next year. I think I’ve seen some of you around, but there’s a lot of new faces, too. We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other, so I’ll skip the shitty icebreakers. I can’t stand that house rivalry bullshit, so I want people sitting on mixed tables. One red, blue and yellow student on each.”
Tommy plonked himself on the first table he could find, leaving everyone else to do the hard work. After a lot of shuffling and nail checking, two people joined him. The blue person was tall—stupidly tall—with a shaggy brown mullet covering his eyes. Not an ugly-lost-a-bet mullet either, but a fancy one. If you went to pinterest and searched mullet, it would be the first fucking result.
His height only made the yellow student seem comically short, but they didn’t seem to notice. Their fingers were covered in rings that they used to fidget with.
Someone huffed, and Tommy turned around to find Clementine. Clementine just waved him away, sitting on a bookshelf at the back of the room.
Phil clapped his hands together. “To start things off, we’re going to define literature—keep things simple, yeah?” he said, giving a coy smile. “Who wants to kick us off?”
The short dude raised a hand. “It’s books.”
Another British person? They should hold a fucking revolution, out with the Americans.
“Books! Now there’s a start. What was your name?”
“Tubbo.”
“Excellent. Now Tubbo, if we have our definition of literature as books, what does that make of poetry?”
A woman with a pixie cut put her hand up. “To be literature it has to have artistic merit. Otherwise you could say a fridge manual is literature.”
“Why can’t it?” said Phil. “Say a fridge manual has a list of safety instructions, and I interpret them as moral guidance for my life. Does that not give it artistic merit?”
Tommy snorted. He couldn’t help it, but Phil swung towards him regardless.
“Disagree?” he said. “Explain why—and tell me your name, too.”
“Tommy,” he said. “And a fridge manual can’t be literature.”
“Why not? Its instructions on cleaning were quite profound, making me wonder about what I needed to clean in my social life.”
“But none of that was present in the original text, you did all the hard work to interpret it that way.”
“It’s very present,” said Phil, cheekily. “By using the word clean it refers not just to dirt, but to things that are metaphorically dirty, such as my relationship with my mother.”
“But it’s not,” said another person, in the back. “It’s not a book for literary analysis, it says so on the title. It’s a damn manual.”
“Another great point. The title is separate from the body of the text, but by using it and other things we can derive the context.” He wrote the word on the whiteboard alongside merit, interpretation and books. “Let’s have another attempt at that definition, then we’ll deconstruct it once again. We’ll keep going until we come up with a foolproof definition, got it?”
Tommy ran through the keywords and tried to come up with something. Only ten minutes into the lesson and he was already straining his brain. The answer was simple—everyone knew the difference between literature-with-a-big-L and a fridge manual—but it was fucking awful to articulate. Hopefully someone else was smart enough to find an answer, or they would be here for a while.
An hour passed. They did not have someone smart, but at least they were all trying. Every person threw ideas in, definitions written in the board and discarded just as fast. Their current phrase was ‘An intentional piece of writing that provokes thought and/or defines an aspect of experience that was previously inarticulate.’ The fridge manual didn’t fit that definition, thank fuck, but only because they convinced Phil that fridge was not an aspect of human experience.
“I have another question,” said Phil.
Tubbo groaned. “Please, we’re almost free.”
“Does literature have to be written?” he said.
“Yes,” hissed the pixie-cut woman. “That’s what the lit part means. Written words.”
Pixie-cut woman was very smart, how could Phil argue with that?
“But throughout history, literature—poetry especially—are conveyed almost exclusively orally. Shakespeare didn’t write down a single play, for millennia the bible and other holy books were spread only through recitation, yet these literary works continue to be taught worldwide. Were these texts still literature before they were written down?”
“No,” said Tommy, instantly. Any more complicated and they would be writing a fucking thesis. “They have the potential to become literature, but they have to be written down, first.”
“But they meet every other part of the definition,” said Tubbo.
“With the fucking bible? I should hope so,” Tommy continued. “But what would you add to the definition? A piece of writing or potential writing? That means this fucking argument is literature.”
Tubbo slammed a fist to the table. “So just take words out instead of adding them. An intentional piece that provokes thought and articulates experience. Done.”
An idea sprang into Tommy’s mind, and he grinned, turning to the satisfied Tubbo. “Then what’s stopping a painting from being literature?”
“Because paintings don’t have words,” said Tubbo. “Shakespeare, whether written or spoken, still contains fucking words, which is why it’s literature.”
Tommy doubled down. “Does that mean an artist’s description is a poem? What if a poem uses a picture? What if a painting is created from words?”
“Wonderful!” said Phil. “Adding onto that, if I painted a picture of an open book, and wrote the title as Fridge Manual, would that—”
“—Fuck, never mind,” said Tommy, as Tubbo groaned.
Phil chuckled. “Regardless, you make an interesting case. Where is the line drawn between art with words and poetry? And that begs the question, is all poetry capable of becoming literature, or are visual poems excluded from that?” Phil wrote poetry on the board.
Tommy buried his head in his hands, they had been close. They had been so fucking close and over an hour had passed. They were never going to be free.
“Excuse me, sir?” said tall-mullet-man, raising a hand. His voice was much lower than Tommy expected, and why was he choosing to contribute only now?
“None of that sir business,” said Phil. “And what was your name?”
“Ranboo. For the definition, could we just add with exceptions to the end?”
Holy shit, Ranboo was a fucking genius.
Phil smirked. “I suppose that could be added to the definition, although it’s a bit of a cheat’s way out.” He hummed, tapping the whiteboard marker to his chin.
The room held its breath.
“Well, most things in university are. Alright, we’ll do a vote. Hands up if you agree to Ranboo’s addition.”
Tommy had never shot his hand up faster.
“Please,” said Tubbo.
The vote was unanimous, Phil adding the final piece of the definition to the board. An intentional piece that provokes thought and/or defines an aspect of experience that was previously inarticulate, with exceptions. Probably the worst sentence Tommy had ever heard, but at least they fucking had one. Ranboo was the biggest man in the room, and a fucking emo at that. He’d never seen someone who could do both before, nature sure was beautiful.
“We’ll meet here again at the same time next week,” said Phil. “And we’ll be discussing Professor Fable’s lecture on point of view in Wuthering Heights, so make sure you read it before then. You can find additional context in chapter one of your textbook, alright?”
They nodded.
“Good, that’s enough brain-frying for the day. Get out of here.”
Tommy went straight over to Ranboo. “You tall son of a bitch. I could kiss you if I wasn’t so straight,” he said, slamming him on the back.
Ranboo flinched, standing up. “Th-Thanks, I think?”
“No, really,” said Tubbo. “You saved us another hour in there. I’m never looking at a fridge ever again.”
Tommy shuddered.
“Compared to a fucking fridge manual, Wuthering Heights won’t do shit,” said Tubbo.
“Ah yes, Wuthering Heights,” said Tommy, following them to the door. “I don’t suppose either of you would have a spare copy of said literature?”
“Say the L-word again and I will punch you,” said Tubbo.
“What about you Ranboob?”
“Y-Yeah? I mean, I kind of need to read it first, but I guess you could have it this weekend?”
“We should study together, you’re so right, Ranboo,” said Tubbo. “We should do it on Sunday in the library.”
“Sure, man,” said Tommy.
“I—yeah, that sounds—that’s a good idea,” said Ranboo. “We should—should we grab numbers from each other? If you guys want to, of course.”
“Absolutely,” said Tommy, pulling out his phone. Ranboo was a skittish creature, but he was smart. He just needed someone like Tommy to take him under his wing, feed him like a mother bird until he could flourish. “Chuck your number in there and get it over with,” he said.
Ranboo put in his number, Tubbo snatching the phone as soon as he was done. Tubbo chucked his own phone at Tommy, then grabbed Ranboo’s from inside his laptop bag.
“Hey, that’s—how did you know where my phone was?”
“Saw you grab it,” said Tubbo. “Do your password, I need to add my number.”
If Ranboo was a creature, then Tubbo was a fucking specimen. Another phone was thrown at Tommy, and he didn’t even question it. All in all, it wasn’t a bad first day of classes.
Tommy made it through two more days of classes and halfway through Wuthering Heights. Well, he only started Wuthering Heights today, but he was not in a studying mindset after his first tutorial. After hours of reading and taking notes, he started to lose focus, gazing at the font instead of the content. Mmm, the playful, casual curves of sans serif.
“You’ve been staring at that screen for a long time. Do you want a break?”
“You’re not my Mum,” he grumbled, not bothering to look at Clementine.
“I know,” she said. “But I’ve been doing this gig for a while, so I know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m gonna get this done tonight. That’s what Shubble would do.”
“Oh, so Shubble is that type of insane, got it.”
Shubble was indeed insane. In her senior year of high school, she decided that her art project would a fucking village worth of people, all carved out of wood. She couldn’t do something normal-sized, no matter how much her teachers begged. No, somehow she managed to make fifteen of them, still keeping her A minus average. No normal person decided to do that, and no normal person made it actually work.
“Tommy? You’re still staring.” She leaned over his shoulder, reading the screen. “Mrs Heathcliff, I’ll ask you to do nothing but sit still and be dumb,” she read. “Oh, she’s just like you!”
“Fuck off,” he muttered.
“Nope. You’re not getting any work done, therefore you need to stop working.”
He sighed, shutting his laptop. “Fine, fine. I’ll go for a walk or whatever.”
He got up, back cracking. After two days his feet had finally stopped aching, fuck heels. Women were truly soldiers for dealing with them.
Maybe Jack was out and about. He should’ve grabbed his number when he could, who else was he supposed to bother on a night like this?
Clementine floated alongside him as he marched through the dorms, snorting when they turned the corner. Tommy followed her gaze, finding the word gullible taped to the ceiling. Fucking typical. Tommy stepped into the elevator, vaguely noting the microwave was replaced by an urn as he descended.
The common room was more relaxed at this time. At the bright hour of eight-pm, only people avoiding work came here. The kitchen was filled with clunks and laughter as people cooked, students sharing drinks.
“Ay, Tommy!”
Tommy followed the noise, finding Quackity with a controller in hand. “Eyy, Big Q,” he said. “What’s up man?” he said, approaching the group on the couch.
“Mario kart tournament. Connor’s given up, wanna join?”
“You have a quitter?” said Tommy. “Don’t worry, I would never disappoint you like that.”
“I’m right here,” said Connor. “And it’s harder to backseat when you’re trying to drive.”
Quackity snorted, and Tommy sat himself down, grabbing the spare controller. “Which character am I?”
“You’re Donkey Kong,” said—fuck off, it was Fundy. He may have bested Tommy’s womanly self at an arm wrestle, but this was his manly self, and they were playing Mario Kart. A game about speed, reflexes, and dominance. Tommy straightened, zeroing in on the screen as the lights counted down. This was his moment. He nailed the starting boost perfectly, leaving behind the eight NPCs and zeroing in on Fundy’s character, the animal crossing bitch. He got a shell, and tried to aim it perfectly, missing the next drift. Fuck, Fundy got the double mystery box. Tommy doubled down and tried to close the gap, but Fundy only got further away. Why was he so rusty at fucking Mario Kart? This was supposed to be his happy place.
Fundy cheered when he finished, turning to Tommy. “Fun to see real competition, isn’t it, new boy?”
Quackity snorted, slapping Fundy on the back. “Competition? If I was playing seriously I would have whooped your ass. I’m doing an honour run. No brakes, no mistakes, no fakes.”
There was no way Tommy was playing so poorly. He couldn’t even drift. He groaned, pausing the game.
“Oi—”
“—What the fuck, man?”
Tommy’s eyes widened. “I had tilt controls on, you fucking bitches. I demand a rematch.”
“Oh I thought you liked it that way,” said Fundy, batting his eye lashes. “It’s great for casual players, after all.
Casual? Fucking casual? “I’ll show you casual you bitch—”
“Just finish the run already,” said Quackity. “Fight it out on the track.”
They both went silent, Tommy unpausing and making his way to the finish line. They flicked through the scoreboard, starting the next race without another word. This was his victory, the cheese land map his oyster. Tommy made sure to time his boost perfectly. He drifted around the first corner, lining up for the coin perfectly. Fuck yes, he could finally turn. He sat behind Fundy, catching his draft and slipping in front.
“Fuck!” said Fundy, swerving to get the double mystery box.
Tommy got the single, a measly banana peel that he held behind his back. “Enjoying the view?” he goaded. A boomerang whipped past him, just barely missing. Maybe egging him on wasn’t ideal. He flicked into the reverse camera as he drifted past the chain chomp, Fundy still right on his tail. If he timed his banana peel just right, he could—
Quackity’s phone started ringing, and he paused the game, answering the call and stepping away from them.
“What the fuck?” said Tommy. “We’re in the middle of a fucking—”
“Shush,” said Fundy. “He’s been waiting for this call all evening. It’s about the lettuce eating club,” he said, in hushed tones.
The lettuce eating club? Again? “Okay, someone better explain this fucking lettuce cult to me, I’m sick of hearing about it.”
“There are many kinds of battles, and the lettuce eating club is a mental fight more than anything else,” said Connor, still on the ground. “Can’t tell you any more than that, unfortunately, you haven’t been invited.”
“Go on, then. Invite me.”
Connor and Fundy shared a look.
“Come on, I’m not that bad.” The fucking tories gatekeeping his right to join the lettuce club.
“I… already gave out my invitation,” said Fundy.
“I’m not even part of the club,” said Connor. “I got shadow banned a couple years ago.”
“You are?” said Fundy. “Then how do you find the meetings?”
Connor shrugged. “I know my way around.”
“Well, I’m showing up,” said Tommy. “If you’re not inviting me then I’ll get Shubble to do it.” He pulled out his phone, calling Shubble and putting it on speaker. It dialled, then dialled again.
Fundy gave him a look at the third dial.
“She’s just asserting dominance,” said Tommy. “Not picking up until the final ring.”
He patiently waited through the next three dials, then he started to sweat.
Connor snorted.
“I told you to wait!” said Tommy.
The final dial sounded. A robotic voice announced, “You have reached Shrub Berry’s—”
Tommy hung up. Connor and Fundy burst into laughter.
“And?” he said, opening their texts and spamming her once again. “She was probably just taking a dump, or having a sleep schedule or some shit.”
“Damn, I can’t believe Shubble’s been fridged already,” said Connor.
Tommy kicked him, then Connor slapped him in the leg. Tommy retaliated, happy to bicker and fight with these people. He could leave Wuthering Heights to Ranboo and Tubbo, he had Mario Kart rage to release.
Notes:
This chapter started as “hmm what content would be in an opening tutorial?” and then three hours later I had a masterful rant about my English teacher. Mr Roberts you know a lot of words but concise is not one of them <3
Chapter 4 is coming next week.
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 4: Christmas in July in September
Summary:
Tommy gets dragged into a stupid bet with Tubbo, Ranboo trying and failing to stop them. He attends his first prank while masked up, learning more and more about his house.
Word count: 4.6k
Estimated reading time: 19 minutes
Date published: September 2nd, 2024
Notes:
Edit: This chapter was my first attempt at writing a Muslim character, and the more time that goes on the more mistakes I can see. When I started this I knew nothing other than "uhhh some of the women wear hijabi and they can't eat pork" and I didn't put enough research into the character. At first I had a desi guy named Shabbir, and then I learned that touching the opposite gender was haram so I swapped it to a desi lady named Sajida, but there are still plenty more errors. This chapter is focused around a joke of "well I'm Muslim, and you're Jewish, so if we blast Christmas music then we're meeting in the middle!" This joke was based off an actual exchange between a Jewish person and a Muslim person, but after posting the chapter I and doing more research I realised how much I didn't know. Sajida is setting up Christmas decorations (albeit generic ones that don't include santa claus or Christian elements) which definitely counts as haram but it's also in that grey area. In the end I decided to keep the character as female but not rewrite the overall scene. I'm not erasing my mistake, but I'm making it very clear that that's what it is, a mistake. Thank you for understanding
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
L'Manberg’s main library was an ancient stone building, one that had survived multiple fires—some of them deliberate, most of them not. Just like the rest of the university, the building had been renovated multiple times to cram in as much as possible. Tommy wasn’t interested in getting lost in the archives, today, he was here for his friends. Sunday had arrived quickly, and he was so ready to talk shit about Heathcliff. He followed the signs leading to the café, scanning for Ranboo and Tubbo.
Ah, they were tucked away in the corner, Tubbo talking with a deadpan expression and Ranboo nodding along. He spotted Tommy and his shoulders dropped.
“What’s going on here?” said Tommy, making his way over.
“Tubbo is—I think something is wrong with him?” said Ranboo, wringing his hands together.
Tubbo turned to Tommy, dark purple bags under his eyes—was he even blinking? “The present is in the future and the past is in the present because of Cathy’s eyes.”
“What the fuck?” said Tommy.
“The eyes,” Tubbo repeated.
“He’s um—he’s like this for some reason?”
“Tubbo, is this normal for you?”
He blinked ever so slowly, like a person rolling up a car window only to change their mind halfway and roll it back down. “Huh?”
“Are you okay?”
He tilted his head, staring into the distance.
When the moment stretched on, Tommy shared a look with Ranboo.
“I—I haven’t had a coffee, today,” said Tubbo, with a faraway look in his eye.
“You’re running on coffee?” said Tommy. “That’s the only thing keeping you—” He waved a hand, trying to find the right word. “—here?”
“I could—I could buy you one,” stuttered Ranboo. “If you think it’ll help, I guess. It’s no trouble, really.”
“And become a worm?” snapped Tubbo. When he received confused looks, he frowned. “Not a worm, the other one. Slug, sucking slug, blood eating… leech!” he finally said. “I’m not a leech.”
This was how Tubbo was without drugs? He needed some—some fucking therapy or something.
“I—well, I did kind of invite you, I think,” said Ranboo. “It’s only fair that I pay for drinks.”
“Come on, you need something,” said Tommy. “It’s just a drink between friends, you know? We’re such good buddy pals.”
Tubbo stayed perfectly still as he considered it. He still wasn’t blinking, and it was genuinely impressive. Finally, he declared, “I will accept the deal.”
“You do that, big man,” said Tommy. “Come on, Mr One-percenter, Tubbo needs his drink.”
After insulting both their coffees, (In Tommy’s defence, who the fuck ordered a small black coffee with a shot of blueberry?) they found a table and pulled out their textbooks and laptops.
Tubbo sobered as soon as the coffee hit his system, shoving his textbook under Ranboo’s nose. “Read it for me,” he said.
“Uh, no—no thank you, actually,” he said. “I’m still drinking.”
“Isn’t that worm behaviour?” said Tommy, giving a snort.
“A what?” said Tubbo.
“You literally said it five minutes ago, remember?”
Tubbo tilted his head, finger circling the rim of his mug. “Oh, that was before my coffee. What funny shit did I say?”
“You don’t remember?” said Tommy. “Does that always happen when you don’t have coffee?”
“Yep.”
“Man, you need to get that checked out.”
“Nah,” said Tubbo, slumping back in his chair. “Doctors are expensive.”
They sure were, but so was buying coffee every waking hour. Tommy loved his coffee as much as the next age of majority adult, but he didn’t rely on it for his memories.
“So you haven’t been diagnosed with anything?” said Ranboo.
“You’re asking for my private medical history?” said Tubbo. “That’s fucked up, Ranboo.”
“I—I—no, not like that. I was just—you don’t have to tell me, I was—”
“I’m just messing with you, dude. I haven’t been diagnosed, I run off vibes and vibes alone,” said Tubbo.
“I’m still sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” said Ranboo. “I’m not a creep or anything, I was just curious because I have memory issues, too.”
What was Tommy supposed to say to that? I’m sorry for your loss? My bad?
“Yooo, me too,” said Tubbo. “I mean, mine is just a caffeine addiction but I get where you’re coming from.”
Ranboo shrugged. “I’ve been dealing with it for years, so it isn’t too bad.”
“Good to hear,” said Tubbo. “Are you ready to read chapter one for me?”
“Nah, give him a break,” said Tommy, before Ranboo could stutter out an answer. “Besides, you can just read it yourself.”
“Why read it myself when I can have a bedtime story?”
“Oi, Tommy,” said Clementine, appearing in the spare chair on their table. “You don’t have a textbook, remember? You should read it out loud.”
Annoyingly, it was a good idea.
When he frowned, Clementine just smirked, moving to lounge on the empty table next to them.
“You want a bedtime story?” he said. “I can get you a bedtime story.”
“I would love a bedtime story, it would make me ever so sleepy,” said Tubbo, sliding the textbook across the table.
“I’ll woo you with my sleepy serenade,” said Tommy, ignoring Ranboo’s laugh. “I can’t wait to read about—” he flicked open the textbook, finding the correct page. “—nineteenth century literature.”
“I’m excited already,” said Tubbo, resting his hands on his chin.
They spent the next hour or so reading through the textbook together, Tubbo and Ranboo commenting on every point raised. The three grimaced every time it mentioned the word literature, especially when it tried to define it. Between jokes about how hot the infographics were, they found historical context for Wuthering Heights, finally getting their heads around the plot. It was far easier with three people, and they quickly got into shit-talking the other characters.
“Name one character with a braincell,” said Tommy. “Because from what I’m hearing, they’re all equally stupid.”
“They’re not stupid,” said Tubbo. “Hell, Heathcliff forced Hindley into debt by waiting until he was drunk. Stupid doesn’t play the long game like that.”
“And look how that turned out for him,” said Tommy. “The only person who isn’t stupid is the ghost lady.”
“Catherine? But she actually loved Heathcliff,” said Ranboo.
“Yeah, but she had an excuse, you know?” said Tommy.
“An excuse?” Tubbo repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“Fuck, I don’t know. She’s carrying lots of womanly sorrow or some shit.”
Tubbo snorted.
“I think I know what you mean,” said Ranboo. “She’s… in chapter six she acts differently to the male characters. It could just be the argument, though.”
“Nope, you two are pulling shit out your ass. And what would you know of womanly sorrow?”
Tommy glanced at his bracelet. “More than you ever will, fun sized.”
“I’ll slash your calves,” said Tubbo, not missing a beat. “And have you got any proof?”
Clementine waved her hand about. “Don’t be stupid,” she said, still picking at her nails.
He could never be stupid. “For starters, my sister tells me everything. I hear about the awful clothes shopping, the left wing wankers who stare at her—”
“—That’s not what left wing means, I don’t reckon,” said Ranboo.
“—and I know how to wear heels,” said Tommy. “And those are the greatest womanly sorrow of all.”
“There’s no way Mister Jorts knows how to wear heels,” said Tubbo.
He scoffed. “You couldn’t wear heels for a single day.”
Tubbo lifted his chin. “Actually, I could wear them all week.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Absolutely,” said Tubbo. “And it’s a double dare, a last man standing, if you will. If you chicken out you have to read every textbook chapter aloud for me.”
“Agreed,” he said. “And when you chicken out you have to give me your textbook.”
“Wait, do you two know what you’re doing?” said Ranboo.
“Getting a free textbook—”
“—saving my time from reading.”
Ranboo just glanced between them, then sighed, turning back to his mug.
“So have we got a deal?” said Tommy.
“Deal,” he replied. “If we catch someone outside their dorm without heels it’s game over.”
“And no bare feet, either,” said Tommy, holding out a hand.
“I’m not a pussy,” he replied, shaking Tommy’s hand.
Tubbo had no idea what he was in for. Before all this mascot shit, Tommy had seen heels as a feminine thing, improving style while making a cool clacky noise. But now that he had carried womanly suffering, he knew heels were the straightjackets of shoes, demanding perfection with every step. Tubbo didn’t stand a chance against him, not for an entire week.
“But what if you both drop out?” said Ranboo. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Why, of course,” said Tommy, matching Tubbo’s devilish grin.
“It’s so incredibly thought out,” said Tubbo.
Ranboo sighed. “You… You two do that, I guess.”
Tommy met Tubbo’s eyes, coming to a silent agreement. They would drag Ranboo into their shenanigans, they just had to choose the right moment.
“Tommy, what are you doing in my shoe cupboard?” said Shubble, peeking in from the doorway.
Out of all the times Shubble could have opened that door, why did she choose first thing on a Monday morning? “Well it’s lovely to see you too, Shubble. I especially enjoyed the part where you didn’t show up all Sunday.” She hadn’t even replied to his texts, not any of the forty he sent.
“Sorry, I went to a party,” said Shubble, ducking into the bathroom. “Why are you in my shoe cupboard?”
“I’m stealing your heels,” said Tommy. “Do you think the beige or the black will look better with my jorts?”
“First of all, you cannot wear heels with jorts,” she said. “And you’re meant to ask before digging through people’s stuff.”
“I did ask,” said Tommy, pulling a red pair of heels from the back—those would be ironic. “I asked if I should take the beige or the black.”
Shubble gave him a look, but Tommy just winked, shoving the rest of her shoes back into the cupboard.
After a long sigh, she turned back to the bathroom mirror, applying her foundation. “The black ones will hide your uneven toenails,” she said. “Why do you need heels, though? Identity crisis?”
“Nope, started a bet. If I wear heels for longer than my mate I get his textbook,” he said, watching Shubble’s reaction.
She paused, letting out a huff. “I see. Well, if you do have any… identity crises or anything, just know I’m here for you, little bro.”
A smile touched his lips. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He cleared his throat, adding, “Why are there crisps in your shoe cupboard?”
“Don’t eat those,” said Shubble. “I need them to stop Lacy.”
“Who the fuck is Lacy and why does she want shoe crisps?”
She sighed. “She’s just—she’s one of those house things. Nobody knows who she really is, but she breaks into people’s rooms and steals all their shoelaces. You’re safe if you leave out a snack, though, so just make sure you do that.”
“What sort of first year hazing bullshit is that?”
“Oh, it’s real, alright. I thought it was a joke, too, but then my snacks went missing. I’m not taking any chances with her,” said Shubble, moving back into the main dorm.
“Sure it was,” he snorted, peeling off his shoes and socks and squeezing into the heels. The black heels did indeed cover his toes, sitting quite nicely once he got his feet inside.
“Well, you’ll find out the truth either way,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “I have a committee meeting, but do you want any tips for walking in heels?”
“Nope, I’ve got it,” said Tommy, springing to his feet. He straightened his legs, then gave a little heel-toe prance around the room.
“What do ya know, you have got it. Good luck with your bet, I’ll see you at the lettuce club,” she said, moving for the door.
“Thanks,” said Tommy. Just before she left, he added, “Wait, you’re inviting me to the lettuce club?!”
The door shut before she could respond.
“Never fucking mind, then.” He was gatekept once again, but he’d find the truth about the lettuce club, just you wait.
“Is she always like that?” asked Clementine.
“Shubble likes being busy,” said Tommy, staring at his black heels. Shubble was always busy, always building or gardening or reading, but most of the time, Tommy knew why. He heard all about her projects and complaints, helped troubleshoot and ask questions, sending her on hour-long rambles. It’s not like he went to L'Manberg to spend more time with his sister, or that he actually enjoyed their conversations. This meeting better end with Tommy being let in on the secret, the sidelines were fucking awful.
“…Right,” said Clementine. “Well, what time is your next lecture?”
He pulled out his phone. “Couple hours.”
“Sounds—Sounds good,” she said. “You could use this time to uh—go over your notes?”
“Nah, I’m getting breakfast,” he said. Nobody was pitying him, especially not the ghost following him around. “Gotta show off my heels somehow, you know?”
Clementine snorted—mission success. “You do know they look awful, right?”
“What are you talking about? I’m such a natural at wearing heels.”
“I mean the jorts. You cannot wear jorts and a hoodie with pumps.”
“You don’t have a body, so your opinion doesn’t count,” said Tommy, grabbing his ID card and laptop.
“I might not have a body, but I still have eyes,” she said.
“It’s not that bad,” he said. “And it’s far from the worse look I’ve pulled.”
After eating breakfast and getting his fair share of stares (all from ableist motherfuckers) Tommy could reliably say this wasn’t his worst look, but it was very close. Imagining Tubbo’s suffering made it all worth it, though. He didn’t have the same confidence that Tommy had under his womanly belt. Besides, marching across the quad in heels made him feel way cooler than his TNs. There was something so satisfying about the noise, making him pull back his shoulders even though he wasn’t masked up. Maybe he could give Tubbo some pointers for walking, that would be such a petty move.
He was about to share the idea with Clementine when his bracelet burned.
“Fuck,” he said, climbing out his chair. “Do you know what this one is for?” He marched out of the dining room, scanning for a supply closet or something.
“It’s not for an official event,” said Clementine. “You’ll have to look around for red students. It might be a club, or maybe a prank, or maybe someone just needs you.”
“The magic works like that?” said Tommy. “How the fuck did someone make magic like that?”
“That’s a long story,” she said, in a soft voice.
Tommy gave her a weird look, then pushed into the closest doorway, finding a room full of shelves. He weaved through to the back as his bracelet burned again.
“I’ll take notes during the lecture, you just head back to the red dorms—that’ll be a good place to start,” she said.
“And if I can’t find the thing I’m masked up for?”
“Just be your charming self, it’ll find you.”
“I am very charming, you’re right.” He took a deep breath, rolling back his shoulders. “Mask up.”
He closed his eyes as the rose petals covered him, this time emerging in a simpler gown. The bodice was a plain ruby colour, meeting the skirt in a low basque, fabric flaring down to his toes. There was some light beadwork at the hem of the skirt, most of the adornments on Tommy’s off-shoulder sleeves. All in all, it was far better than the showy dresses he wore for the opening ceremony. There was a clack as Clementine emerged, grabbing Tommy’s laptop bag and giving him a thumbs up.
Tommy returned it, and the two parted ways.
Whatever had summoned the mascot was not in the common room. Sure, people smiled and waved at him, but nobody came running over, begging for emotional support or some shit. At least he found it easier to switch into his mascot brain, this time. Pull his shoulders back, keep his head high, he was the centre of attention. And in a good way, too. People were looking at him not because he was shit, but because he was the shit. It still felt weird getting smiled at, but this time he was prepared for it.
Maybe Tommy could wander between all the floors. He’d find those fucking stairs if it killed him, and eventually he’d memorise it all. Cutting through the communal kitchen once again, he ducked into the residential hallways. The ground floor was fairly straightforward, but the first through sixth were fucking awful. Renovation after renovation had gutted any sense of logic in favour of the cheapest, most efficient expansions.
He wound through the corridors, trying to find anything amiss. Every students he met eyes with ignored him. He sighed when he finally reached the staircase, the lifeless beige walls broken by the polished wooden steps. Why couldn’t the mascot magic give him a hint about where he was needed? A red string around his pinkie, an eye of ender he could pull out his pocket—he’d take a fucking compass if it meant less time wasted.
Unfortunately, all Tommy could do was haul his womanly ass upstairs and keep looking. He couldn’t get lost if he took every left turn—and it meant he wouldn’t miss any corridors, either.
Just as Tommy wondered where the next staircase was, he heard an eerie echo in the distance. A haunting feminine voice, a siren who emerged from the cold winter ocean to ensnare her annual prey.
Mariah…
No, it couldn’t be. It was fucking September, why the fuck was he hearing Mariah Carey? He followed the siren’s call regardless, weaving through hallways as he grew closer and closer to the source. He could feel it in his chest, which door was it behind?
Tommy pushed into the laundry, greeted by the jolliest whiplash he’d ever felt. The room of washers and dryers was midway into becoming a Christmas wonderland. Mariah Carey blared from a Santa Claus speaker, a Christmas tree frame sat in the corner, branches piled on the ground.
Two ladies were in the room, one with cropped hair and the other in hijab, both standing on a washing machine as they tried to pin lights to the roof. They turned at Tommy’s entrance, identical grins breaking across their faces.
So this is what he was meant to find.
“Welcome to Christmas in July!” said the bare-headed woman, leaning out dangerously far from the washer to string out the lights. “Except it’s September!”
“Helena, stop shaking the lights,” said the other lady, grabbing Helena’s shoulder before she could lean out too far.
“Sorry, Sajida,” she said, the words getting lost in the music.
The two continued stringing lights, so Tommy stepped into the room. If this was what he was masked up for, he was going to make this place so Christmas-y he would vomit.
“Eyy, another person who knows the spirit of Christmas!” said Helena, when Tommy grabbed the plastic branches.
Sajida said something back, but Tommy missed it over the ear-shattering notes of Mariah. At least it meant the song was ending, even if it left Tommy wincing. Finally, the music faded away, and he lowered his shoulders.
The next song began, and Tommy swung around, glaring at the duo on the washing machine.
I don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need—
The two burst into giggles, grabbing each other so they didn’t fall.
“It’s the Christmas spirit!” said Sajida. She had some sort of Indian background, with easy-tanning skin Tommy would kill for. The two definitely knew the Christmas spirit—they were fucking possessed by it, too. He had to admit it was a little funny, though, especially with their enthusiasm for the worst parts of the holiday.
He made a show of rolling his eyes before turning back to the tree, building it up as the others worked on the lights.
By the time he was done, the ceiling was covered in lights, at least four different colours strung above the room.
“Let’s turn them on!” said Sajida, climbing down. He pushed aside a crate of baubles, revealing a power board that was already full of cords. She flicked it on, the ceiling lighting up above them, red and blue and yellow and green flashing out of time with each other. “I feel the Christmas stroke coming!”
“Tis the season!” Helena responded. “Now, let’s get that tree decorated.”
The three of them got to work as the lights flashed overhead, wrapping the lights and tinsel around the tree. Sajida brought over a trash bag full of baubles, and they loaded up the tree until the branches were drooping. Then Helena decorated Tommy, wrapping his dress in tinsel and baubles, till he sparkled as much as the rest of the room.
“With the help of the fairest maiden of them all, we’ll find the true meaning of Christmas,” she said.
Tommy huffed, taking a graceful bow.
“That isn’t a Christmas story, you’re not a true Christmas enjoyer. Today Red can be Mrs Claus, she’s a real Christmas person.”
The bickering continued as they pulled out more decorations, giving Tommy an armful of Christmas-themed snow globes—they even had fucking napkins. How they managed to find this stuff in September he’d never know.
Tommy’s decorating spree was only broken by Clementine’s voice.
“Lecture done,” she said, invading his head.
He paused, midway through wrapping the laundry detergent dispenser. The lecture was finished, which meant Clementine was coming back to the building, and that Tommy might run into her. But he could keep his cool, especially now that he had enough warning. All he had to do was let Clementine know he got the message without wasting his seven words.
After much deliberation, he sent, “Okay,” then returned to wrapping.
Slowly, the decoration bag emptied, the festivities in the room becoming so thick Tommy could hardly breathe. When the final item was pulled out (a bar of soap shaped as ginger bread) someone pushed the door open. Just like everyone else, their first reaction was to laugh, quickly latching onto the people in the room.
“Sajida, Helena, what the heck are you two doing?”
“It’s Christmas in July!” declared Helena.
“Neither of you two are Christian, and we’re not even close to July,” they deadpanned.
Sajida raised an eyebrow. “Well, since Helena is Jewish and I’m Muslim, we thought we’d meet in the middle and celebrate a Christian holiday.”
The newcomer glanced around the room. “I—I don’t think there’s a single Christian thing in this room.”
“Come one, cheer up, it’s nearly Christmas!" she said.
“Eh, Mariah Carey is close enough. We’re all done decorating, though. Doesn’t it look great?” said Helena.
“We can’t go ruining the joy of Christmas, so we’ll have to leave it up when we go,” added Sajida.
Tommy had to hold back an audible laugh at that, the two moving towards the door.
“And thank you for your help, ma’am,” said Helena. “I think you look as stunning as the room itself.”
“What about my compliments?” said Sajida. “Don’t I get anything?”
“Your Polar Express shirt is also stunning.”
“Thank you.”
Helena clapped her hands together. “Now that your ego is sated, I’m starving. Let’s get lunch.”
They made their way out the room, Tommy shutting the door after them. The two stopped in the hallway, staring back at the door.
Tommy glanced between them, waiting to see what unhinged thing they’d say next.
Sajida was first. “Does something about this feel…”
“Unethical? I’m definitely getting a feeling of guilt, here.”
The two hummed in front of the closed door, neither giving Tommy an indication of what they looked for.
“Ah, I’ve got it!” said Helena. She pulled out a marker, writing large letters on the laundry door.
EPILEPSY WARNING
“Solved!” they said, perfectly synchronised.
Tommy once again held back laughter, as the pair walked down the hallway without a word, leaving Mariah Carey faintly echoing through the walls. When he pulled himself together, he went the opposite direction, looking for a quiet corner to unmask.
A fire escape would be perfect about now, if Tommy could fucking find one. There was no fucking way this building was up to code. The hallway he was in ended in a sharp turn, leaving a couple paces of carpet before a blank wall. There weren’t even any doors.
You know what? This place was as good as anywhere else.
“Unmasking,” he sent to Clementine, as he ducked out of sight.
“Wait,” she sent back, instantly.
Tommy froze, sealing his lips shut.
“Ranboo watching.”
Right, he could be waiting for a while. The lecture had ended an hour ago, so Ranboo sticking around was a thing. Did he invite Tommy to another study session? Was Tubbo around, too? What if Tommy was invited to a fucking party and Clementine went instead?
“Now?” he sent, shifting his weight onto his heels.
“Wait,” she said, again.
If somebody came around the corner, what was Tommy supposed to do? He was hiding in a dead end, and he didn’t even have any drugs. It’s not like he could pretend to be smoking.
On second thought, miming it out would be pretty funny. Tommy lifted an imaginary cigarette to his mouth, making a big show of sucking in, his eyelid twitching. It gave him something to do, at least.
When Tommy was halfway through his imaginary cigarette, Clementine finally sent a message back. “Clear.”
“Unmask,” said Tommy. “Fucking finally.”
He just caught a glimpse of Clementine’s red hair before the petals rushed over him, emerging in his shorts and Shubble’s heels. No such relief in the foot department, but man, he missed his hoodie.
“Did you find what you needed to help with?” said Clementine.
“Yep, set up a fucking Christmas bomb.”
“So it was a prank?” she said. “Who was the target? How many people and what materials did you use? Did you see it get sprung?”
“I’ll get there, I’ll get there,” said Tommy, walking down the hallway. “What did I miss while masked up?”
“Professor Fable talked about the culture of 19th century America and how that affected literature, just entry-level—”
“—Did Tubbo trip and eat shit?”
She sighed. “Unfortunately, no.”
“Well I bet he looked stupid. Was he bending his knees? His legs were going everywhere, I’ll bet.”
“Tubbo knew how to walk in heels.”
Tommy stopped walking with a harsh clack. “Don’t lie to me. How could Tubbo Fucking Sweatpants know how to walk in heels?”
She shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him yourself, I didn’t get around to it. Do you want to go over the lecture notes I took?”
“Why would I do that when it’s literally Christmas day? Clementine, have you ever wanted to experience Christmas in July in September?”
She smirked, rushing in front of him. “Hell yeah, Christmas time!”
Tommy explained everything as he click-clacked through the red dorms, holding his head high. Sure, Tubbo may know how to walk in heels, but he didn’t know how to endure like Tommy did. Six more days of this would be simple.
Notes:
I realised halfway through writing this chapter that it feels really lame to have Helena and Shabbir’s only appearances centred around what is entirely a Christian celebration, so rest assured they will get extra scenes in the future (especially around the religious holidays they do celebrate :D)
I have not read wuthering heights. To make the scene discussing it, I watched two different 50min analysis videos on it at the same time, then skimmed through the sparknotes to make sure I got the names right.
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 5: The Lettuce Eating Club
Summary:
Tommy is still wearing heels, learning about womanhood and how to persevere through the worst pain in his life. Shubble wakes him up early on saturday, and he finally gets to know what all this lettuce cult fuss is about.
Word count: 4.8k
Estimated reading time: 19 minutes
Date posted: September 7th, 2024
Notes:
So it turns out alumni is NOT pronounced ah-loom-ni, no I am not okay thank you for asking.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
According to all known laws of physics, there is no way a heel should be legal to wear. The spikes are too thin to safely carry the weight of a person, causing immense pain.
Tommy, of course, wore heels anyway, because it was better than forking out a hundred quid for a fucking textbook.
Tommy arrived at his Wednesday lecture early, seating himself as close to the door as he could without looking like a try hard. More students filed in, Tommy paying close attention. He was not missing Tubbo’s entrance. Yesterday he strode in with confidence—wearing his heels correctly, just like Clementine had said. Tommy had, too, but today even he was starting to fatigue. He’d swapped to Shubble’s beige heels, hoping they wouldn’t rub as much, but the tiny straps were tight. It was noon and Tommy’s skin was already raw, his feet swelling around the toe straps. On the plus side, he hadn’t twisted his ankle at all.
Tubbo sauntered into the hall, his head held high. It wasn’t the same runway pace he had yesterday, but he met Tommy’s eyes all the same, sitting beside him.
“Your feet look a little red, there, Tubbo,” said Tommy, nudging his foot with his own. “Any pain?” he said, ignoring how his foot burned from the contact.
Tubbo gave him a look, shifting a seat across. Ouch.
Clementine appeared in front of them, giving a low whistle. “That was fucking brutal. Are you going to take that, Tommy?”
If Tubbo was playing petty, then he would be a fucking petting zoo. He tilted his chair back, resting his hands behind his head. Then, he plonked his feet on the desk, sitting them as close as he could to Tubbo.
A smile twitched at Tubbo’s lips, but he didn’t break, just pushed Tommy’s legs back in front of him, poking right on the sore spot.
Tommy retaliated by throwing a pen at Tubbo’s feet, nothing would stop him winning this competition.
Even once Ranboo arrived and the lecture began, the two continued. He only heard fragments from Professor Epithet, too busy focusing on every scoff and shuffle Tubbo made. Tommy pulled out Shubble’s mushroom notepad. He ripped out a fresh page, writing give up in the centre. Underneath the words he drew Tubbo’s ankle snapping, complete with blood and leg hairs.
“Can you pass this to Tubbo?” he whispered, showing the note to Ranboo.
Ranboo’s eyes widened. “No way,” he hissed. “You two are—you don’t have to do this.”
Tubbo turned, and Ranboo pulled the paper away. “You’re not reading this.”
Tommy snatched it, then threw it onto Tubbo’s lap.
“Why do I even bother?” he muttered.
Tubbo scoffed as he glanced at the page, pulling a scrunched receipt from his pocket and drawing on the back.
He held back his own smile, struggling to focus on the front. Even when he tried to listen to Professor Epithet he was distracted by the strap cutting off his toes’ circulation, or the blister on his Achilles.
Ranboo gave a long sigh, then handed Tommy the receipt. He drew Tommy in a hospital bed, his leg in a cast. The stick figure was holding a book, reading aloud to a taller stick figure, labelled Tubbo.
He grinned, ripping off another piece of paper. Was it childish? Absolutely, but even big men who were older than eighteen could be childish sometimes.
By the time the lecture was over, he had eight stick figure drawings, Ranboo stuck as their mail carrier. As everyone packed up their stuff, Tommy made a big deal of standing up, hiding his wince as his feet burned.
Tubbo also rose, a smug grin on his face. He straightened, then pushed his right leg into the air, making a huge deal of stretching out his arms. He held the pose for a stupidly long time—his legs weren’t even wobbling.
“What the fuck?!” said Tommy, finally breaking character.
Tubbo smirked, giving Tommy a fucking salute before marching out the door. He didn’t even look back.
“He’s fucking insane,” said Tommy. “Like, literally insane. Are we sure he’s not spiking his coffee with something?”
Ranboo shrugged. “I—I guess he could be, but—but you’re just as bad.”
“I could never,” said Tommy, hobbling forward. Now that Tubbo was out of sight, he could lean on the rail as much as he needed, going easy on his tender feet until he reached the bottom. He turned back to Ranboo, the fucking emo’s mouth hanging open. He could feel the pity from here, chest squirming as he met his eyes.
Clementine snorted. “You just got busted.”
“Fuck off,” whispered Tommy. Aloud, he said, “Don’t suppose I could borrow your lecture notes?”
“You are hurt,” said Ranboo. “Do those heels even fit you properly?”
“At the start of the day, yeah,” said Tommy, as Ranboo hurried down.
Ranboo winced at Tommy’s feet, meeting his gaze once again. “I—I could help you find some better heels, if you want.”
Tommy broke the eye contact, saying, “I’m a busy man, Ranboo. Do you have those notes for me or not?”
“What if we make a deal?” he said. “You come to my dorm to get better heels, and we’ll—and I’ll give you the notes.”
“Don’t need any help,” said Tommy, lifting his weight onto his heels and giving a spin. “I’m fine.”
“I can see your blisters from here,” said Ranboo.
He groaned, but Ranboo didn’t move away, just kept fidgeting with his books. It was like he was a cancer patient, with slightly more hair.
“…I guess I can try on a couple pairs,” he finally said. “But you better give me those notes when we’re done.”
“I will, I will,” said Ranboo. “Do you want to go there now? Or do you—do you need to rest your feet?”
“Big R, my feet are in constant agony. Lead the way.”
The blue dorms were located on the west side of the quad, and even though the exterior was the same as the rest of the dorms, the inside was entirely unfamiliar. Instead of blank walls and winding corridors, dark beams ran along the roof, walls lined with wood panels. They had the same generic paintings as the red dorms, but they were interspersed by various pot plants, one between every door.
“This place is weird,” said Tommy, still hobbling as he walked. “Why is your dorm in the old folks’ home?”
“It’s not—what makes you think that?”
“You’ve got fucking—” he waved a hand about. “—Plants in the hallways. Do you know how depressing a place has to be to rely on plants?” he said. The place was quiet, too, perfect for elderly residents.
“No, they’re—each student chooses a—a plant, you know? You get to care for it until you graduate.”
Tommy hummed. “That’s not too bad, I guess.” The plants sat on tables and shelves, bigger pots on the ground and even some hanging baskets. Succulents were the most common, but there was also a number of ornamental flowers, most well-established. “Pretty shit as far as welcome gifts go. You know what we did on our first night? We chugged fucking elevator soup, and it was fucking delicious.”
“That’s nice, I—I guess? I mean, I like soup,” said Ranboo.
“Oh, you would have loved it,” said Tommy, hobbling closer. “It was hot and fresh and sat perfectly on your tongue. I may not be a soup connoisseur, but that shit popped off.”
Ranboo huffed, his shoulders loosening. Mission success.
“You could be a soup connoisseur, I reckon. You look like you have good taste in soup.”
“I’ll just assume that’s a compliment,” said Ranboo. “This is my room, here.” He fiddled with the keys at his door, Tommy glancing at a terracotta pot on the chest of drawers. A tiny plant sat in the centre, the clusters of round leaves suggesting a type of pansy, or one of the other low maintenance-bitch plants.
“Is that your plant?”
“Mm, yeah. It’s a—well, I’m pretty sure it was one of the flowering plants, but I was a bit rushed when I chose it. I’ve set a bunch of alarms so I remember to water it, and give it time in the sun. It’s not a—like, a huge deal if you kill it, but nobody wants to, you know?”
“Of course, of course,” said Tommy. “Now can we sit down? My heels are changing from sexy gorgeous to I’m-going-to-drop-dead gorgeous.”
Ranboo paused for a second. “Right, right, let’s get you in.” He unlocked the door and held it open. “Come on.”
“Holy shit, why are you living in a fucking mansion?”
“…It’s just one room?”
Sure, it was one room, but the room had a sofa, television and fucking kitchenette. Tommy marched across the plush carpet, collapsing on the couch. “Ranboo, your room has a television. I knew you were rich, but this is ridiculous.”
“I’m not—well, I—I’m glad you’re comfortable, at least.”
Tommy grabbed at his heels, fumbling for the buckle. “Once I get these oppressive fucks off I will be.”
“Just—Just make yourself at home,” said Ranboo. He moved to the desk in the corner as Tommy tugged the first heel off, blisters burning as the strap pulled past them. The second heel was just as much of a bitch, the buckle pinching at his swollen ankle.
Ranboo scanned through his phone, his face lighting up. “So what size heels are you currently wearing?”
“A forty, I think,” said Tommy. “I have no idea how the sizing works, though. Women’s sizing is a bitch.”
“What about your men’s size?”
Tommy bit back the urge to say twelve. “Nine.”
.“That’s the same as me—how were you fitting your feet in those?” he said, staring at Tommy’s dainty heels.
“Man of many talents,” he said, massaging his calves.
Ranboo just hummed, opening his wardrobe. “Finding the right heels is more than just shoe size, though. The width of your feet, the size of your ankles, all sorts,” he said. “Most of my heels are for slim ankles, but they’ll be better than those, at least.” He pulled out a basket, digging through sandals and boots and all sorts of pretty shoes. Eventually he brought over a handful of pairs, most of them with a blocky back heel, and a pair of heeled boots. “Try these on and see what fits best,” said Ranboo.
Tommy stared at the pile in front of him—so many more than Shubble had, so many that could actually fit him. His eyes started to blur, and he had a sudden moment of clarity. Here he was in an unfamiliar dorm, surrounded by painful shoes and stupid bets—as a fucking mascot. Nobody would ever believe him if he tried to tell someone this. Even if Tommy heard it, he would call bullshit.
“T-Tommy? Are you okay?”
He blinked, clearing his vision. “To be honest, I don’t know how the fuck I got here.”
Ranboo frowned, but Tommy had no chance of explaining it. Instead, he collapsed back on the couch, cracking a joke to lighten the mood. “Ranboo, I think you just saved my life.”
Ranboo had insisted he take three pairs of heels, even telling him their names. The fat sandal-looking things were wedges, a strap sitting along the top of his foot. Then he had a pair with a tiny two-inch heel, known as a fucking kitten heel. Wearing those was a fucking walk in the park, and it wasn’t even cheating. But the last pair was by far superior; a pair of heeled boots. They had a large block at the back for stability, and he could wear them with socks. Oh, how he missed his socks. Truly, socks were humanity’s second greatest invention (The first being Minecraft, of course). But he had finally made it to his dorm, collapsing on the floor.
“Congratulations for getting through day three of seven,” said Clementine.
Tommy peeled an eye open, glaring at the red-haired ghost. Today she wore a copy of Tommy’s hoodie and bright green TNs—fuck, she knew how to beat a man when he’s down. “You’re not helping.”
“I could compliment you on your bravery for wearing women’s fashion.”
“Fuck off,” he said, closing his eyes once again. “Maybe I just stay here all week. Just sleep and study and shit.”
Clementine floated over to Shubble’s bed, mirroring Tommy’s position. “You don’t have enough food for that.”
“I’ll eat my mattress.” She scoffed. “We do have to upstage Tubbo, though. Did you see the attitude he gave you in that lecture?”
He wasn’t fucking blind. He knew exactly the snowball he’d set rolling, and he was ready to witness the avalanche. But at the same time…
“I’ll start fucking planning when my feet don’t feel like they’re on fire. You should call RSPCA for how these dogs are suffering.”
Clementine blinked. “That’s a new one.”
“Good, I’m never walking again.”
“The dining hall opens in ten minutes.”
He rolled over, staring at the ceiling tiles. “I don’t wanna walk,” he repeated.
“Aww, do you want me to hold your hand? I could walk you to dinner,” said Clementine, and Tommy could hear her eyeroll.
Tommy snapped upright. “That’s it! Is it possible to choose my outfit when I mask up?”
“To a degree, yeah?” said Clementine. “It has to be a dress, though, and you can’t make it fucking purple. What are you planning?”
“So I can change my shoes?”
“Sort of.”
“Awesome,” said Tommy, before she could elaborate. “You’re grabbing dinner for me—make sure you don’t limp around Tubbo—and I’ll wear some fucking mascot flip-flops.”
“Wait, what are you—”
“Mask up,” said Tommy, picturing a pair of dainty flip-flops over red painted toenails. The rose petals rushed over him, gone in almost an instant. Tommy yanked up his skirts, pushing his feet out where he could see them.
His womanly feet were still heeled, a Y-strap wrapping around to the back of the shoe, glaring at him in a scarlet red. Sure, they were like flip-flops, with about three extra inches of height.
Clementine emerged with a clack, spinning around to look at Tommy. She immediately cracked a grin, pointing at Tommy’s feet as she huffed.
Tommy just flipped her off, begrudgingly getting to his feet and straightening out his skirt. When no pain followed, he shifted his weight from side to side, smiling. His brown skin was gorgeous and blister free as Clementine’s was red and swollen. Fucking loser.
He made a shooing motion at her, and Clementine rolled her eyes, sitting back on Shubble’s bed.
Oh piss off, he thought, resting his hands on his hips.
“If you insist,” replied Clementine, a smirk on her face. Fuck. She stood up, moving to the door in confident steps, then bowing with great flourish before exiting. She was a fucking greenie if there ever was one.
Tommy slumped back on the bed, his earrings jingling. Shit, his ears were pierced, that was cool. They were dangly earrings, but not quite long enough for Tommy to see. He reached for his phone, opening the camera to get a better look. His masquerade mask was a brilliant cherry red, rimmed by golden metal. His earrings and necklace matched, both sporting smooth teardrops that reflected the overhead light.
Looking this good, he at least had to go for a little wander. Everyone else deserved to see this beauty, too.
A uno skip card was placed in the centre of the table.
Tommy hissed, adjusting the mask on his face. After leaving his dorm, he quickly stumbled across a group of people playing uno, including Jack. He quickly appointed himself as Jack’s advisor, hanging over his shoulder.
“You skipped me?” said Jack, dropping his cards flat on the table. “You’re going to regret that, Stephanie.”
Stephanie just smirked, pushing her glasses up on her nose.
He felt Jack tense beneath his hand, and he tapped his shoulder, drawing away his attention. “We’ve got this,” Tommy mouthed, hoping he got the message across.
Jack smiled, flicking through his cards again. There were three players left, and they had a decent hand. A green reverse, a yellow seven, a blue skip and reverse, and then a colour change. In fact, it could be a very good hand, the ideal play being to reverse it so Stephanie couldn’t—shit, never mind.
The third player placed their final card—a yellow skip. “Let’s go, I’m not last!”
Only Jack and Stephanie remained.
Jack reached for his seven, but Tommy slapped his hand away, pointing at the colour change.
“Fuck no, that’s my best card,” he said, pulling away.
No, it was the best card in the game. Stephanie only had three cards left, but they were shit, Tommy knew it. Now that there were two players left, Jack could play all his skips in a row, but they couldn’t do that without making it green. Tommy pointed at the skips and reverses, trying to get the point across.
He tilted his head, frowning.
Fuck it, Tommy would mime it out. He made a show of placing four cards in a row, then flipping off Stephanie.
“I—mate, I’ve got no idea what you’re doing,” said Jack.
Tommy held back a groan. He turned towards Jack, then pointed at his phone, miming typing. Jack handed it over, and Tommy quickly spurted out the message.
Stepanie defo has a seven and she has less cards
He shoved the phone in Jack’s face until he read it. “Yeah, but she’s got that yellow card, remember?”
“Are you two going to take much longer?” said Stephanie, as Tommy typed out the next message.
Tommy speared her a glare, Jack reading the next message.
But u CAN win if u change color to green do all ur skips
“Oh!” said Jack, throwing his colour change onto the table. “It’s green.”
Stephanie flicked through her three cards, Tommy holding his breath. She glanced up, then reached for the deck, drawing a card with a blank expression on her face.
“Fuck yeah!” said Jack, placing down his green skip, then the others in quick succession. “Uno and done!” The two high-fived, and Tommy held back a whoop.
She smirked, pushing up her glasses. “Don’t go celebrating yet, your last two cards are invalid—”
Fuck did she mean by invalid? Tommy swung around, channelling his best glare.
Stephanie spread out the cards placed on the pile. “—Unfortunately, you can’t put a green reverse on a blue skip.”
Fuck.
“Fuck,” said Jack.
How did Jack mess up so badly? They had that game nailed, it was literally two brains against one.
“So I’ll be handing back your last two cards, and you have to place down a blue, alright, sweetie?” said Stephanie, her grin only growing.
“Fuck off,” Jack muttered, snatching back his cards. He glanced at Tommy, staring at his yellow seven and green reverse. “What do we do?” he whispered.
Tommy buried his face in his hands, falling to his knees.
Jack picked up.
Tommy’s Saturday morning was interrupted by the door slamming. Unlike every other morning, it was somebody coming in, not out.
“Wake up, little bro, we’re going lettuce eating!” said Shubble.
“Fuck off,” he muttered, trying to pull the blanket over his head.
Shubble yanked it back, saying, “Come on, this isn’t any old club, this is the lettuce eating club.”
Tommy groaned, sitting himself up. “And let me guess, you’re not gonna tell me why it’s so good?”
“And ruin all the fun?” said Shubble. “There is no way I’d do that. Did you get the text message?”
He grabbed his phone, frowning at the lockscreen. “You mean this sketchy-ass text from an unknown number?”
“That’s the one! You need to get changed or we’ll be late.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” he muttered, dragging himself out of bed.
After a quick shower, he found Shubble examining the pile of heels beside his bed.
“I replaced your heels, by the way,” said Tommy. “They were shit.”
“I never said they were good,” Shubble replied. “I just said they’d look good. Now let’s get going, it’s lettuce time!”
Tommy let himself get dragged through the hallways, a hesitant grin forming on his face. Fuck everyone who was keeping secrets, but it did make it a little exciting. Nobody else was about at this hour—six fucking thirty—but the silent hallways only added to the ambience. He soaked up Shubble’s smile, her soft giggles when they made a wrong turn, the way she muttered to herself. Even though it was far too early, even though he navigated the dormitory maze in shit shoes, he felt at home.
“Tell me if you spot room 44,” said Shubble. “I’ve been living here for two years and I still can’t find people’s dorms. It’s probably on the first floor, but you never know with L'Manberg.”
After fucking around on the first floor for an embarrassingly long time, Tommy finally spotted the thirties, Shubble marching ahead and forcing Tommy to run in his heeled boots. “Wait, I think I see it!”
The two rushed to the correct door, Tommy mirroring Shubble’s grin. Light crept from beneath the door, muffled laughter making its way through the walls. A lettuce-themed party, lettuce debates—whatever was coming, he was ready for a fucking poggers morning.
Tommy’s bracelet burned.
His face dropped, and he instantly turned towards the mascot bracelet. Of all the fucking times he needed to mask up, all the times a mascot was needed. This was his morning with Shubble—the first morning he'd spent with her since he fucking arrived here. And now Clementine was stealing that time from him, and she didn't even have a choice.
She emerged in front of him hugging her arms to herself. “Shit, that timing is fucking—"
“—I need to piss,” Tommy interrupted, all the emotion gone from his voice. He didn't have time for any of that emotion shit. It didn't change what he had to do, so he just focused on Shubble.
“Right now?” she said. “Are you sure you can’t hold it in?”
Tommy held back his wince. “Shubble, I’m about to shit my pants. Where is the nearest bathroom?”
She sighed. “We passed one in the last corridor, don’t take too long.”
“I’m a fucking shit speedrunner, don’t you worry,” he said. He marched for the bathroom while avoiding Clementine's gaze, the bracelet getting hotter and hotter. He shut himself into the closest cubicle, floor damp and glistening. He stared at the stall door, graffiti scratched into every inch of the black chipboard.
“I—I’m sorry,” said Clementine. “I know you were excited, even if you didn’t say so. It’s shitty that you have to miss out—”
“—Just fuck off already,” said Tommy, meeting Clementine’s eyes.
She cut off, dropping her gaze.
Tommy straightened, taking a deep breath. He wasn't taking Clementine's pity, and he wasn't taking Shubble's disappointment. He was doing this on his terms. “I’m going to the lettuce club, fucking costume or not. Mask up.”
One second the rose petals washed over him, and the next there was a pair of arms wrapped around him.
Tommy blinked, and Clementine pulled away, giving him a toothy grin. She opened the cubicle door and rushed out just as quickly.
He sighed, staring at the graffiti like it could divine his future. Here he was, hiding a secret identity from his sister. This was the most time he'd spent with her in years, yet they'd never been further apart. A singular fan rattled in the corner of the bathroom, a rickety, uneven sound, preparing for a shower steam assault that would never arrive.
Surely that was enough time, right? Tommy left the cubicle, catching his reflection in the chipped vanity. He once again wore a dark red, but this time his skin was pale and his hair black. Almost like a vampire, to be honest. He pulled his gloves higher, making his way down the hallway. He didn’t have a lettuce club invitation, so he had to prove he was needed. He wasn’t just any woman, he was the red mascot, and this club was clearly an essential red house activity. He had to get inside, or how else would he bolster the team morale? He didn’t know shit about the lettuce club, but kill him if he didn’t eat some fucking lettuce.
Tommy knocked on door 44, a slow knock that echoed through the hallway.
Fundy opened the door, his eyes widening. “Uh, we have a surprise guest,” he said, turning to the room.
“Aw, who leaked the location this year?” called Quackity, voices laughing in response.
He appeared next to Fundy, then blinked. “Why didn’t you say it was Red?” he hissed. “Are you here for the competition, ma’am?”
Tommy nodded. A competition? What had he fucking got himself into?
“Alright, come in and choose a seat. We’re still waiting for people to show up, but we should start soon.”
Tommy nodded, following the two in. The first thing he noticed was how loud it was. The small room was already fairly full, a foldout table running through the centre. There was no sign of the L'Manberg-supplied furniture, just chairs and a tub of lettuce heads. Shubble and Clementine sat in the corner, Shubble drawing everyone nearby into conversation.
He looked away as everyone laughed, choosing his seat at the table—remembering to lift the back of his skirt before he sat.
Another knock sounded at the door, a large group filtering in. Their grins were far too wide for a lettuce competition, all of them finding chairs as they chatted. Most of them gave Tommy a quick smile or a nod, but nobody tried to draw him into the conversation. Tommy sat up straighter.
Once everyone found their places, Quackity sat down at the head of the table, silence falling across the room. An empty chair sat opposite Tommy, and he tried not to let it sting.
“Now that everyone is here, we can begin,” said Quackity. “First I’d like to welcome all our returning members, and wish the new attendees good luck. This is the fifth annual lettuce club, and the premise is—”
A ceiling panel shuffled, dust falling onto the tablecloth. Tommy blinked, staring up as fucking Connor popped his head down. “Greetings fellow lettuce eaters! Sorry I’m late, Quackity, you accidently locked the door again. Crazy how that keeps happening.”
Quackity sighed. “He fucking found us again.”
Connor climbed down, wobbling the table as he pushed the ceiling panel back in place. You know, as if it was a normal thing to do. Why was nobody batting an eye? He sat in the chair opposite Tommy, giving him a dip of the head before turning to Quackity. This place was fucking bullshit.
“As I was saying,” said Quackity. “The premise is simple. Each person has a head of lettuce, and there’s ranch in the middle of the table. If you eat your lettuce the fastest, you become the next Lettuce President. Everyone understand?”
So it was a competition. What fucking techniques were there for eating a head of lettuce? Was it easier to take a chunk from the middle or unwrap it like an onion?
“Good, let’s prepare the lettuce!”
Tommy gulped, forcing himself to take a deep breath.
Fundy, Shubble and another student stood, opening the tub and gathering armfuls of lettuce heads. Everyone stayed completely silent as they placed one in front of each person, creating a mesmerising rhythm. Place a lettuce, place a lettuce, place a ranch bottle, place a lettuce. Once everyone was served, they returned to their seats.
This was the weirdest fucking cult Tommy had ever attended. A head of yellow-green lettuce sat in front of him, the edges already browning. He had to win, obviously, but this was a lot, even by his standards. He glanced at Clementine, but her gaze was firmly on Quackity.
Tommy followed, finding Quackity with his fingertips pressed together. His heart raced.
Quackity smiled. “May the fifth annual lettuce eating club begin!”
Everyone snatched at their lettuce heads, hands lunging for the ranch bottles.
Tommy jumped, grabbing his own head and tearing into it. No time for dressing, he just shovelled the cold lettuce into his mouth. The person beside him gagged, but he just took another bite, then another. The lettuce was cold and moist inside, and he barely crunched, just swallowed the chunks whole. He dropped his face to the head of lettuce, smearing foundation and lipstick all over the yellowing leaves. There were stakes here.
When he lifted his eyes again, Clementine met his gaze. She gave her signature toothy grin, lifting up her lettuce.
Tommy mirrored the gesture, before chomping once again, determined to finish first. The thrill of the competition burned through him, shouts and laughs sounding all around. Half-chewed lettuce fell from his mouth, student’s faces smeared with ranch, a display of beauty and disgust and fucking awesomeness.
In that moment, surrounded by lettuce and laughter, Tommy was satisfied.
Notes:
If womanly sorrow is the grief of being forced into a situation that should be full of love, womanly joy is choosing to make the most of it regardless
This is the end of the opening arc, so to speak. It gives the background information for the rest of the story (and foreshadowing, hehehe) and just the general vibe for what the writing is like. Tbh, because this fic is so long it's basically the inciting incident, but yeah, it's such a blast to write. Sure, there's silly goofy shenanigans, but I've set up SO MANY plotlines that will continue to bubble over :DLeaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 6: Microwave Lemonade
Summary:
The finale of the heels saga. Was the week of pain worth it?
(No, no it was not.)Word count: 2.3k
Estimated reading time: 9 minutes
Date posted: September 10th, 2024
Notes:
Things I googled for this chapter:
Do foxes eat lettuce, Shezow, sign language youtube short, university credits, university credit hour, credit hour explained simple, credit hours in 60 seconds, why I hate credit hours, foot cancer
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
After his lettuce euphoria, Tommy left and found a lovely storage cabinet to unmask in. Shubble vanished as soon as the new Lettuce President was announced (That person being Fundy, because of fucking course it was) She didn’t say anything—not event to Clementine, because of course she did.
Tommy only gave it half a thought as he unmasked. In his defence, he was distracted by his nails: the bright red had changed, a miniature version of L'Manberg’s logo sitting on each one.
“Clem, what the fuck is going on with my nails?” said Tommy. He turned towards Clementine, only to sending a mop clattering in the process.
“Hm?” said Clementine, glancing down. “Oh, you got the university shield, cool!”
“But why?”
“It’s a mascot thing. It means you’ve officially accepted your duties.”
He frowned. “I said yes two fucking weeks ago, what’s different about today?”
“Well, we both came into contact with lettuce at the same time, igniting a secret blood pact which gives me control of your mind,” said Clementine, poking at his head.
Tommy couldn’t feel the ghost, but he swiped at her hand anyway. “Sure it is.”
She huffed. “It just means you’ve fully accepted your role as a mascot,” she said. “Like, you agreed before, but now you’re sure of it.”
He stared at the white university shield. The shield was broken into three portions, each with a fancy-ass symbol that were probably different animals. Sure, before he was happy to be the mascot—who would say no to free university, let alone fucking around with magic? But today was different. He was still going to mask up, even if it stopped him spending time with Shubble. Instead of just fucking around and getting a degree, he got to help out the entire house, and that made it worth it.
“…Do you understand?”
Tommy blinked, then shrugged. “Whatever, I guess.”
“Just let me know if you have questions—oh, and nobody else can see it. It’s only visible to former mascots, everyone else just sees them as plain red.”
“Wouldn’t be very secret, otherwise,” said Tommy.
“Exactly,” she said. “But you did great, today. Well, your lettuce technique was shit, but the mascot stuff was perfect.”
“With me behind the mask? Obviously,” said Tommy, refusing to look at his phone. He still had the whole day ahead of him, he wasn’t going to lose it to his phone. He was spending today studying, having some time off his stupid heels. Oh, and laundry.
Fucking laundry.
Saturday became Sunday through the magical experience of sleep, and Tommy couldn’t be gladder. He took a shower, dressed in his nice clothes then grabbed a pair of heels. today was the final day of torture, mastering his runway walk (and his runway run, when he found himself late to class) Tubbo kept his heels on, too, even as his skin was torn and bleeding, the insane fucking bastard. Tommy glared as he strapped on his heels, doing up the buckles with enough speed to stun Tommy-from-last-week.
Try as he might, Tommy had lost his chance of getting a textbook. That didn’t stop him from planning his outfit, pairing his red heels with a matching button-up shirt, and charcoal jeans. Special occasions demanded style, after all, even when the occasion wasn’t victory. He marched into the library café regardless, shoulders back and head held high.
Ranboo and Tubbo sat at their normal table, Tubbo jumping up as he arrived. He wore a pair of black heels and a stylish knee-length skirt, one that clung to his figure.
“Welcome, good sir,” said Tubbo, pulling out a chair.
“Why thank you, sir,” said Tommy, graciously taking a seat. “Tis a pleasure to be in your company.”
“Likewise,” he said, mimicking a Tory accent. He took his own seat, the two falling quiet. Neither of them had cheated, neither of them withdrew. The battle was fought and lost—by both of them.
Ranboo cleared his throat. “Um, are you two… Are you done with the—the heel thing?”
“Yes,” they said, perfectly in time.
Tubbo huffed. “This was such a shit idea.”
“I haven’t felt my toes in three days,” said Tommy. “I think I went up a shoe size, too.”
“It’s time to get these off.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” said Tommy, reaching down instantly.
“I ended up texting like ten people to work out if you were cheating—you even wore them at fucking midnight, are you insane?”
“I wanted crisps,” said Tommy, thinking of his vending machine foray.
“I was tempted to hide outside your dorm, but I couldn’t find fucking anything over there,” he said.
Tommy scoffed. “Tell me about it. How the fuck did you do that flamingo thing—I thought I was being petty but you fucking took me out.”
Tubbo snorted, pulling up his heels and throwing them on the table. “I pulled a muscle from that shit—How the fuck do people wear these without bawling?”
Tommy massaged his sweaty feet. “We should be sobbing. We deserve a manly cry after all that.”
Ranboo glanced between them both. “You—You’re back to normal just like that?” he said. “Does that mean—are you two doing the textbook thing?”
“Nah, neither of us gave up,” said Tommy. “We’re back to how we started.”
“Well, we could do both punishments if we wanted,” said Tubbo.
What a stupid idea from a stupid fucking bitch. “What, so I get the book but still have to read it to you?”
He grinned. “Yep.”
Unfortunately, Tommy was also a stupid fucking bitch. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Ranboo’s eyes widened as they shook hands. “You can’t be serious.”
“We’ve already shaken on it,” said Tubbo.
“I’m always serious, Ranboo. Serious is my middle name. Besides, this is literally a win-win situation.”
“I—There’s no hope for you two,” said Ranboo, slumping back into his chair.
“Good thing you’re here, then,” said Tubbo. “Speaking of which, what the fuck was Philza going on about on Friday? The participation pop quiz shit?”
Tommy winced. “Oh, that was just we need to attend classes to pass, right? He explained it really weirdly, though.”
Ranboo hummed. “Sort of? We have to do a weekly test on the content we’re doing, and we earn one credit point for passing. By the end of the first year that gives us twenty five, and we get the other half from completing coursework.”
“How do you make it sound so simple?” said Tubbo. “Philza took half an hour to say as much.”
“That’s why we’ve got you, Ranboob. You can be our new professor. What’s on the agenda today, Professor Beloved?”
“Um—I feel like we should do something about fridges. Y-Yeah, how fridges are used in literature.”
Tubbo winced. “Or you could fuck right off. I reckon it’s coffee time, anyway.”
“Every time is coffee time for you, Tubbo.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s okay, I’ll get the drinks,” said Ranboo, standing.
Tommy frowned as he left, sharing a look with Tubbo.
“We are not letting him pay,” he said.
“Absolutely not,” said Tommy. “We should ditch our coins at him.” He glanced at Ranboo, his shoulders hunched as he talked to the barista.
“He’s not going to accept it, so we’ve gotta bully him.”
“Agreed.”
The two prepared their cash as Ranboo returned, placing down their drinks.
Tubbo slapped a note as Ranboo lowered him mug, getting it caught beneath. Tommy shoved his coins across the table, stopping just before the edge.
“No, you don’t have to pay me, it’s—”
“—Shut up,” said Tommy.
“—Take it or I’ll tackle you,” said Tubbo.
“I don’t need paying,” said Ranboo, sliding the money back.
Tubbo shoved it forward once again, but Tommy’s eyes caught on Ranboo’s mug.
“What the fuck are you drinking?”
Ranboo froze, glancing down at his mug. “…Milk?”
Tubbo snorted. “Just plain milk?”
“I have a sore throat, okay?” said Ranboo.
“What are you, five?” said Tommy. “Do you want us to tuck you in and give you a goodnight kiss?”
“Grow up,” said Ranboo. “I—I changed my mind about the money,” he said, scooping it all together. “This is my compensation for having my drink insulted.”
“Bossman, you ordered warm milk.”
“Even for a sore throat, you can do better than that,” said Tommy.
When he got sick as a kid, Shubble always made him a lemon and honey drink, sweet and rich with a strong aftertaste. She often poured in soda, too, just so she got to drink the rest of the can.
“Exactly,” said Tubbo. “Milk won’t do shit—you should try microwaving lemonade, that’s my go-to.”
The table fell silent. Tommy glanced between Ranboo and Tubbo, waiting for someone to laugh it off. Nobody did.
“What?” said Tubbo, taking another swig of coffee. “The heat makes it soothing.”
Fuck, he was serious. Who would willingly torture themselves like that?
“Tubbo, what the fuck?”
An alert went off on his phone, titled Hello handsome, laundry done. Tommy cleared and went back to scrolling—he could leave it a couple minutes. A video with sign language came up, transfixing Tommy. A woman had a full conversation in sign, an uneducated wanker doing the voiceover, calling her a faker and saying it was gang signs. The woman rolled her eyes, knocking a fist to her forehead then touching her chin with her fingertips, making a flat hand.
Those last two looked familiar, actually. Tommy opened the comments, smiling at what he saw. The woman signed stupid bitch. He practised the motion himself, the motion rolling off his fingers.
Tommy glanced at the little logo on his nails, then said, “Clem? I wanna talk about mascot stuff.”
Clementine dropped through the ceiling, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Awesome, I’ve got stuff to tell you, too.”
He was no longer surprised by her weird entrances. “There’s more?” he said, instead. “Why can’t you just tell me everything.”
“And make a tree blossom when it suits me? I cannot force you to bear the beautiful mascot fruits before your time.”
Ugh, Tommy was going to get a headache. “Talk to me with normal words, please. Literature brain turned off hours ago, I’m not turning it back on for this.”
“Didn’t wanna overwhelm you on your first day. Anyways, you can activate extra mascot abilities.”
“What, like fucking superpowers?” said Tommy.
“Basically. The amount of points the red house has affects your powers as a mascot. When we reach certain milestones, you can activate extra abilities.”
So he got to be a proper anime girl, magical powers and all. Now all he needed was a hot man—nope, never mind, he was the hot man, too. “Can I get a fucking boomerang brush?”
She snorted. “I’m not sure what you’d use it for, but maybe. The abilities must help with the house morale, and there’s three tiers; cosmetic, aesthetic and synergetic,” she said. “Cosmetics is just for practicality, it stops your hair getting messed up and your makeup smearing, stuff like that.”
And bitches said miracles weren’t real. “Will it stop me from getting sweaty? Please say yes.”
“You got it—”
Fuck yes!” said Tommy.
“—It’ll keep your hair nice, your shoes painless and your armpits sweat-free,” she said, stretching out her big legs. “Makes all the pretty stuff way easier.”
“Clementine, I will marry you,” he said. “I’m single, just take me now. Why didn’t you tell me I’d only have a month of womanly sorrow before experiencing womanly joy?”
She smiled, extending a hand. “Well, now you’ve got the nails, I know you’re going to commit. Anyone can mask up, but it takes someone special to put the house before themselves.”
He snorted. “That is some spiderman-ass bullshit.”
Clementine hummed, her smile softening. “I suppose it is. Anyways, the next tier is the aesthetics. Wherever you walk, you’ll have a magical trail of rose petals appear behind you. Perfect for diva moments, you know?”
“Absolutely.”
“But the last one is the most fun,” she said. “You get a magical item to boost the house morale. I’ve seen night vision sunglasses, glow candies, zero gravity heels, all sorts.”
Magical girl equipment for a magical mascot? “Holy shit, how many points do I need to get that?” said Tommy.
“Nah, that’s months away, don’t worry about it,” said Clementine. “You’ll get your cosmetics soon, usually when the first round of pop quiz points come through. While masked up, you’ll see individual student’s points on their wrists.”
“Yeah, yeah, back to the cool level-up,” he interrupted. “Do I get to choose what it is? I reckon I could definitely use a laser lipstick. I can start tasing wankers.”
“You don’t get to choose—”
“—Or what if I had a fucking invisibility hoodie, I’d do so much shitting and giggling,” said Tommy.
“I think you mean an invisibility—"
“Wait, I’ve got it,” said Tommy, grin widening. “I’ll create a nerf gun that magically reloads its bullets.”
This time, he waited for Clementine’s response.
“…You might be onto something,” said Clementine. “Assuming it doesn’t tear apart the universe, what would you use it for?”
Such a complex question for a simple device. The gun would revolutionise modern combat, reusing bullets was the solution to land pollution, to childhood disputes, to—fuck it, it could probably stop the heat death of the universe. An answer hit Tommy, any chance of critical thinking disappearing.
“Shooting Jack when he fucks up at Uno,” he said. “I can’t call him a socialist while in costume, but I need him to understand somehow. Actually, I could call him a bitch in sign language. Do you know how to sign bitch?”
“No?” said Clementine. “I—I don’t think other people will, either.”
“The fucking poggers ones will,” said Tommy. “And since it’s not technically speaking, I can yap as much as I want.”
“I feel like the laundry is more urgent,” said Clementine. “Didn’t your timer go off?”
“Fuck.”
Chapter 7: Win red me win sport red me sport red win me sport red win me you
Summary:
Headstrong Tom signs so long and prolongs the gung’s dong of the athletics day gong. Surely nothing can go wrong.
Wordcount: 3.1k
Estimated reading time: 13 minutes
Date posted: September 17th, 2024
Notes:
That summary makes no sense?? Good.
The sign language used in this story is Auslan, because that’s the sign language I’ve been learning for the past couple years. At the moment I’ve just attended community classes, but I am actively pursuing higher education for it. I will inevitably make errors whilst writing about this, but I intend to make every effort to correct them. If you notice something wrong, please let me know <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tommy had just finished a succulent Chinese meal—may he rest in peace—but the quad was very different to how he left it. The grass was covered in chequered rugs and baskets of food: a fucking picnic. His eyes struggled to adjust to the sunlight, scanning the picnicking students for familiar faces.
“Clem, what the fuck is this?”
She appeared draped across a hedge, giving a lazy glance to the quad. “Beats me. Who wouldn’t have a picnic in September?”
Tommy weaved between the groups, catching whiffs of cherry pies and freshly cut fruit. He didn’t recognise a single student, most of them from the blue house. The blue mascot was there, too, elegant bitch. She carried a basket at her elbow, dress trailing out behind her and framing her figure—fuck, she looked good. She was the cause of this ugly-ass picnic and uglier-ass food.
“Why didn’t we think of this?” he said. “A picnic on the last warm day of the year? This should have been us.”
“It’s not really our style,” said Clementine. “But Blue is pulling out her A-game—she definitely knows the athletics carnival is tomorrow. A public picnic the day before—that’s hard to beat.”
“Diabolical,” Tommy agreed. “I’m gonna have to mask up for the carnival, right?”
“Right.”
He smirked. “Perfect.”
That night, Tommy got through his coursework as fast as possible. Then, instead of mucking around in the dorms, he cranked open his laptop, googling sign language for beginners. Blue thought she could hold an event right in the middle of the quad? Tommy would show her—he’d make a fool out of her and Yellow. When morning rolled around, Tommy was dressed and dining before his bracelet even tingled. He grinned, exiting the food hall and finding a quiet room.
“Let me guess, you still won’t tell me what you’re doing?” said Clementine, currently upside down. Today she’d decided an appropriate pose was sitting cross-legged on the ceiling, but Tommy refused to give her any acknowledgement of the positions.
“Yep,” said Tommy. “Mask up.”
Clementine rolled her eyes before she vanished, rose petals rushing in. Today Tommy’s ballgown had a sexy split through the centre, exposing his wide, athletic legs and gladiator-strap heels. His hair was pulled into a tight bun, and—oh fuck yeah, the mascot magic was working. His masquerade mask usually had a strap holding it in place, but today it was glued to his skin, not budging even when he tugged at it. Did that mean his heels were good, too? Tommy shifted his weight, then fucking threw it, smiling wide. The shoes felt like any old pair of sneakers, despite their stiletto heel.
Clementine emerged in front of him, brushing her hair out of her eyes, perfecting her Tommy-Imitation.
He pointed at his feet, lipstick split in a giddy grin.
She smiled, reaching up to flick his derby hat. It was set with a shapeful slant, fabric roses spouting from the centre.
Tommy swatted her away—it still felt weird to actually touch her. Did she get weirded out by it, too? Clementine couldn’t touch anyone as a ghost, was suddenly touching everything just as strange?
Tommy shook his head, trying to clear away the existential thoughts. Clementine marched out the room, Tommy making sure she didn’t double back. When he was certain she was gone, he practised the signs he learnt last night. Clementine had pestered him for hours last night, but he wasn’t letting her see his… little speech. She’d hear about it soon enough, everyone in red would know about it.
Once enough time had passed, Tommy marched for the athletics field. He came across numerous students dressed for sports, and even more decked out in house colours. All of that university merch was finally on display, and fuck, primary colours were ugly. One of the students had a number tattooed on her wrist—shit, those were her house points, right? Tommy glanced at the other students, the black number marking all their wrists. This university’s cult status was steadily increasing, Tommy was not going through this cult shit again.
He made the mistake of glancing at his own wrist, a 1 tattooed to the skin. Fuck, he was already initiated. What was the first step of leaving a cult? That’s right, he needed to understand his situation.
A small stage sat in front of the grandstand, complete with a podium, microphone, gong and president. President Sugamon, to be exact, not a president-of-the-fucking-country. Tommy didn’t want that bitch anywhere near him.
…If he murdered someone in costume, who would they incarcerate? How could he represent himself in court when he couldn’t speak? Sure, he’d learned a couple signs, but they wouldn’t be much use in front of a jury.
Tommy made his way up the front, Yellow also approaching. She wore her hair in a funky updo, her derby dress simple yet elegant, an A-line Queen Anne neck only highlighting the pattern of the fabric. It was sporty and comfortable, giving Tommy tough competition.
He walked up with Yellow regardless, the two exchanging glances before climbing up the stage. Tommy pulled back his shoulders as his heart raced. It was one thing to play uno while masked up, and a-fucking-nother entirely to stand next to the other mascots. Within the red house, he could do whatever he wanted—even if it wasn’t pretty, at least it would be funny—but here he had to look confident, competent, and probably fucking communist. Stupid higher education playing a causal role in changing political attitudes.
“Ah, g’day to you both,” said President Sugamon, as the two approached.
Tommy blinked, forcing himself to focus. Sugamon’s accent was thick, and if he didn’t catch every single syllable the words would slip from his fingers. “I hope you’re both ready for an exciting day of athletic prowess. I’ll be catching flies by the end of it,” he huffed to himself. “Most certainly!”
He swung across to Yellow, but she just smiled and nodded, as if that wasn’t the weirdest fucking thing he’d ever heard. There’s no way Australians were real.
“Wonderful! This is always a highlight of the semester, and we’ll start soon—oh, not without Blue, of course.”
Tommy made a show of rolling his eyes, Yellow huffing.
Sugamon chuckled, too, a chesty laugh like he had a mouth full of hot rice and had just been asked what the temperature was. “Today is more about team spirit than anything else,” he said. “Although, the best reward for teamwork is certainly, winning, ey?”
Absolutely. Winning was all about hyping yourself up, and his speech was going to do just that. He mentally went through the signs he needed, thinking of every pause and flourish. He’d sign like it was the last faces he’d ever see, like the bullets would be his legacy. Legacy, what is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden—could you fucking imagine?
Distracted from his inner monologue, he watched Blue march between excited students onto the stage. She looked absolutely stunning, wearing a skin-tight sleeved dress that flared into a mermaid skirt, heels clacking on the podium stairs. Her face mask was encrusted with the same rhinestones as her dress, sparkling in the sunlight. She was fashionably late, and very fashionable at that.
Blue joined their sides, giving a guilty wave before nodding to Sugamon.
Yellow flicked a hand aside, giving her a smile. She was not immune to Blue’s stunning looks, the fucking simp.
The microphone was switched on, chatter dying down as a man began to talk. “Hello everyone, I am Chancellor Schlatt, which basically means I’m the joker of the university, baby.”
Tommy blinked, paying attention to this new guy.
“But if there’s one thing that could melt even the joker’s heart, it’s teamwork.”
Never mind. Tommy watched the crowd as person after person moved to the microphone. Thank you to the equipment sponsors. Applaud. Thank you to the staff organising the day. Applaud. This is the schedule for the day, applau—
Shit, that wasn’t an applaud line. Tommy clasped his hands back together, cheeks flushing red.
“We’ll begin our day with the ceremonial gong, a gift from our sister university, SMPlive. I now invite the mascots forward to open the carnival.”
Blue and Yellow stepped across, moving the gong in the centre of the stage. Tommy didn’t follow them, his heart racing a mile a minute. This was his moment, and he hesitantly moved to the front. Yellow and Blue frowned at him, Schlatt stared at him, everyone in the grandstand watching him.
He paused before making the first sign. It always came down to this moment. It was a sunny morning, a light breeze tugging at his dress and carrying the scent of freshly cut grass. He’d broken the social contract, but he still had a chance to go back, to turn around and pretend this had never happened. He met eyes with a red student in the crowd, a man in a glaringly bright red sweatshirt.
If nothing else, Tommy was a man of action. And right now he wasn’t a red student, he was Red, the embodiment of the house. He couldn’t fuck around, but he could certainly fuck. He brought a finger to his chin, making the sign for red. Then he made another sign, and another, barely hesitating between them.
“Is that sign language?” said some idiot.
Yes, you fucking bitch, that was the point.
“What’s she saying? Signing? Fuck, I don’t know.”
“Wait, I recognised that part!”
Tommy honed in on the voice, finding a middle-aged woman with blonde ringlets. “I think she said blue?”
He turned towards the blonde, repeating his signing from the beginning.
“Red are… winners,” she said, reading the signs.
Tommy continued, and she laughed, growing more confident. “Blue are slow, Yellow is stupid!”
“Ayo?” said someone in the crowd, laughter rippling through it.
He smiled wider, starting the next sentence. “They have no bitches. Blue is a bitch!”
He meant the blue house, not the mascot, but that was close enough. He took in a deep breath, then signed his big finish. “Reds have bitches, reds win with friendship and—” The woman frowned, so Tommy repeated the sign. “And lettuce?!”
Raucous cheers sounded through the crowd, and Tommy took a deep bow, signing, “Thank you!”
He moved back to the other mascots, ignoring Yellow’s blank look and Blue’s tilted head. He just placed a hand on the gong gunger, the others quickly following suit. (He knew it wasn’t called a gong gunger, fucking sue him)
They turned to Sugamon, who cleared his throat. “Now that the… less-sanctioned speeches are out of the way, we can officially open the athletics carnival!”
They lifted the gunger out as Sugamon said, “Let the competition begin!” They donged the gung into the gong, shaking the stage beneath them. His hearing faded as the gong prolonged, the world muffled as everyone left their seats, filtering from the packed grandstand. His hearing slowly faded back in, a speaker blaring music as everyone talked and laughed. The red students in particular were jumping around and hyping each other up, pointing at him on the stage.
Tommy’s burst of pride was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder.
Blue stood in front of him, hesitantly moving her fingers—shit, those were letters she signed.
The first was a W. She shifted her hand into a gun shape—the letter H. Then, she made a fist, sticking out her pinkie and thumb. Oh, that was fucking—not I, but I was simi—It was Y. W-H-Y. Why?
Tommy smirked, then spelled back, “W-I-N-N-E-R,” pointing at himself.
Blue frowned, Yellow glancing between them.
Tommy repeated the letters, going slower until Blue’s eyes lit up.
She shook her head, then pointed to herself.
He rolled his eyes, flicking his hands as if to throw aside what she said. He was practically a sign language expert. Not being able to speak wouldn’t stop him from shit. Instead, he took another graceful bow, waving goodbye to the mascots. Sure, it was a little dickish, but this wasn’t for him, it was for the entire house.
Being a mascot made the athletics carnival fucking awesome. He could go wherever the fuck he wanted, from cheering on red athletes to getting bored and fucking around in the scoring booth. (they didn’t let him touch the scoresheets, unfortunately, but watching them come in and get written up was cool.) Then he ended up having a go at some of the events, attempting the shotput and giving a shitty javelin throw. It was fun trying to work around his dress, but he wasn’t going anywhere near the track. At one point he saw Yellow attempt the high jump—and actually succeed, the madwoman. The mascot magic meant he felt fine, despite the three hours he’d already spent on his heels. His makeup was still flawless, and not a single hair on his head was out of place. He didn’t have a clue about what the score was, but he saw a woman break the hurdles record, and the longest high jump competition of his life. The red students lit up when they saw him, giving him compliments on his dress, questions about his speech and all sorts. It was the most they’d ever spoken to him, and they wanted him to talk back. Whether it was a quick sign or a smile or a point, they were all happy to see him. He did not know enough sign language to answer their questions, and the people asking didn’t, either. He signed thank you more than anything else, and bitch, when people ignored him. The day was busy, people moving from event to event, until it came to screeching halt at lunch.
Everyone gravitated back to the podium Tommy clinging to the drink stand, making eyes at everyone until someone folded and bought him a coke. Cold drink acquired, he made his way into the grandstand for the points announcement, finding a seat in a group of red students. One of the scorers went onto the stage, announcing the current standings. Red was in front, but Blue was less than fifty points behind. He glanced at the students around him, points written on their wrists. One of Stephanie’s friends was right next to him, and she had seven points. There was another person with five, but most only had two or three. Once the announcement finished, the red students packed up their stuff, moving for the exit.
Tommy blinked, grabbing the closest by the shoulder. They still had the whole afternoon, didn’t they? He pointed at the rest of the field, frowning.
“Oh, the hour break is starting,” said the student. “Now the real athletics are beginning, it’s novelty time.”
Tommy blinked, understanding fuck all. But he was the mascot, so he smiled, mouthing “Oh, of course.” He followed the stream of red students from the field, filtering towards the Valience dorms. Of course Clementine didn’t tell him about this, what if he was supposed to lead it? Was the novelty event something intense or was it just an excuse for a drink? What sort of novelty event happened in the dorm hall? Clementine was full of bullshit.
Wait, he could ask her. “What’s the novelty event?” he sent, feeling stupid when there wasn’t an immediate response. That was probably a waste of words, too. He only had two left. Why was it seven, anyway? It was such an arbitrary number—and fucking ugly, too.
“Scissors relay,” said Clementine, her voice echoing in his head. “Just watching.”
A scissors relay? Assuming it was as simple as it sounded, that was fucking dangerous. He could squeeze in another question for Clementine, but two words wasn’t much to work with. He didn’t need to take part in every funny business, but he could definitely watch them all.
And he did enjoy watching. The scissors relay was exactly how it sounded: a relay race with fucking scissors. There were two separate courses, one looping through the ground floor while the other went all the way to the sixth. It wasn’t nearly as serious as the other events—well, one person got their hands sliced, but they were more worried about the disqualification than the injury. His fucking fault for running with scissors, Tommy would never be so stupid.
He was caught off-guard when he saw the wrists of the winning relay team, their personal points flicking upwards. Did that mean this stupid fucking relay contributed to the athletics carnival score?
If so, Tommy could certainly abuse that in the future. The group returned to the grandstand for the last of the track events, the finals in each category. Tommy chose to roam on the lawns instead of fighting for a chair. He gave a tip of his derby hat to the red athletes, but didn’t attempt conversation. Nothing that could distract them from their upcoming race.
Unfortunately, Blue and Yellow were on the grounds, too; hyping up their own athletes and glaring at Tommy. All for the performance, of course, they’d have to shake hands at the end of it. Tommy didn’t know how or why, but Yellow had acquired a trumpet. She blew it whenever she wanted to bother someone, and did a little fanfare whenever a yellow athlete finished first. At one point she did it right next to Tommy’s ear, and he speared her a glare.
She just smirked, bringing the trumpet to her yellow lips and playing wa wa waaaaaa. The crowd laughed at her antics, and all Tommy could do was roll his eyes. How come he didn’t come up with that idea? Playing a trumpet instead of talking? That was pure comedy, and it meant everyone was laughing at that village-square fool.
…And ignoring Tommy, the king’s fucking jester?
He glanced to the scoreboard, but the numbers were hidden—fuck, this was the final race. The score wouldn’t be revealed until the very end.
He made his way down to the finish line, placing a hand on his hip as he watched Yellow blow her trumpet. He rolled his eyes, trying for the mature angle, the stern woman who didn’t stoop to foolishness. It was a large pivot from earlier, but it was better than nothing.
Tommy watched the women’s 100m, the row of athletes pounding down the track, not slowing until they were well past the finish line. A yellow athlete won the race.
He went over to the red runner to high-five her, but Blue got there first, handing over a bottle of water. Fuck. He was not prepared to compete against fucking twitter acts of kindness compilation.
The crowd hushed, and he turned to the scoreboard, waiting for the numbers to light up.
Yellow 1st
Red 2nd
Blue 3rd
Twitter was gonna fuck his ass with this clip.
Notes:
Yellow’s dress is based off the Hakama dress by Carolyn Schnurer except I made it yellow instead of dark blue lmao
The fingerspelling Tommy uses this chapter is actually based off ASL, not Auslan, because Tommy is stupid. There are lots of sign language resources on the internet, but without external guidance it’s easy to make errors.
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 8: Lost in the Sauce
Summary:
Tommy equips himself with new skills to level up his mascoting. Tubbo and Ranboo try to psychologically torture him.
Wordcount: 1.3k
Estimated reading time: 5 minutes
Date posted: September 24, 2024
Notes:
I am currently on page 54 of a samsung refrigerator manual...
The things I'd do for this fic.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As soon as Professor Fable’s lecture finished, Tubbo was rushing across the hall to Ranboo and Tommy.
“Did you guys see the mascots yesterday?” he said, obnoxiously loud for the space.
“Of course I did,” said Tommy. “Red whooped your mascot’s asses.”
“But she did it in sign language,” said Tubbo. “That’s so smart—I mean, I wanna learn sign language, then I could know what she said.”
“Sign language is so cool,” said Ranboo. “You can use it when it’s really loud and when it’s really quiet.”
Tommy shrugged, hiding his grin as best he could. “Do you reckon there’d be lessons or some shit? I know there’s like, degrees, but I’m too busy with m—studying,” he said, almost saying mascot duties.
Clementine appeared over Ranboo’s shoulder, staring blankly at Tommy. Of course she fucking heard his slipup.
“We have got to find classes,” said Tubbo, oblivious to Tommy’s haunting.
“It’ll look good on our resumes, too,” said Ranboo.
“Fuck yeah, it will,” said Tommy, breaking eye contact with Clementine.
“We just have to find some classes,” said Tubbo, as the three left the hall.
Just as he said it, they came face to face with a poster:
Auslan Community Class
Want to learn sign language in a friendly, slow-paced environment? Not sure if you want to pursue a formal degree? Come join an entry-level class with an experienced instructor, 6PM on Thursdays.
“It’s perfect,” said Tommy. “Miracles are fucking real—do we have classes, then?”
“I think our lecture finishes at five on—”
“WE’RE LEARNING SIGN!” shouted Tubbo, jumping between them.
Tommy snorted. “Let’s go be big sign language men!”
Tommy was just as hyped for Big Man Sign Language on Thursday. He, Ranboo and Tubbo left their last lecture and wandered around the Literature and Culture building, eventually coming across an open classroom, warm lights filtering into the hallway.
A woman stood up the front—and yep, she was definitely signing. The classroom was near-full, a mix of students and older adults signing along with her.
Tubbo dragged them in as they found some chairs at the back, bouncing his leg enough to shake the table.
“Today we’ll go through some basic keyword signs,” said the woman up the front. She had bright pink hair that sat just below her shoulders, almost blinding compared to her dull clothes. “So today we’ll learn to spell and read the alphabet, then practise introducing ourselves. Before we start, who here has got experience with sign language?”
Two people hesitantly raised their hands, but the rest kept them down.
“Excellent! Oh, and my name is Niki Nihachu. I have an RPL in Auslan, although I haven’t taught it for a while. I’m a CODA—which means I grew up with Deaf parents. Let’s get started on the alphabet!”
She took them through the alphabet letter by letter—Auslan had a two-handed alphabet, that was odd. Most of the videos Tommy saw only used one, but most of the letters were very intuitive. To make the vowels you pointed at each finger of your non-dominant hand, that was easy. They practised it a few times, then Niki would through a random letter at them, forcing them to think on their feet. They moved to introductions, signing, “Hello! My name is Bitchface.”
Well, Tommy used Bitchface, but everyone else just spelled their names. It was fairly straightforward, Niki coming around the room and correcting their handshapes. But the next task was far more difficult. They had to spell a random word, and everyone else had to guess what they were signing. Making the words was simple, but the second Tommy tried to read someone else’s fingerspelling he struggled. First he had to recognise the letters, identify their English equivalents and then join that to the next letter, and the next, and the next, and the next. Sometimes he had to memorise the order of six fucking letters before the word made sense, and Tommy was not built for this.
Niki, however, had endless patience when dealing with the slower students. Even when Tommy was frustrated, she just repeated things letter by letter, as slowly as possible. Even though she could spell as fast as the speed of light, she held herself back, perfectly patient. Tommy thought he was the shit, but he couldn’t read Niki’s fingerspelling unless she slowed right down.
When he got tired of reading, he slumped back in his chair, muttering, “Those fucking bitches,” whilst making the correct signs.
“Hey, no swearing,” said Niki, from the front of the class.
“But I did it in Auslan!” said Tommy.
“Nope,” she said. “Nobody cares about your swearing until you can sign everything else. You’re going to earn your fucks, understand?”
Tommy blinked, dropping his hands. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Good. We’ve got ten minutes of class time left, so I’ll get everyone to fingerspell a sentence to their partner. It must be at least four words long, but try not to make it too difficult.”
Tommy glanced at Ranboo and Tubbo, both wearing sinister grins. Oh, he was so fucked.
That night, Tommy sat at his desk, hunched over his no bitches allowed notebook. After a brain-melting Auslan session, he was trying to brainstorm mascot things. Blue and Yellow had raised the standards for mascot-ing, he couldn’t just walk around and play Uno when they were hosting events on the quad. At the moment he had a decent-length list, even if most the ideas were pretty lame. Unfortunately, he’d resorted to googling funny college pranks, and getting very little from it. He read through the most dry pranks he’d ever heard of—only just better than Ranboo and Tubbo’s fingerspelling. Ranboo had fingerspelled The FitnessGram Pacer Test is a multistage aerobic capacity test that progressively gets more difficult as it continues. (That one was some American torture shit) whilst Tubbo decided on Samsung Smart Refrigerators support both Wi-Fi 2.4 GHz with IEEE 802.11 b/g/n and Soft-AP protocols, a sentence that was cut short by Ranboo slapping his hands.
Hmmm, fridges…
“What if I did something with a fridge?” said Tommy. “Fucking… put it where it’s not supposed to be. I could fill it with ketchup—no, I make a ketchup bath. For all the bitches who think ketchup goes to the fridge.”
Clementine raised an eyebrow. “Sure, add that to this list. We’ll see what Tomorrow-You says about it. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“It could be good,” said Tommy. “I could even have a—a fucking ketchup dress. Ketchup shaped with—” he frowned, the words falling away from him. Instead, he mimed out the shape of it. “—Baby ones, pocket ketchup.”
He knew he has rambling—it was midnight, for fuck’s sake—but the look Clementine gave him really got the point across.
“Sure,” she said, dragging the sound out.
“You keep knocking down my ideas, I have great ideas,” he said, scribbling down ketchup fridge. “I should start planning all my outfits—has anyone else made a ketchup dress?”
He cracked opened a new tab, and sure enough, there were ketchup dresses. Unfortunately, they were all just miniskirts. No one had the balls to commit to a floor-length ketchup gown. He clicked on the first link that came up, hoping to find more. Oh, it was pinterest, Shubble liked that one. He mucked around trying to find a prettier dress, with limited success. Sure, he’d make an account, then he could start making boards.
“What website is that?” said Clementine.
“Pinterest. You use it to make fashion aesthetics.”
“Ooh,” said Clementine. “Are you gonna use it for mascot outfits?”
“Yep,” said Tommy, searching in Red Dress. The page loaded, the screen covered in gown after gown, each one in a different style.
“Holy shit,” said Clementine.
“The most holy,” Tommy agreed, going to the first and clicking save to board. He was in for a long night.
Notes:
Do you guys wanna see the pinterest board I made for this fic (boring unbased answer) or do you wanna see my favourite pinterest user ever (correct answer) let me know down below <3
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 9: Ground Beef
Summary:
Tommy discovers the pinterest vortex, finding a whole online ecosystem he never knew existed. This backfires on him when he sleeps through a class, and finds himself breaking up a fight about lemon trees of all things.
Oh and also Shubble content, she's still on her gatekeeping agendaWordcount: 1.8k
Estimated reading time: 7 minutes
Date posted: October 1st, 2024
Notes:
https://www.pinterest.com.au/shawn4651/_saved/
This is the best pinterest account to ever exist. This man understands pinterest like nobody else. He's used the same account for seven years, and all of his boards have only one pin on them.Do you know when tomatoes are ripe in the northern hemisphere? Well I do, because one month ago Shawn4651 created the boards TOMATO SAUCE, CHERRY TOMATO SAUCE, DEHYDRATED CHERRY TOMATO 🍅, and ROASTED TOMATOES "FREEZE". Did you know three years ago he had a go at making chilli sauces? I know, because he made the boards WENDY'S CHILI, CHILI, and WENDY'S CHILI BEST. For the past five years he's been making boards about beekeeping, the most recent being a year ago (HONEY EXTRACTION easy) while also involving classics such as HONEY HARVEST and BEE QUEEN. Six years ago he had a litter of Labradors, I know this because he made the boards PUPPY DEVELOPMENT, PUPPY CHARTS, DOG BREEDERS WEB SITE, DELIVERING PUPPIES, AMERICAN VS. ENGLISH, LABS, WELPING PUPPIES, DOG NAILS, WELPING CHART, welping box, DOG signs of labour, dog food for nursing mom, puppy milk, BLACK LABS, LABRADOR RETRIEVER GROWTH CHART, ENGLISH LABS. guide, LABRADOR RETRIEVER NAMES, LABRADOR RETRIEVERS TRAINING, and LABRADOR WEIGHT CHART. In the months following this he has boards about dog tricks and about clothing fur removers. This man does his research to make sure his dogs get the best possible care. He has five boards with titles like SEX DESSERT with cake recipes.
Wait I'm supposed to say something about what's actually happening in this chapter bla bla bla lemons or whatever
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tommy’s Pinterest account was better described as a disease. Over the course of a week, one board became two, then four, then eight, growing exponentially with each passing day. The boards changed topic quickly, the first few still useful to Tommy (red heels and gala mask) but they quickly ballooned outward. Instead of getting his narrative distance essay in for drafting, he was making a board for history memes. Instead of taking notes during Professor Fable’s lecture, he made his sign language board. Most boards only had fifty pins, but a couple had an extra zero thrown on the end, no biggie.
This went on for four days before Tommy staged an intervention. He forced himself to log out, only allowing himself to log back in once he’d finished his coursework for the day. A brilliant solution that backfired spectacularly when Tommy found himself on Pinterest at one-am. In his defence, how was he not supposed to make a board of inspirational women? Did you know that Emma Watson did speeches to the United Nations? Those bastards didn’t deserve her.
In his attack, it was past fucking midnight. The time glared from the top of his phone, yet he couldn’t tear himself away. Did you know Pinterest had a comments section?
The dorm door creaked open, Shubble stepping in.
Tommy jumped, closing Pinterest and pulling up his essay. “Ayup,” he said.
Shubble blinked, shutting the door behind her. Heavy bags sat beneath her eyes, her brown hair dull in the dorm’s shoddy light. “Why are you awake? It’s late.”
“Early, actually,” said Tommy. He took in her outfit once again, Shubble pairing her work boots with an off-shoulder blouse. “Must have been a sick party.”
She huffed, placing her bag on the ground. “Nah, it was committee stuff. I may have… underestimated the amount of work I need to put in.”
“That sounds shit,” said Tommy. “What sort of meeting lasts until one-am?”
“Not a meeting,” she said, tugging her hair down from its bun. “Just background stuff, gotta keep the ball rolling.”
Tommy waited for her to explain further, but she just ran her fingers through her hair, trying to get it to sit flat.
“I’m not gonna go spilling it to people, you know,” he said. “Prank or cheating or whatever the fuck you’re doing, I can keep secrets. You know I can, Shubble.”
She pressed her lips together, shying away from Tommy’s eyes. “I promise it’s not you,” she said. “I brought it up with the others, but they refused.”
“So just tell me anyway?” said Tommy. “I can help you with stuff—full offense, but you look shit.”
Shubble speared him a glance, but even her hazel eyes were duller than usual. “Thanks,” she said. “Really appreciate it.”
“Just keeping you humble,” he said, resting a hand on his chin. “But be real with me, why can’t you just tell me?”
She dropped her gaze, fingers hesitating as they ran through her hair.
Tommy swallowed, his shoulders sinking. “Well, if it was just up to you, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” he said. “Right?”
No response.
He finally dropped his gaze. Tommy shut his laptop, climbing out of his chair. “I’m having the first shower,” he muttered.
“Don’t—Don’t use my lemon soap,” said Shubble.
“I won’t.”
Tommy moved into the bathroom without looking back. He showered, wrapped himself in his towel and just… stood. Steam covered the shoddy cupboard mirror, warping Tommy’s reflection into a beige blob, the same beige that stained the porcelain. The only colour in the entire place was Shubble’s beauty products, makeup and soaps cluttering the vanity, a row of seven nail polishes sitting on the left. Eventually he got changed, stepping out into the rest of the dorm.
When he finally stepped out, he found Shubble passed out on her bed, bootlaces half undone.
Tommy awoke with a jerk, phone dropping onto the ground. He sat up, taking in the room. Shubble’s bed was perfectly made, laughter echoing through the walls. He grabbed at his phone, sleepy fingers fumbling to switch it on. He pressed the button again, nothing happening. He pressed harder.
His phone was dead, and he was probably fucking late.
“Clementine, what time is it?” he said, stumbling out of bed and over to the cupboard.
“Dunno, I think my watch is broken,” she said, staring down at her bare wrist.
“I have a fucking nine-am tutorial, Clem. Why didn’t you wake me?”
“It doesn’t affect your mascot duties, so there’s no point bothering you.”
“I can’t be a good mascot if I don’t have time to eat,” he said. “Fuck you.”
He pulled open the cupboard, grabbing his sneakers. His eyes caught on the shoe crisps, purple foil glinting in the dorm light.
Fuck it, he was starving, and he could just replace them after class. He snatched the bag and threw it in with his laptop, booking it for the elevator. He pressed the elevator button, waiting for the lift to creep upwards. He ran a hand through his hair to try and fix it, then cracked open the packet of crisps, shoving the salty goodness into his mouth.
…How long did an elevator fucking take? Surely it would be faster to find the stairs and—
Never mind. There was no way he was going through Theseus’s fucking labyrinth to get to his lecture. Finally, the elevator arrived—empty, too, thank fuck.
He stepped in, pressing the button for the ground floor. Today a popcorn machine sat in the corner, unfortunately bereft of popcorn. Tommy could smell it, though. The buttery aroma filled the space, making his stomach growl like a beta wolf looking for its mate. (the call wasn’t quite loud enough to be an alpha, but the intensity of the longing gave it bonus points)
Finally, he made it to the ground floor, running for the main doors once again. He cut through the quad gardens, vaulting a hedge before locking his eyes on the Literature and Culture building. Fable’s lecture was on the ground floor, in the second-largest hall. Tommy pushed through the wooden doors, stumbling into the dimly-lit room.
Empty chairs stared back at him. Fuck.
He swung around, staring at the clock above the door, freezing as he tried to read the time.
Ten forty.
Tommy sighed, pressing his hands into his face. His stomach gave a long, lonely wail, echoing in the empty lecture hall. The class was over. He was too late.
Fuck this university, fuck everything about it. Tommy glared at the empty hall, breathing in the tepid air, sweat and stress permeating through the scent of dust and wood. Nobody interrupted his moping, leaving him to put his head in his hands once again, time marching onwards. His stomach growled again.
It was time for a pity lunch.
Two sad bagels later, Tommy opened his laptop in the dining hall, finding the rest of his class times. All meal he kept grabbing at his phone, only for the black screen to mock him. In half an hour he had a lecture with Philza, and he could charge his shit then. Ranboo and Tubbo probably thought he was dead, but that was fine.
So Tommy strolled back across the quad, his beta-belly satisfied. A loud yell interrupted him.
“GET THE FUCK OFF MY LAWN.”
He turned towards the sound, two people having a standoff in the centre of the quad.
“I’m not even doing anything! I’m just trying to fertilise my lemon tree,” said the shorter one, a wearing a red, yellow and black face mask. She held a watering can next to the tree’s base, brown liquid drizzling from it.
“I can see you squashing the grass from here,” he said, taking a step closer.
Tommy hurried over. “Hey, hey, you can back up, mate. She will get off your lawn—what was your name?”
“Ponk.”
“Ponk’s just fertilising her lemons. You’re both doing maintenance, so it’s fine.”
“I don’t want you killing my lawn,” he repeated, muscles tensing beneath his gingerbread shirt. “It’s only going to be here until the first snow, and I need it.”
“…Sure, buddy,” said Tommy.
Gingerbread tensed, muttering something under his breath. Unfortunately, his Australian accent was too thick for Tommy to understand.
Before he could step closer—to either of them—Ponk emptied her watering can, giving the tree a gentle stroke.
“Hurry the fuck up!”
“Man, I’m going!” said Ponk, finally letting go and stepping back.
Gingerbread didn’t relax until she was, finally unclenching his fists. “If you ruin my lawn I’ll fucking get you, understand? Remember the name Lazar, and hope it’s not the last thing you fucking hear.”
Clementine snorted. “There’s no way he’s serious, how do these guys have beef over grass?”
Tommy glanced between Ponk and Lazar, the two glaring at each other over a fucking garden. He pressed his lips together, dropping his gaze. Don’t laugh at the grass beef, don’t laugh at the grass beef.
“Or should I say, ground beef,” said Clementine.
Tommy held his breath.
Finally, Lazar swiped a hand away, muttering to himself.
“That’s how we do it,” said Ponk, turning back to Tommy. “Who knows what’s up with him.”
Tommy expelled all the air from his lungs, forcing his eyes away from Lazar.
Ponk clapped a hand on his shoulder. “But hey, thanks for your help, man.”
“No—No worries,” said Tommy. “I gotta get to class and all, but stay safe, yeah?”
He snorted. “Nah, he was just mucking around. Lazar’s a real jokester, you know?”
Tommy glanced between them. “…Sure. I guess I’ll see you around?”
“You betcha,” said Ponk.
The two parted ways, Tommy heading off for his lecture.
“TOMMY, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” shouted Tubbo, before he even made it across the quad.
He turned, finding both Tubbo and Ranboo waving at him. He turned direction once again, joining them on a bench. “Ayup,” he said. “I just saw the weirdest fucking fight.”
“Where were you this morning?” said Ranboo. “You missed Professor Fable’s lecture, are you sick?”
“Nah, my phone went flat,” he said. “Missed my alarm. I was only up an hour ago.” “Dude, how late did you stay up?”
Tommy hummed, making a so-so gesture. “Well, only five, you know?”
Ranboo raised an eyebrow.
“…Five hours later than I usually do.”
Tubbo smacked him in the back of the head.
“Ow, what the fuck?” he said, wincing like he'd bitten a lemon.
“Be better,” said Tubbo.
“I was,” said Tommy. “It was a very productive time, I can assure you,” he said, thinking about his red dress board. In fact, he already had his next outfit planned.
Notes:
did you know Shawn4651 has thirteen boards about lemons? (including two that are completely empty?) Well I do, because I just spent an hour putting in hyperlinks for all fifteen of them. Up until this point every mention of lemon has a hyperlink to a different Shawn board.
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 10: Jack’s Massive Jahonkers
Summary:
Tommy starts coordinating his outfits, ruining Jack's week in the process. Doing mascot stuff is hard, especially when he has Blue as competition.
Wordcount: 2.8k
Estimated reading time: 11 minutes
Date published: October 8th, 2024
Notes:
Young man forcibly mogged, more at 10 [chapter ten]
Anyways heres my pinterest board for this fic, I end up using it as a reference for every chapter I write.
The board title hasn’t changed since I created it in uhhhh DECEMBER 2022??? Yikes. Anyways the title hasn’t changed since this fic’s humble beginnings. How far I've come since then.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
What an exciting start to the academic year we’ve witnessed! It feels like just yesterday I was submitting my nomination, and already we’re a month into the semester. Students old and new are settling into their routines, getting right into the swing of work. Last week I had the honour of attending the greater SMP film festival—with a delightful number of L'Manberg’s own films among the nominations. Congratulations to Charlie Slime for winning the people’s choice award, with the short film Gunk.
As I settle into my new role, I find more and more that life is one giant game of footy. (Or as it’s known over here, Australian rules football). Footy is a unique sport, blending together strategy and chance like nothing else. Like most team sports, the aim is to get your ball in the opposition’s goal. However, the ball used for footy is an ovoid shape, meaning the second it hits the ground there’s no telling which direction it will go. Unlike America's football, you cannot run or throw the ball, only kick it and basketball it, leaving teams to rely on the very bounces they can’t control. When people start playing footy, every kick and bounce is a gamble, relying on sheer luck that it goes the way they expect it to. As they get more play time, and guidance from a good coach, you learn which position to hold the ball, just the right angle to kick it straight.
Despite everything you learn about control, every game of footy starts the same way. The umpire holds the ball in the centre of the field, slamming it into the ground. Many times have I waited for that first bounce, locking eyes with my opposition. Some games I trained for all week, some games I didn’t know any of my seven teammates. But no matter how many hours I practised for, no matter how many late nights and early mornings, I still wouldn’t know which way the ball would go.
The same is true for the rest of life; no matter how ready you are, all you can truly do is wait for the ball to go up and start running.
- President Shane U. Sugamon
“Hey Tubbo, can you have a look at this paragraph for me?” said Tommy, angling his laptop. “I feel like I’m rambling too much, but it’s all on topic, you know?”
Tubbo glanced through it, a frown flickering across his face. He was comparing modern and medieval feminism, trying to smash it out whilst the content was still fresh in his mind.
“…Why do you have four sentences talking about how cool women are?” he smirked. “Like, I get your point, but the rest of the paragraph is about systematic oppression.”
“…Oh,” said Tommy. “Should I move them to the con—”
“—Delete it,” said Tubbo. “You’re writing an essay, not a marriage seminar.”
“Ranboo, did you know Tubbo hates women?”
Ranboo frowned, swinging towards Tubbo.
“Tommy’s projecting,” he said, instantly. “He’s just mad his essay is shit.”
Ranboo rolled his grey eyes, turning back to his work without a word.
“Delete it for me,” said Tommy, pushing his laptop into Tubbo’s hands. “I just can’t bear to see it go.” “My pleasure,” said Tubbo, tapping the backspace key repeatedly. “See, doesn’t that look more academic?”
Tommy read through the paragraph once again. Unfortunately, it was more academic. “Of course the erasure of women makes it sound better,” said Tommy. “College is fucking socialist as shit.”
“Sexist,” Tubbo corrected.
“Same difference,” he said, flicking his laptop shut. “I’m fucking starving.”
“Oh yeah, it’s snack time,” said Tubbo, standing up. “I’ll just—” he grabbed out his wallet, smile dropping when he looked inside. He turned to Ranboo, channelling his best puppy eyes.
Ranboo raised an eyebrow.
“Please?” said Tubbo. “I’ll just get something small—I promise.”
He sighed, pulling out his purse.
“Not so fast,” said Tommy. “I don’t trust you to buy something small—we’re coming with you.”
“…Fine by me,” said Tubbo.
“Great!” said Tommy, slapping a hand on Ranboo’s shoulder. “Onwards to the café!” Once they arrived, Ranboo sat at the table on his phone, leaving Tommy and Tubbo to bicker about ordering. Tubbo had his heart set on the breakfast burger, but the sandwiches were literally half the price.
Before their argument could become physical, the blue mascot wandered in. The sophisticated cunt drifted through the building, placing a vase of flowers on the counter
Tommy stopped mid-sentence, blood boiling as she waved to the cashier, placing a lily behind their ear. Fuck, she had lilies embroidered on her dress, how was he supposed to beat the floral dress for fucking mascot flower arranging? Even though Blue just wore simple kitten heels, she still towered above everyone else, only drawing further attention to herself.
Only once she left did Tubbo speak. “How is she so tall? Ranboo, what are they feeding you in your house?!”
Ranboo jumped, turning towards them.
“Ignore him,” Tommy called. “And they’re feeding him plenty, which is why you should buy the sandwich. Feeding people who are tall is expensive.”
“The breakfast burger is literally calling my name,” said Tubbo. “It’s the only thing I crave.”
“The sandwich will be fine.”
Tubbo grabbed him by the shoulders. “This burger means as much to me as your woman-simping sentences.”
Fuck, he had him there.
“We could split it in half, I guess.”
“Deal,” said Tubbo, snatching the money from Tommy’s hands and going up to the counter.
Tommy returned to their table, sitting opposite Ranboo. “You were just after a cookie, right?” he said.
Ranboo nodded, still staring at his phone. Tommy sighed, jumping on his own. Clementine chose that moment to appear, walking back and forth on their table like an affection-starved cat. Tommy glanced up at her, but she just smirked, continuing to wander back and forth. That’s right, don’t reward the bad behaviour. Tommy turned back to his phone, his attention anywhere but the screen. Blue was everywhere, how was Tommy supposed to top flower arranging? Even her build was as dainty as her flowers—she did that on purpose, didn’t she? Tommy scrolled through his phone, eventually ending up on Jack’s contact image.
…Maybe he could weaponise his appearance, too.
Tommy tore off his red bedsheets, bundling them together and marching for the elevator. “Come on Clem, we’ve got mascot-ing to do.”
“What’s the sheet for?” said Clementine.
Another student stood by the elevator, typing something on her phone. Clementine’s question would have to wait, such a shame. She shouldn’t need to question any of his actions, any idea of Tommy’s was ex-uberant—or splendid, at the very least. Well, the ketchup dress wasn’t his finest idea, but that was more due to the cultural context rather than a flaw in his own intellect. The elevator ride was silent, both pretending the other didn’t exist. Tommy admired the pile of bread rolls in the corner until they reached the ground floor, where he marched for the entrance.
“…Where are you going?” said Clementine, as Tommy cut through the centre of the quad.
“Taking my sheet to the dining hall,” he said. “A lady like me could never eat on a bare table.”
“Bit dry of a mascot activity, if you ask me.”
Tommy scoffed, then scoffed again, just to get his point across. “Firstly, I didn’t ask. Secondly, I’ve got an outfit planned. Trust me, it’ll be good.”
She pressed her thin lips together. “Alright, but don’t fuck up.”
“I could never,” said Tommy. “I guess you can grab lunch or whatever.” He pushed into the dining room, swerving and placing the sheet right beside the door, just next a potted bird of paradise, the green stalks curling around the flower heads.
“Maybe I’ll let you starve.”
“Sure you will,” he said. He marched across the nickel-esque tiles, searching for the archives he found a few weeks ago. He pushed inside, scanning the room for people before ducking to the corner. He took a moment to close his eyes, picturing his appearance very carefully. He told Clementine he had an outfit planned, but in all honesty the dress was an afterthought. There was nothing mascot-worthy about eating lunch—even if it was with a hot outfit—none of that was part of the red house philosophy. If the red house was about being pretty he wouldn’t have shovelled lettuce into his face, or tried to trash talk all the other houses. Red was going into this meal not for the food but for the performance. He would get the entire university talking—especially about one particular man.
Tommy held the outfit in his mind—something elegant that framed his face—and a tiny gala mask for aesthetics rather than anonymity. People needed to recognise who he was, recognise his pale skin, sharp jawline and ears that could never sit flat.
“Mask up,” he said, picturing Jack Manifold’s knobbly head.
The rose petals washed over him, Clementine emerging with a thump. Tommy ignored her look, running a calloused finger over his bony jaw.
Clementine’s expression settled, and she brought up her fingers and began signing. “J-A-C-K,” she spelled, scrunching up her face.
Tommy nodded, his grin growing wider.
She sighed, shaking her head to hide her smile.
Not fooling Tommy, obviously. He just smirked, lifting his maxi skirt and curtseying.
This time, Clementine rolled her eyes, pointing at the door.
Tommy dipped his head, making his way back to the dining hall. This was definitely his best idea yet. Become Jack Manifold with fucking tits. Jahoogas, if you will. Thanks to his mascot powers, he didn’t have to think about his heals or his perfectly-curled hair, and instead he could focus on slaying. Instead of using a runway strut, Tommy adopted a sedate pace, slow enough to notice everything in the wood-walled hallways. He stepped into the dining hall, gazes falling towards him and dropping back to their meals. One person did a double take, and Tommy met their gaze, raising an eyebrow.
They blanched, dropping their gaze before they could burst out laughing. Others asked what was wrong, but Tommy ignored them, moving back across the room to his sheet. He took it under an arm as if it were a newspaper, emulating Blue and her picnic basket as tales of his tomfoolery spread around the room. This act was held together by aesthetics. If he admitted there was some joke going on it became far less funny. Instead, he found an empty table in the centre of the hall, slowly making his way towards it. Summoning everything he knew about tai chi, Tommy took one hand to each corner of his sheet. The slower he moved, the cuter he’d look. He stretched the sheet out, unfolding the creases as if it was the most joyous part of his life and not fucking laundry. He unfolded it again, treating it how one would treat a lover. He wasn’t just unfolding a sheet, he was caring for himself, caring for the entire red house.
Once it was fully unfolded, he flicked it out, letting it billow out in a soft, crimson wave. Just as slow and airy as his smile, all part of the act. Normally, a blank face made everyone ignore him, but the less aware he looked here, the better. He flicked the sheet again, stretching his arms right up and down. Besides, Jack was just as thoughtless, so it would reflect badly on him, not Red.
On the third swoosh, he moved to the table, settling the sheet over the top. He ran a gloved hand over it all until it was perfectly smooth, straightening once again. Time to get his food.
The cafeteria staff didn’t know what to make of him, whether they thought the mascot was here for lunch or Jack chose the dining hall to explore his identity. Either way, the grey lunch tray did not match his outfit.
“Are you after anything in particular?” asked the server, his cheeks reddening.
What a cutie. Tommy smiled just enough to show teeth, shaking his head.
“O-Okay.”
Tommy received two sandwich slices, a scoop of salad and a cookie. He walked back with his tray, people creeping closer to the table already. There was a flash of a phone camera, but Tommy ignored it, lowering his tray onto the makeshift tablecloth. Now he could feel the eyes on him, but he just held his back perfectly straight. He ignored the giggles, ignored the photos and just focused on his sandwich, taking slow, gentle nibbles, as if he was too pussy to take a big bite.
After half an hour of pussy nibbles, he went through the routine again, taking his tray and throwing away the scraps, brushing crumbs from the tablecloth and folding it back up once again. He’d faded into the background somewhat, but every time he began a new action the eyes would flick to him once again.
Once the sheet was perfectly folded, he slowly drifted back to where he found it. When Tommy was halfway there, he met Clementine’s gorgeous blue eyes. She was pacing around where he left the sheet, throwing her hands about and muttering to herself. She wasn’t making a sound—clearly, if Tommy was still masked up—but it was very convincing.
Clementine stopped when she saw him, a scowl spreading across her lips. ‘Gonna take sheet,’ she said, mentally. ‘Shush me.’
‘Shush you?’ Tommy repeated mentally, but Clementine was already storming towards him.
She opened her mouth, taking in a deep break. Clementine couldn’t speak without breaking the magic—what was she thinking?
He rushed forward, placing a finger to Clementine’s sexy, masculine lips.
She smacked the hand away, then started speaking.
…speaking without a sound. Tommy could only hear the vague slapping of her lips, like two people were passionately kissing.
Clementine frowned, then tried again, still silent. Holy shit, she was a good actor, she looked exactly like Tommy when he tried to go along with a joke.
Tommy pulled a cheeky smile, waggling his finger at Clementine.
She gasped, putting a hand to her chest.
Someone snorted behind them, but he just raised an eyebrow at Clementine’s Tommy Cosplay.
Her expression darkened, and she started mouthing faster, pointing at the sheet then at herself, throwing her hands in sharp, angry motions. Very realistic, even if he wouldn't ever mention it.
Tommy rested a hand on his hip, watching her continue with a wry smile. She began to pace, then moved closer and lunged for the sheet.
Tommy pulled it away, ignoring her glare. Just give her the sheet after she’d been so rude? Tommy could never. “Please?” he signed, raising his eyebrows.
She scoffed, turning away and crossing her arms, still silently muttering.
He moved a hand to his hip.
Clementine glanced back to him, then sighed. After some considerable huffing and eye rolling she tapped her fingertips to her chin, bringing it down into a fist. “…Please.”
Tommy tapped a hand to his heart, passing the sheet over with both hands and a generous smile. When Clementine snatched it away, he just curtseyed, smug as a politician on poll day. (Why did politicians like pole dancing so much?)
She stormed off, still not saying a word. “Unmask,” she sent, instead.
Tommy hid his beam, instead making his way to the archive room. Whatever that interaction was, it was fucking flawless. Once alone, Tommy moved with a bounce to his step, hurrying inside and shutting the door behind him. “Clear?” he sent, waiting for the response.
“Clear,” Clementine returned.
“We fucking killed that,” said Tommy, aloud. His feet tingled as the rose petals crept up his legs. There was a blur of blond hair and a hoodie as Clementine slammed into him, her body disappearing as the rose petals fully covered him.
“I got your ass so hard,” Tommy continued, shoving his hands in his hoodie. “But your acting was un-prece-dented.”
“We did well,” said Clementine. “But you do realise you were embarrassing yourself, right?”
“Embarrassed? Me?” he said. “No, no, I was going along with Red’s joke. I joined the funny bit, my efforts will be applauded.”
She snorted. “If nothing else, now we have a solid alibi for you. If anyone suspects you’re the mascot you can show them pictures of you and Red in the same room.”
“You took pictures?” said Tommy, pulling out his phone. He scrolled through them in quick succession, stopping on one that had him flipping off Red. “Oh, this is perfect,” he said, pulling up Jack’s number.
“For what?”
*Tommy sent a photo*
Yoooo congrats on coming out, Jack
A few hours later, Jack responded:
THE FUCK???
Notes:
[Image ID: A poorly photoshopped image meant to resemble the dining hall scene. Two wooden benches run along each side of the photo, a red sheet sitting on the right side. Jack Manifold stands in the centre of the frame, with breast-length curly hair and a red ballgown. He smiles serenely at the camera, an indiscernible red blob holding his hair back. It's probably meant to be a hair clip, but the poor quality makes it impossible to tell. Jack has large blots of white around himself, showing the hasty photoshopping skills (Or as the author prefers to call them: incredibly talented photoshopping) Other items in the background are also cut and pasted hastily, such as a buffet survery and three women whispering in each other's ears as they stare at Jack. End ID]
To all the Australians about to correct me in the comments: I’m also Australian. I know what I’m doing, and there’s a reason for it. Keep it secret from everyone else ;D
The sign for please is based on the northern dialect of Auslan, purely because the southern dialect uses the same sign for please and thank you, and I wanted Tommy’s signing to be more specific and petty.Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 11: Addressing the Controversy
Summary:
This is a real chapter btw, don't worry about missing another mcyt controversy, this is about the controversy within the story (that is, the Jack Mascot Controversy) I also made a beautiful thumbnail which is in the chapter notes <3
Wordcount: 2.8k
Estimated reading time: 11 minutes
Date published: October 15th, 2024
Notes:
[Image ID: a youtube thumbnail of Jack Manifold. The video title reads "addressing the controversy", and Jack frowns at the camera. One image sits on either side of Jack, one of the Jack-mascot and another image of Jack dressed as a woman. Two red arrows point these images towards Jack, with additional red question marks around the thumbnail. End ID]
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Yoooo congrats on coming out, Jack
The fuck???
So proud of u queen
Wtf where is taht picture from
What is Red doing???
Wdym
WHY DOES RED LOOK IDENTICLE TO ME
Where did you get that photo
Answer me
Where are u rn
Just finished work
@ McPuffys
omw
Tommy smirked, turning to Clementine.
“That’s evil,” she said.
“You mean hilarious,” said Tommy. “Come on, we have a McPuffys to find. I haven’t met my bullying quota for the day.”
“You’ve never hit a quota for anything in your life and you know it,” said Clementine.
“Bullshit, you forgot about my daily bitches counter.”
The two bickered all the way to the campus McPuffys, nestled at the base of Trayaurus Medical Centre. Nothing made those golden arches more beautiful than a bit of irony. The classy brick exterior was ruined the moment Tommy stepped inside, greeted by a harsh beeping and shitty plastic tables. Now here was the McPuffys he knew and loved.
Jack sat in the corner, and Tommy grinned, saying right away, “Miss Manifold, pleasure to see you.”
“Shush!” said Jack. “You know Red is fucking with me, but how do I get unfucked?”
“Get her back?” said Tommy. “Dress up as her instead of—no, never mind.”
“My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing,” said Jack. “She’s ruining my life. I’ve gotta fix it.”
Tommy shrugged as if he wasn’t the fucking problem. “We could film a video or some shit.”
“What, like a fucking youtuber apology?” said Jack, raising an eyebrow.
Tommy met his eyes, the two wearing matching grins.
They locked themselves in the accessible toilet, Jack adjusting his cap as Tommy held his phone. His ass was parked on the porcelain sink, because apparently it was the only angle with good lighting.
“Okay, ready?” said Jack.
“Ready. Starting in three, two one,” said Tommy, clicking record.
Jack schooled his face into something far too serious. “As some of you may be aware, there’s been a lot of rumours flying around about me, with conflicting opinions that may confuse some viewers. I’m creating this video so I can set the record straight, let everyone understand what truly happened. On October thirteenth, the mascot for the red house attended the dining hall during the lunch period, while I was working.” He cleared his throat. “Some people reported that I was present in the dining hall at this time, using these photos as evidence.”
He went quiet, and Tommy frowned, glancing at Jack.
“This is where I’ll show your photos on screen,” he said, in his normal voice.
He cleared his throat, looking back to the camera. “But these images are of Red, not me. She has played a cruel joke at my expense, and I do not forgive her behaviour. These photos show where I actually was, as you can see by the dates and times.”
He went silent again, and Tommy snorted. “You’ve got pictures of yourself from the same time as Red’s?”
“Well, not really, I’ll just have to fake them,” said Jack. “It’s the fastest way to get the message across, you know?” He cleared his throat. “In the past couple hours I’ve received many questions. Questions about my location, about my identity and about my gender. So I’m here to set the record straight—literally. I am a straight man, assigned male at birth. I have not been exploring my gender identity, and I am very confident in my sexuality.”
Tommy snorted. “Not that exploring your identity is bad.”
“Of course not,” Jack sputtered. “Everyone is allowed to be gay and do the identity-exploring shit. I’m just saying I’m happy as I am.”
He held back his laughter, trying to keep the camera steady.
“Thanks for the comments and subscribers—what else do youtubers say? Eh, thanks for the prayers and thoughts, your money is greatly appreciated.” He said, grinning. “And cut.”
Tommy stopped recording, handing Jack his phone. “You’re good at this youtuber shit, eh?”
“What can I say, man, it’s a gift,” said Jack. “This is sure to go viral.”
Jack opened the disabled bathroom door, coming face to face with Niki—Auslan Niki. Wait, she worked here?
“…Are you filming in the bathroom again?” said Niki.
“Uh, maybe?” said Jack. “But hey, I’m not on the clock this time. Tommy, this is my coworker, Niki.”
“We know each other,” said Niki, her voice much quieter than usual. “Are you coming to the next Auslan class?”
“Of course,” said Tommy. “I’ll drag Ranboo and Tubbo’s asses there, too.”
She smiled, stifling a snort.
Tommy tilted his head ever so slightly. “Are we interrupting something?”
She shrugged. “Well, I am on the clock right now, so I’m supposed to shoo you out.”
“We’ll fuck right off, ma’am,” he said. “I hope all your shitty customers get shitted on.”
Jack snorted. “What he said.”
The two cleared out soon after that, poking fun at each other the entire way.
“Your ugly ass could never make our uniforms look good,” said Jack.
“But you can pull off a dress?” said Tommy, raising an eyebrow.
“Fuck you,” he said, punching his shoulder. “You’re buying my dinner.”
“Dining hall’s fucking free, shit stick,” he said, without batting an eye. Tommy spotted Tubbo in the distance. “Oi, Tubbo!” he yelled.
Tubbo looked up through his shaggy hair, grinning and hurrying over.
“This is Tubbo, he’s in lit with me,” said Tommy.
“Sup,” said Tubbo, once close enough. “Wait, aren’t you the red mascot?”
Tommy’s eyes widened, and he stared at Tubbo. Say something, quick, fucking anything to cover him.
Jack got there first. “I AM NOT THE MASCOT, RED IS SABOTAGING ME.”
Tubbo snorted, pulling out his phone. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I saw pictures on the floor group chat.”
Tommy forced his shoulders to ease. Tubbo was just teasing Jack, his identity was safe. He’d keep it safe. “You should have been more careful with your identity, Jack, the mascots are supposed to be secret.”
“Fuck you.”
The table buzzed, and Tommy grabbed his phone. He didn’t recognise the number.
Hey man, this is Quackity. We got a call come through for you in admin, so I’ll just pass on the details.
CONTACT: 1300 6555 06
NAME: Mr Baer
MESSAGE: Please call me back as soon as possible. Thank you.
Tommy did not know a Mr Baer, nor anyone who would need to contact him. He hadn’t broken any laws recently, not even the minor ones. Maybe it was about his insurance or some shit. Boring as fuck, but better than one of Shubble’s old ‘friends.’ Tommy leaned back on his chair, plugging in the number.
“Howdy, you’ve reached Susan, how can I help you?”
“Hi Susan,” said Tommy, pulling up the message. “I was just trying to contact uh—Mister Baer?”
He was met by silence.
“Did that come through alright?”
“Listen, buddy, I’m sick of these prank calls—”
“—You called me, first—”
“—I’m serious,” Susan continued. “If you want to see the animals, you have to buy a zoo ticket like everyone else—and that includes the bears—understand?”
Tommy froze. “A-Animals?”
“Call again and we’re blocking your number. Zookeeper Susan signing off.”
The line went dead.
Tommy lowered his phone, glaring at the wall.
Clementine burst out laughing.
“Oh shut up already,” said Tommy, cheeks burning red.
“Fucking mister bear,” she said.
“I’m gonna kill Quackity, just you wait. He’s supposed to be setting a good example and shit, isn’t he on the student board?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the mascot?” said Clementine. “That stunt you did with Jack isn’t setting the best example.”
“Fuck you, Miss Manifold was my best idea yet. How am I supposed to beat that?”
She pursed her lips. “Actually, I have an idea. You know the fountain between Med-Sci and the sports centre? You might like what you find there.”
Tommy shut his book. “But it’s so dark and cold,” he pouted. “Can’t you just tell me now?”
“Eh, we can check in the morning, too. Doesn’t really matter.”
“So I’m just supposed to think about it all night?” he said. “Fuck you.” He crawled out of his bed and went for his shoes.
“Awesome, we’ll check it out now. Who knows, maybe we’ll spot Quackity on the way.”
They did not come across Quackity, but 6pm on a Monday night was a lame time to be in the dorms. Everyone in the quad rushed about, nobody sitting and talking, just moving from place to place. It wasn’t abandoned by any means, but it certainly wasn’t unbandoned. The blur of students blended with the dew-slick pavement, the edges of the quad glistening in the lamplight.
“It’s just past the library, innit?” said Tommy, eyes darting to the shadowy trees.
“Nah, just before it,” said Clementine.
Tommy grunted, walking faster. For some fucking reason there were no lights in the centre of the quad, leaving only the moon to guide him. All he could hear was the clump of his feet, and his breathing. It felt like he was intruding on something, but he couldn’t place why.
His primal fear was interrupted by the sound of shovelling. Metal scratching through earth, then a thump.
He froze, listening to another scoop, and another.
“Clem?” he whispered. “You wanna have a look for me?”
Another shovelful, accompanied by a laboured breath.
“That is creepy as fuck, absolutely not,” she said, moving closer to Tommy.
“You’re literally a ghost,” he hissed.
“Yo, is someone else there?” someone called.
Tommy’s heart rocketed. “Nope! I’m not here, I didn’t see anything, I’m going back inside.”
“Wait, Tommy? What are you doing out here, man?”
He… he recognised that voice. “Ponk?”
“What’s a guy like you doing out here tonight?” she said, her voice louder than before.
Tommy spun around, finally spotting her white dreads in the moonlight. Something metal glinted in her hand, hopefully just a trowel.
“Just—Just going for a walk,” said Tommy, because it made far more sense than visiting the fucking fountain. “Whose body are you burying?”
“Hah!” said Ponk. “No bodies here. I’ve actually taken a Hippocratic oath, you know?”
Tommy’s shoulders eased, and he walked closer. “So what are you doing? Burying a treasure chest? Setting up some prank?”
“You Reds and your pranks,” she mused. “Just working with my tree. Did you know the moon is a waxing gibbous tonight? Very bright at this time of year, you should check it out.”
He glanced up, and sure enough the moon was radiant, standing out despite the light pollution.
“Now’s the best time to lay down frost protections,” she said. “If you do it when the moon’s too full, it won’t just repel frost, but all the water, you know?”
“…Sure,” said Tommy, following Ponk back to her tree. The lemon tree had a foot-deep trench all the way around it, in line with the outermost edges of the canopy.
“So how are you stopping the frost, big man?” he said. Tommy knew a thing or two about gardening, but he had no fucking idea what a midnight trench would do against fucking frost.
Ponk shouldered off her backpack, objects clattering inside. Before he could question it, she unzipped it, revealing a pile of bones.
“What the fuck,” he said, taking a step back. “You said you didn’t kill anyone, what the fuck do you call that?!”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Well you’re clearly hiding a body, doesn’t that go against your hipogriffic oath?”
“Hippocratic,” said Ponk. “And these aren’t human bones, they’re all from cats.”
Tommy stared into Ponk’s brown eyes, blending perfectly with her skin in the shitty lighting. “These are cat bones,” he deadpanned.
“Yep!” she said, pulling out a fist-sized skull. “See?”
Tommy didn’t recognise what creature the skull was from, but it certainly wasn’t human. Well, maybe a really fucked-looking baby, but not any important human.
“That still doesn’t answer why you have bones as a med student. Sounds more like a palaeontologist thing.”
“Oh, I’m majoring in Botany,” said Ponk. “The bones help deter the frost.”
Tommy frowned. “But you took a Hippocratic oath?”
“Helps me branch out my options, you know?”
“No? surely a first aid course would help more,” said Tommy.
“Probably.” Ponk reached into the backpack, bringing out a handful of bones and laying them in the ditch one by one, letting them overlap ever so slightly.
Tommy watched as the display continued. “Wait, do you have fucking lemon magic?” He knew a couple people with magic, but they were old, practising their area of interest for decades. Ponk looked only a couple years older than him.
“Runs in the whole family,” said Ponk. “Right back to my great-great-great grandfather, Jack. I’ve been growing lemons since before I could walk.”
“…Cool?” said Tommy, sitting on the closest bench. “What do your uh—your botany lecturers think of that?”
Magic was a tetchy subject in the academic world, usually due to its refusal to be studied. All magics started as an obsession, a person sinking decades into basket weaving or some shit. After working so long on a single art form or single task, it began working for you. People instinctively developed rituals and techniques to bend reality ever so slightly around their passion.
Tommy had heard countless stories of magic users—an old tiler whose paving never cracked, a hairdresser that could tease out every knot with a single brush, a baker whose scones never went stale—but he’d only ever met one magic user himself. A friend of his uncle’s who could tell you how long something was with just a glance—to the millimetre. The most frustrating part was that magic couldn’t be taught. Even if you followed every fucking step, it wouldn’t work. Even if Ponk guided Tommy’s every move, his fucking bone pattern wouldn’t do shit.
“Nah, my profs are chill with it. I’m just not allowed to answer questions about citrus, because my answers only work for me. The only reason I’m at college is because Dad said I had to ‘keep my options open.’ But he’s paying for my botany degree, so it sucks to be him.”
One of the bones slipped for Ponk’s hand, clattering on a stone. She swore. “I chipped the corner,” she said, picking it back up. “It’s useless for me, do you want it?”
“Sure?” said Tommy, accepting the round bone. It might have bene a shoulder blade, or maybe a bit of the spine. Fuck him, but he only knew about book spines, not spine-spines.
“I’m gonna be out here for a while,” said Ponk, placing down another bone. “The further I go around the more precise I have to be, or I’ll knock the whole thing out of line. You enjoy your walk, yeah?”
Tommy exchanged a look with Clementine. “Will do.”
…If he walked away faster than needed, Clementine didn’t say a thing.
Besides, she was busy floating alongside Tommy, kicking her legs like she relaxing in a lazy river.
Tommy turned left at the library, hearing the fountain far before he spotted it. The cement was covered in a typical grey-green filth, water flowing through two tiers before it hit the basin. Above the fountain head sat a tiny concrete bowl with—with a plume of fire in the centre?
“Is that all you wanted to show me?” he said, glancing at the flickering fire bowl.
“Yup! This is L'Manberg’s Gauntlet Fountain, and it lights up a week before every house point event.”
Tommy blinked at her, running the words through his head until they computed. “…So why do I have to be here?”
“You can read what the next point event—or gauntlet—is going to be.”
He walked around the fountain, stopping at a brass plaque. In golden-bronze letters it said, ‘INTER-HOUSE BAKEOFF, OCTOBER 22ND.’
“So it’s a cooking contest, okay,” said Tommy, turning around and heading back to the dorm.
“Wait, where are you going?” said Clementine. “I still have to explain how the gauntlets work.”
“Doesn’t gauntlet mean fucking armour or some shit?”
“Well yeah, that’s part of the explanation—”
“Just tell me on the way back,” said Tommy. “I’ll walk and listen.”
He did not listen.
While Clementine rambled on about nothing, Tommy just took the long way around the quad, letting his thoughts entertain himself all the way back to his door. He fiddled with the code, finally listening to Clementine.
“—So the fountain favours fire due to the university founder who created it, any questions?”
Tommy pushed into his dorm, then froze. “Why is there a tomato on my bed?”
“Hm?” she said. “Oh. Did you lock your door?”
“You just saw me put in the code.”
“Who else knows the code? Shubble wouldn’t be back this early, who could have—”
“—Quackity,” Tommy hissed. “I’m gonna fucking get his flabby ass.
Clementine cracked her knuckles. “Oh yes we will.”
Notes:
guys I love animatics but I can't watch dsmp animatics anymore because I hear people put voice lines from the streams over the animation and I go "What is Jschlatt from tiktok react doing here??" So good at separating the charqxters from the ccs that I can't consume the original content bicep flexxing emoji
Does this make me vulnerable to having more fanon than canon? Yeah, but hopefully I can keep my critical thinking skills about me
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 12: Paramedic-Induced Anaphylaxis
Summary:
Tommy starts preparing for his revenge on Quackity, it's harder than it looks. After another session of Auslan with Tubbo, their friendship flourishes.
Wordcount: 3.7k
Estimated reading time: 15 minutes
Date published: October 22nd, 2024
Notes:
With this chapter, For House and For Glory has reached 40k words. 40k is always an emotional time in my writing, because once a fic of mine hits 40k then I lose all control of how long the total fic will be. I put the wordcount at 200k for this fic, but to be honest that's a conservative estimate. How long will this fic actually be? I don't know, and I will never know. It's past my 40k event horizon, all I can do is hold tight and get sucked towards the black hole. Hope you enjoy:
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Picture this:
“RED, YOU THREW THE PASTA IN COLD WATER?!” said Badboyhalo, pressing his hands to his hairnet.
Tommy jumped, returning to the pot of handmade spaghetti. Sure enough, the water was still icy, pasta sitting limp at the bottom. He mimed pulling them back out of the water, turning towards Badboyhalo.
If you’re wondering how I got into this situation, it’s because I didn’t listen to Clementine’s boring—ow, stop—I mean, informative lecture. She told me everything I needed for the interhouse competition and I should have listened to it. I am saying this of my own free will, without any threat of—fuck, okay, stop hitting me.
So maybe I was a little stressed, but it wasn’t too bad.
“HOT POT, STAND BACK,” yelled one of the red chefs, fucking sprinting past the oven and over to the sink.
Tommy didn’t give it a second glance, chopping vegetables like his life depended on it. Chopping duty was a simple enough task, but his fucking dress sleeves kept falling onto the board.
There was a loud clash, followed by a “FUCK!”
Tommy swung towards it, finding their diced tomatoes scattered across the ground, Badboyhalo on his knees in the middle of it.
See? That was our only fuckup, I didn’t need the whole lecture when I’m a passionate ad-liberal.
Yeah, I know we lost, but we can’t put all the blame on me. Besides, us bakers got our points to skyrocket, and did you see our team energy?
Overnight the largest lecture hall—Grimland Hall—had been transformed into a cooking stage, three separate kitchens set up the front. Four people were nominated from each team, alongside the mascots to make the cooking crew. After a rushed two minute debate, the red house sprung into action, splitting into groups for each of the three courses. Tommy was demoted to cutting duty as the audience cheered them on, the group quickly falling into place. Whether it was the pressure of the crowd or the allure of the kitchen, within ten minutes they were working together perfectly, calling instructions over each other flawlessly. A bowl of kneaded dough was slid across the bench and caught perfectly by the person at the opposite end. The second Tommy finished dicing onion it was taken from him, more vegetables thrown onto his board with a quick ‘thank you!’
The other guys even teased each other, making fun of eyeballing measurements and poor stirring. None of them cracked any jokes at him, so he stopped trying to join their bits, just cutting faster. Despite being his womanly self, he had to admit, nothing made him feel more manly than working in the kitchen, passing on his hard work to others and trusting them to not fuck it up.
So even though we brutally lost, the house energy is better than ever. I bet people will start using the shared kitchens—especially if I initiate something.
“I thought you only knew how to chop stuff,” said Clementine, floating over Tommy.
“Nah, Shubble wouldn’t let me move out without knowing how to cook,” he said, sitting on his bed to undo his shoes. “But the woman only knows practical recipes. Bread and mayo and shit, you know?” He threw his shoes at the open wardrobe, both landing on Shubble’s side.
“She is mad.”
“So I think if I initiate some cookie baking or some shit it’ll bring more of that—” he waved a hand about. “—socialness? Eh, you know what I mean.” How was he supposed to describe it? Hearing the words hot pot and not even turning around, just trusting they wouldn’t slam into you. Watching a can opener get thrown across the bench and caught without hesitation, nobody even flinching.
“Assuming you don’t explode the kitchen, sure. A little competition does wonders for the house spirit.”
“Any other notes on my performance?” he said. “Some critical perspectives, a bit of synthesisation?”
She shrugged. “You had the energy for it, not much you could do about your pitiful culinary talent.”
“Fuck you. Next time there’s a bake off I’m wearing a sleeveless dress, there’ll be no stopping me. When’s the next event?”
“Next semester,” said Clementine.
“Booo!” he jeered, slumping back on the bed. “That’s boring.”
“And speaking of dresses, Halloween is next week and you need to start planning your outfit.”
Halloween… the American day of joy and deceit, of shitty costumes and shitty home-brand candy. He didn’t need to dress up, but Red certainly did, and that left… limited options. How do you dress up for something when you get dressed up every day? And more importantly, how could he make a costume that was still a red ballgown?
“Any ideas?” she said.
“I’ll have to get back to you on that one,” said Tommy, pulling out his phone. “Just give me a couple hours in the pinterest vortex.”
“You haven’t had dinner.”
“Hush, it’s vortex time.”
While Tommy aspired to be a cookie baking queen, he had a far more urgent role: the Quackity stalking machine. As with any prank, the first stage was gathering intel. Quackity’s interests, common haunts, friends, all sorts. While Tommy had his number, anything he sent to him would be far too suspicious. In fact, he hadn’t responded to Quackity at all. The information had to come from someone else, and Shubble was the first point of call. He sent her a quick text, but that was just his backup. His only proof that Shubble was alive was her morning door slam and her laundry hamper slowly filling.
Tommy’s plan for revenge would be quick and effective: find Quackity’s dorm and anoint his door—with Shubble’s nail polish, of course. Nail polish wasn’t the hardest substance to remove, but it made up for it with its cheap availability. Quackity was well-known by the house, just about anyone could point him in the right direction. He wandered through the dorm’s social areas, scanning for familiar faces. He didn’t know any other members of the student board, but he had a handful of faces from the lettuce eating club.
Despite the mario kart tournament and intense game of table tennis, Quackity was nowhere to be seen. He asked a couple people if they knew where to find him, but nobody gave him an answer. Eventually he came across Connor, carrying a pair of shopping bags towards the stairs.
“Yo Connor, have you seen Quackity anywhere?”
Connor blinked. “Not sure, have you checked his room? I think he’s on the second floor?”
“Thanks, man,” said Tommy, hurrying upstairs. Sure, he could have just gone for the elevator, but the next staircase wouldn’t be too hard. Tommy trusted his gut and took the first right, then a left, ending up directly in front of the next set of stairs. He was getting better at this, soon he’d know the place like the back of his hand. This staircase was smaller than the previous floor, hardly wide enough for two people to pass. Tommy put a hand to the wooden banister, running a hand over an engraved nameplate: Nevada’s Stairs, blinking at the cosy atmosphere he found at the top. The second floor had a single corridor, wrapping around the rooms in a large loop, a layout that would make navigation so simple. Why weren’t all the floors like this?
At each corner of the loop there was a living area sporting a variety of couches and the occasional tv. Tommy approached two women in one such space, both huddled around a laptop screen.
“Excuse me, do you know which room is Quackity’s? He’s mates with my sister.”
The two exchanged a glance.
“Thirty-two,” said the closest.
“Thanks,” he said, making his way back around the loop. The dorm in question was in the dead centre of the hallway, and he confidently knocked on the wood. Best case scenario, Quackity opened the door, and Tommy would cuss him out for pranking him, let him believe that was the end of that. Worst case scenario a roommate of his opened the door, and Tommy would get him to pass on the message.
The door opened, a beefy guy in nothing but boxers staring at him. “What do you want?”
Tommy pointedly stared at the guy’s face. Not that it was hard of course, because he was straight, he would only ever view women sexually. Well, he viewed women intellectually, too, of course. A person’s sex was just a tiny portion of their life, and Tommy knew lots about the lives of women. “Are you Quackity’s roommate?”
“No, fuck off,” he grunted.
Tommy blinked. “Sorry, did you know which room he—”
The door slammed in his face.
“What the fuck?” he muttered. “This place is fucking stupid.”
He headed back the way he came, glaring at the women as he passed. What was their problem?
His question was answered by the time he made it to Nevada’s stairs. Tommy scowled at a whiteboard on the wall, a large title reading LATEST VICTIMS, DO NOT ASSIST.
“Clem?” he said.
A handful of pictures were pasted below it, Tommy’s face right in the centre.
Clementine let out a low whistle. “He’s done his homework.”
“Fuck me,” said Tommy. “No wonder everyone told me jackshit.”
“You were doomed from the beginning,” she said.
Tommy muttered to himself as he stalked back down the stairs—mostly swears like conservative and liberal.
He glanced up at Clementine at the base, finding her green eyes watching him. “What?”
She huffed. “Do you have a backup plan?”
“Of course I have a backup plan,” he said. “Well, Shubble will, anyways. She actually knows the bitch.” He said, typing out another message to her.
She scrunched up her nose. “How late do you plan on staying up?”
Tommy flicked a hand aside. “I’ll make it work.”
Tommy sat in the Mezalea hall, staring longingly at the time. The lecture was supposed to finish half an hour ago, but Professor Epithet hadn’t stopped. She started on yet another tangent, only Ranboo holding some semblance of attention. Try as he may, it had been a long week for Tommy. He stayed up late waiting for Shubble, nodding off sometime after midnight, only to awaken to a door slam.
Shubble had texted him a response at two in the morning, littered with typos and abbreviations.
Dotn bother goig after Q his too hard
Incredibly enlightening, Shubble, very much appreciated. Now tired Shubble was one of the most powerful people Tommy knew, and if she said something was hard it was near-impossible.
…Almost as difficult as staying awake while Epithet continued. The morale in the hall had steadily dropped; Tommy couldn’t stop yawning and Tubbo bounced his legs almost constantly, his hands fidgeting at a rapid pace.
Tubbo noticed Tommy’s gaze, and his lip twitched. He shuffled his fingers again, starting to spell letters on the table. “B-O-R-D.”
Tommy recognized the letters faster than ever, putting his hands beside Tubbo’s. “S-A-M-E.”
A student up the front raised her hand. “Excuse me, could you explain how the characteristics of twelfth century fiction relates to the changing role of women?”
“It isn’t at all needed for your orals, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Professor Epithet. “But by examining twelfth century literature closely, you can identify the tells of whether it was intended to be a historical record or a work of fiction. Our next topic will be the concept of courtly love, and a solid understanding of fictional conventions is needed to properly analyse it.” She glanced down at her notes. “Well, that should be all for today. Remember to check the reading schedule, there’s two texts assigned for this week. Class dismissed.”
Tommy grinned, turning to Ranboo and Tubbo. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Auslan!” said Tubbo, making the sign for it as he did so.
“I hope we learn something new today,” said Ranboo. “If I have to read more fingerspelling I’ll cry.”
“Ugh, tell me about it,” said Tubbo. “My brain is gonna leak out my ears and puddle on the floor.”
Tommy snorted. “You’re disgusting, man.”
“Come on, we gotta get the good seats today,” said Tubbo.
“We’re coming, we’re coming,” said Ranboo. He stiffened, grabbing out his phone. “Ah, sorry. I have to take this call,” he said, putting it to his ear.
“Want us to wait for you?”
“N-No you can—you go and I’ll—I’ll catch up with you soon,” he said, in a hushed tone. He cleared his throat, then said as he walked away, “Hello, this is Ranboo Beloved…”
“Seeya Ranboob,” said Tommy, Tubbo snorting.
Slow conversation flowed between the two of them as they walked, weighed down by the full day of lectures. They found a spot at the front of the class and continued to talk as others filed in. They were still a little early, so Tommy let himself relax in the balmy room.
Niki’s shoulders eased when she stepped through the door, dark bags beneath her eyes. Despite the odd look, she pulled up her chin, clapping to get the class’s attention.
“Today we’re going to learn emergency signs,” she said. “A lot of people panic when trying to help a Deaf person, but even well-meaning people can do harm if they’re not prepared, Just a couple signs go a long way, so let’s get started!”
Niki took them through a list of signs—basic ones like ambulance and fire, as well as more complex ones like allergy and evacuate. Tommy paid more attention than ever. Sure, the alphabet was useful, but these signs could be the difference between life and death, literally. They broke off into small groups, Tubbo immediately gasping.
“Help,” he signed, pulling the sign towards himself. “I’m sick, I’m sick!” His face scrunched up with the actions.
Tommy played along. “Hurt where?” he signed, raising his eyebrows.
Tubbo froze, eyes darting around. “Vomit,” he eventually signed.
Tommy snorted. Of course he couldn’t think of any other signs. “Vomit? Call ambulance?”
Tubbo frowned, so Tommy repeated the sign.
His eyes lit up. “No,” he signed. “Me allergic ambulance.”
“Allergic?” Tommy repeated, widening his eyes.
“Yes,” signed Tubbo, doubling down. “See ambulance me allergy. D-I-E.”
Niki walked over. “D-I-E,” she repeated, turning to Tubbo. When he nodded, she made the correct sign, two spoon hands moving down in a sharp motion.
“Die,” Tubbo repeated, grin far too wide. “Ambulance I die, no call.”
Niki huffed, the pointed at Tommy. “You sign.”
Tommy blinked, then pulled the help sign towards himself. “Help me?”
“Help how?” signed Niki.
Shit, Tommy hadn’t thought that far. He took back everything he said about Tubbo, this was hard. He couldn’t use allergy or vomit, what other signs were left?
“Blood,” he eventually signed. “Blood on chest, blood on legs,” he doubled down, miming out the pain.
Niki wouldn’t get mad at him miming, right? Wasn’t miming a no-no in sign language?
She just glanced to Tubbo, waiting for his response.
“Where—” Tubbo cut himself off. “Pain where?” Question words always went at the end of a sentence, and it was such a bitch to remember.
Tommy pointed to his leg once again.
“Call ambulance?” he signed, hesitating only slightly with the second one.
Niki drifted away once again, satisfied with what she saw.
“Please,” signed Tommy. “Big hurt.” Just stretching out his hands for big definitely wasn’t the correct sign, but it got the point across.
“Dizzy?” signed Tubbo.
Fuck, Tommy should have used that earlier. “Yes,” he signed. “Call ambulance.”
Tubbo sighed. “No call.”
“Why?”
He met his gaze. “Allergic.”
Tommy and Tubbo didn’t stop for the rest of the lesson, Auslan stretching their brains as they tried to make each other laugh. Niki let them do so as long as they kept signing, but the hour passed all too quickly.
She moved to the front again, everyone quietening. “That will be everything for tonight,” she said. “In the next couple weeks we’ll switch into having a voice-off classroom, so make sure to practice your fingerspelling in the meanwhile. See you next week!”
An hour of fingerspelling? Fuck, he would need to prepare. He shared a look with Tubbo, just wait until Ranboo heard about this.
Wait, where was Ranboo? The time had passed so quickly Tommy hadn’t even noticed he was gone. He repeated the sentiment to Tubbo.
“Oh, he sent me a text,” said Tubbo. “About—uh, ten minutes in? Said something came up.”
“What, like serious shit?” he said, the two waving to Niki as they walked out.
“Hopefully not,” said Tubbo. Silence fell between them, both glancing at the other without a thing to say. At this time of night, Tommy’s dorm would be suffocatingly silent, hours away from Shubble entering and hours away from sleep.
He had too much restless energy for that, after so much Auslan he needed to wind down.
He glanced at Tubbo again. For once he matched Tommy’s pace instead of rushing ahead, not a word shared between them.
“D’you wanna grab dinner with me?” he said. Silence hung between them, as if it was his guts he’d extended and not an offer for a meal.
“Of course,” said Tubbo. “I’m fucking starving.”
Instead of eating in the central dining hall, Tubbo led him upstairs to the balcony seating, tables out in the night air. The entire place was deserted at this hour, Tubbo and Tommy making themselves at home on the dusty plastic chairs.
Whether there was something in the air or their pizzas spiked, the second Tubbo and Tommy started talking they couldn’t stop. They talked until their pizza was cold and their asses numb—and not just about classes, but everything. Tubbo was also bullied in high school, they both couldn’t stand the limited edition monsters, and neither had worked in fast food.
“Do you ever feel like you’re never doing enough?” said Tubbo, staring at his coffee mug.
“Course.”
“Well, ever since I started here I’ve been drowning in it, you know? I went from bumming around school all day to having to manage everything myself. And sure, I’m getting the assignments and the laundry done, but I—I see people fucking… going to picnics and knitting and shit. How on earth do they do it?”
“Fuck if I know,” said Tommy. “I’m not completely by myself, but adulting is awful. Now I’m not just studying, I also have to get myself fed and washed and clothed—I’m too young for this.” Tommy closed his mouth quickly, but Tubbo didn’t notice.
“It’s like caring for the little Pokémon thing,” said Tubbo. He waved his hand through the air.
“Tamagotchi?” said Tommy.
”Yeah, except the Tamagotchi is your body and if you forget anything you get hunted for sport. Trying to read a manuscript? Welp, you haven’t had water all day, and now you have to go to the ground floor to get it.”
“Tell me about it,” said Tommy, chuckling. The sound echoed into the quad, warm lights flickering above them. “So why did you choose lit, Mister Dyslexia?”
“It wasn’t my first choice, actually,” said Tubbo. “I bombed the shit out of my tests and this was the cheapest course that had no exams.”
“You’re gonna transfer?” he said, taking a bite of cold pizza.
“Hopefully,” said Tubbo. “I still don’t know what to transfer into, you know?” He scoffed. “Who fucking knows, maybe I’ll take up political science.”
Tommy scoffed. “You’d be a shit politician.”
“At least I know what liberal means.”
Again with the green-titty statue shit. America really was a plague.
“But how about you, bossman? To be honest, you always seemed like a drama student—or even that ambassador shit, you know?”
Tommy shrugged, running a finger along the table’s dusty rim. “runs in the family, to be honest. My older sister’s a third year lit student, I loved reading with her growing up.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to go to fucking uni for it,” he said, chucking back his mug and chugging the rest of the coffee.
“But then I wouldn’t get to bother you,” he said, leaning back on his plastic chair. Cars echoed in the distance, but the quad in front of them remained silent, completely black. “I bet you’d be good at science-y shit,” he said. “How is your maths?”
He shrugged. “Solving problems is fun, but the tests are shit. I didn’t get any exam supports either, cause I’m not diagnosed.”
“They’re really trying to fuck you over, ey?”
The balcony lights switched off, plunging them into darkness.
“Um,” said Tubbo.
Tommy fumbled for his phone, pulling out the flashlight. “Hang on, how late is it?”
Tubbo’s face was illuminated by his lock screen. “Nine thirty?” he said.
“Doesn’t the dining hall close at nine?”
They shared a look.
“They’ve forgotten about us, haven’t they?” said Tubbo.
The two burst into snickers, stumbling away from their chairs.
“We better not be locked out here, we’ll have to scale down the fucking building.”
“I was gonna say jump, but sure.”
Tommy laughed, the two fumbling around tables as they made it to the balcony doors.
…The locked balcony doors.
“So what do we do now?” said Tommy. “Knock really loud?”
They knocked really loud. With four hands against the glass they made quite a racket, a torchlight eventually bobbing up the stairs. The staff member didn’t seem impressed with the duo’s effort, just shooed the two of them out of the building as they held back their snickers.
Abandoned onto the quad, Tommy didn’t so much as glance at the Red dorms. He kept chatting with Tubbo, his smile growing wider and wider. For once in his life, he’d experienced that ‘click’ that people spoke about; a person who fundamentally gets you. Tommy had always imagined such a thing feeling euphoric, excitement brimming with every interaction, the world feeling bigger and wider than he thought possible.
Tubbo was nothing like that. When Tommy looked at Tubbo, hands waving about as he forgot the word he needed, he just felt comfortable. Like a best friend he’d only just met.
They continued talking long into the night, only separating when they yawned between every word.
Notes:
What do you guys reckon Tommy could do for his halloween costume? I have a couple ideas, but I'd love to know people's ideas <3
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 13: Dryers and Liars
Summary:
It's Halloween. Tommy commits infanticide as Red, then finally gets to talk to Shubble. Have you ever had a laundry talk before? You should try it.
Wordcount: 4.3k
Estimated reading time: 17 minutes
Date published: October 29th, 2024
Notes:
So how are we feeling after getting new lore in 2024? I had such a normal one last night (trembled like a little creature for multiple hours) tbh I thought my brainrot was easing off but turns out it very much has not. Thinking about Jack planting a mushroom in his house and do you know what mushrooms feed on? They feed on death and decay, on the ruins of L'Manberg and a man who clawed himself out of hell. He's still gambling, still waiting for happiness, but it's finally possible. He'll win big eventually, he's getting there.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tommy built his cookie plans around another joyous activity; Halloween. Thursday was a bitch-ass day for Halloween, but Tommy’s costume was far from bitch or ass. He searched long and hard on pinterest, to find his vision, to no success. That morning he gathered his baking supplies and dropped them off in the kitchen, then went off to classes with a smile on his face. Once his first lecture finished, he ducked away from Tubbo and Ranboo to an empty bathroom, dumping his laptop by the sink.
“It’s cookie time, Clem,” said Tommy. “If Phil starts talking about Dante write what he says word for word, I need it for the paper.”
“Got it,” said Clementine. “How long will your cookies take?”
“An hour, two hours?” said Tommy. “Depends how long everyone spends admiring my costume.”
“Oh? Is it reveal time?”
You know it,” said Tommy, picturing his dress. “Mask up.”
He closed his eyes as the petals brushed across him, picturing a full-length quinceanera with a structured, sleeveless bodice—he wasn’t having another chopping board incident. He’d spent hours on the details of his dress, down to the very embroidery at the hem. This dress had cobalt highlights, especially in a plate across his breasts, then all through the fabric of the skirt.
Tommy opened his eyes, staring down at his among us-themed dress. A blue visor sat across his breasts, a tiny pack sitting on the back of his bodice. An amogus plushie sat in his hat, and hundreds of tiny amongus were embroidered into the dress. Tommy was going to be the sussiest baka in the world.
Clementine emerged with a thump, blinking as she reoriented herself. He smirked as she turned towards him, blinking at the sight.
Clementine into laughter, her voice echoing weirdly from Tommy’s gangly frame.
The rose petals snapped back over him, Clementine and the dress disappearing.
“Clem, what the fuck?” said Tommy.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, giggling as her ghostly self. “To be honest, I was expecting red riding hood. That was just—that was something else.”
“You didn’t have to ruin my outfit, though,” said Tommy. “Do you know how much brain power I just wasted?”
Clementine waved a hand about. “It’s okay, I’m over it, now. It’s a good costume, just caught me off-guard.”
“Good,” said Tommy. “Okay, this time for real. Mask up.”
He once again pictured his dress, only opening his eyes when he heard Clementine emerge. He gave her a long stare as she smirked at his outfit, struggling to keep her composure.
Finally, she turned towards Tommy’s laptop, grabbing it and giving him a salute before leaving.
Once enough time passed, he returned to the red dorms, tipping his head to the others dressed up, especially the ones who lit up at him. That’s how you knew you had a good costume, people giggling behind your back.
The kitchen had been empty when he dropped off his ingredients, but hopefully once Red showed up the others would get drawn in. Besides, he was on the fourth-floor kitchen—the second largest after the ground floor’s. It had a more personal atmosphere, breaking out onto the eating area instead of being a separate room, wooden benches far more homely than the ground floor’s steel.
He stepped into the elevator with another red student, pressing against the wall so he didn’t swamp them in his ballgown.
The guy shuffled towards him, bright yellow sneakers squeaking on the floor. “I like your dress, ma-am. It’s from that video game, right?” He frowned, then brought his fingers together in the shape of an amogus. “The imposter one, yeah?”
An amogus handsign. It was perfect. Tommy repeated the shape, grin splitting across his face.
“Hell yeah, that’s awesome,” said Sneakers. “Wish I could pull off something like that.”
You can, Tommy wanted to say, but he didn’t know the signs for it.
The elevator stopped, opening the doors to the third floor. “Well, happy Halloween!” said Sneakers, stepping out without another word. The doors closed.
Tommy’s smile faded. If only he could share that Red was also a guy. He could pull off a ballgown just as well as the other mascots.
Well, it might not have been a gender thing, to be honest. Quince dresses were expensive as fuck, not everyone had as much fuck to go around as Tommy. Hopefully whatever degree that guy did would help him make bank.
The door pinged for the fourth floor, pulling Tommy from his thoughts. No matter what, he was just one person. Whether that person was a sexy man or woman, there was only so much he could do. Like baking cookies. He wandered down the hallway until he hit the floor’s communal area. Only one person was in the kitchen, hunched over the microwave.
She smiled when she saw Tommy approach. “Hey Red.” She blinked. “Is that an amogus dress?” she said, snorting.
Tommy nodded, making the amogus sign once again.
“Holy shit,” she said, struggling to copy it. “Anyways, I’m making popcorn. Want some?”
Tommy nodded, pulling his ingredients out of the cupboard as the microwave spun.
The microwave finally beeped, the woman pulling out the steaming bag with a hiss. “So what are you up to today, Miss Red?”
“C-O-O-K-I-E-S,” he fingerspelled—he’d have to ask Niki for the proper sign this evening.
She blinked, glancing between Tommy and the bench.
He sighed, holding up the recipe.
“Ooh, chocolate chip. Do you want any help?”
“Want that,” signed Tommy, pointing at the popcorn bag.
She snorted. “I’ve been craving this all week, to be honest. It’s Thoughtful Thursday and my thoughts are all about popcorn.”
She tore into the bag, jerking away whenever it got too hot. Tommy shoved his hand in and tossed some straight into his mouth, the buttery goodness immediately replaced with pure lava. He hashasahasa-ed until it was palatable, making the other giggle.
He flipped her off, grabbing another piece of popcorn, blowing it before snacking on some more.
“That one’s on you, Red.”
Tommy scoffed, rolling his eyes as he ate even more.
The sound of their bickering brought more people to the kitchen, joining the conversation and starting their own. Tommy smiled, finally moving to his recipe. People dropped in and out of the kitchen, some offering to help and many offering to eat. He accepted everything, getting people to weigh flour and fish out eggshells, even steal chocolate chips.
No matter what jokes he cracked, the energy from the bake-off was missing. Even with his ridiculous dress and compelling recipe, the entire ordeal felt slow instead of electric. The mascot was supposed to cause that spark, yet nothing was happening. The closest he’d gotten was when five people helped roll out the biscuits, moulding them into various Halloween-themed shapes. Tommy didn’t have any cookie cutters, but they made do with the kitchen’s cutlery. They cut them into lightning bolts and wizard hats and all sorts, the spookiest being an umbrella; a harbinger of the beast. Half the population was missing, too. The only dude in the whole place was Bad, who was in charge of the bake-off’s pasta. Where were all the other guys?
The students lingered even once the tray was in the oven, sitting on the floor and on the benches as they chatted about anything and everything.
“Those cookies are smelling delicious,” said Bad. “I’ve gotta say, Red, I didn’t take you for much of a baker, especially after the gauntlet.”
“Psh,” said Tommy, throwing his hands aside. He pointed at the empty mixing bowl, flexing his arms.
“Oh, you like baking?” said Bad.
That wasn’t what Tommy meant at all, but sure, he could roll with that. The others were bouncing off him fine, regardless.
Somehow, the conversation turned to pranks.
“Did you see all the garden gnomes on the third floor?”
“It’s fucking wild,” said a short woman, plaiting the hair of the person in front of her. “I didn’t hear a wink about it beforehand and now they’re everywhere.”
“It’s gotta be a group prank, right?”
“I don’t know, do you remember the shower curtain swap? That was just one dude, and he got every floor overnight.”
Tommy nodded along as people mentioned prank after prank, pretending he knew more than fuck all. He’d already done his prank duty, Christmas in July in September was an absolute hit. All he had to do now was help other people out, talks like these were a great place to start.
“What about you, Bad, got any pranks planned?”
He sighed. “I wish. It’s so hard to come up with ideas that are actually fun, you know?”
The braiding woman hummed. “It’s always tough when you first get here—try doing something in your first semester, though. It only gets more hectic from there.”
“I just feel like everything’s been done already, you know? Sure, I could cover a bunch of stuff in tinfoil, but how am I supposed to find something exciting?”
“Definitely don’t do tinfoil,” said another woman. “And if you’re going to fill a room with something, it better be more exciting than newspaper.”
“Have any suggestions?”
Tommy smirked, raising a hand. Bad’s eyes flicked to him, and Tommy turned to the floured bench, licking a finger and writing sex.
“I—language!” said Bad, climbing past him to rub it out. “That’s not even a prank,” he said, as everyone laughed.
Tommy held back a snort, taking a bow as Bad continued to scold him.
The conversation flowed on, and before they knew it the oven was beeping. Tommy put on his oven mitts—red, of course—and pulled out the tray.
The biscuits had… expanded, almost joining together. The individual cookies had burst into mishappen blobs, only the ghosts recognisable.
“Our children are hideous—”
“—What happened?”
Tommy held back a laugh, placing the tray on the stovetops.
“W-What are we s-s-supposed to do?” said Bad, his acting shit.
“I did not mother that thing,” said the braiding woman, throwing an accusing finger at a chunk of dough in the corner. It was originally a spider but had been reduced to a half-burnt lump.
Tommy pointed to the tray, making the amogus sign once again.
“You’re right,” she said. “These aren’t our children, but imposters.”
Gasps sounded through the kitchen, all of them scanning for the rogue among them.
A woman from the back of the group sighed, tossing pink-tipped dreads over her shoulder. “Well, there’s only one thing we can do.” She moved in front of the tray, brushing a hand over the chocolate chip mutants. “Consume the unworthy children.” She snatched the closest child, crushing the steaming dough and shoving it in her mouth.
The others rushed to do the same, Tommy wrapping his hands around the burning dough until his fingers stung, then shoved it into his mouth, swallowing it as soon as it touched his tongue. Liquid fire spread down his throat, his eyes watering as the taste of chocolate filled his mouth.
It was far better than cold fucking lettuce. Tommy grabbed another handful, shovelling it in as they demolished the tray, only smears of dough remaining.
“Phil’s lecture done,” sent Clementine.
Oh, that timing was perfect. “Same. Where are you?”
“First floor bathroom.”
Tommy paused, going over what he said. He only had three words left, and there was a lot he could share. You know what? The simpler, the better. “Coming, stay there.”
He accepted a glass of water from Pink Dreads, healing his throat from the imposter consumption. He put his clean dishes back in the cupboard, walking out of the kitchen.
“Aw, are you all done?” said the popcorn woman.
He nodded, raising a hand in farewell.
“Seeya, Red!”
He smiled, making his way to the elevator with his head held high. He definitely had chocolate smeared on his face.
Once the elevator doors were closed he swiped at the chocolate, licking it off his hands. His hand still stung from where he squashed the child, but he couldn’t see any burns. The only sound in the lift was the slow cooker humming in the corner, and Tommy would happily ignore that.
Even if the kitchen wasn’t what he expected, the cookie infanticide was fun, and the conversation between them had been genuine. This mascot shit was fucking easy, nobody was beating him.
Yellow was beating him.
Tommy had attended the rest of his classes as usual, excited and a little nervous for the Auslan class. Sure enough, Niki introduced the silent classroom, only allowing them to communicate in sign. Halfway through the lesson, none other than Yellow knocked on the door, her hair tied back with ribbons and matching bows on her heels. When Niki went to the door, the mascot hesitantly signed “Auslan?”
Niki just smiled, beckoning her in and inviting her to sit at the front. The two went through basic signing for the rest of the session, despite Tommy’s death glare. Yellow was learning Auslan, and now Tommy was fucked. Sure, he was the one to introduce sign language, but all he used it for was dicking around. Now that she was learning it, she had evened the playing field.
Even worse, Yellow was learning with an audience. He saw Tubbo’s proud smile when the mascot came in, even if she wasn’t good at signing, she was looking to improve.
As Niki went through the alphabet with Yellow at the front, Tommy shared a glance with Clementine. Given her glare, they had both reached the same conclusion; Red needed to show up to the next Auslan class.
Tommy put a half-hearted effort in for the rest of the class, missing most of the signs the others used. Instead, he watched Yellow stumble through the alphabet, then practise the week’s target signs. She left before the class ended—no doubt to reunite with her ghost.
Tubbo tapped him on the shoulder, breaking him from his brooding. “Eat?” he signed.
Cold pizza and dusty chairs flashed through his head. Tommy smiled, nodding along. Another late night would be perfect, so long as they weren’t locked on the balcony again. And hey, they could bring Ranboo with them, too.
“What?” signed Ranboo, when Tommy and Tubbo grinned at each other for too long.
Tommy and Tubbo tried to sign their dinner plans, ending up explaining the entire balcony incident, almost bursting into giggles in the process.
Niki pulled the class together, congratulating them on their progress and dismissing them. The trio waved goodbye, staying silent until they stepped out of the classroom.
“I am starving,” said Tommy, his voice croaking after the enforced silence. “But we gotta show you that balcony, Ranboo, even if the weather is shit.”
“Oh, were you two talking about a balcony?” said Ranboo. “I couldn’t work out if you were signing stage or ledge or what.”
Tubbo flipped him off.
“It was pretty straightforward,” said Tommy, puffing out his chest. “I mean, we even signed going upstairs,” he said, making the gesture again.
“Well, you have to go up stairs to get onto a stage, too,” said Ranboo. “You two are ridiculous.”
“Fuck you, you’re the one who—”
Tommy’s phone rang. His phone was always on silent for classes, and there were only two numbers that played sound regardless; Shubble and his local dominos driver. “—Shit, I gotta take this,” he said, stepping away from them. He pulled the phone to his ear. “Hey Shubble, is something wrong?”
“I’m just chilling, to be honest. Where are you right now?”
“I just finished my Auslan class?”
“Cool, I’m all free to hang out this evening, I just got back to the dorm and thought I’d see where you were.”
Tommy blinked. “No, yeah, I—that sounds good. I’ll be over there soon, yeah?”
“Bye bye!” she said, and Tommy could hear her smile through the phone. The call cut off, and Tommy stared at Tubbo and Ranboo, still waiting for him.
He winced, moving closer. “Sorry, I—I can’t do dinner, tonight,” he said. “That was my sister, I’m gonna—I have to check on her tonight. I’m all good to go out tomorrow, though, kay?”
Ranboo shared a glance with Tubbo. “Sure thing,” he finally said. “Tell your sister we said hi.”
“Will do,” he said. “Thanks.”
He split off from them, heading for the Red dorms. He couldn’t deny there was a pep in his step, or a slight smile across his face. This was the first time he’d seen Shubble in weeks. Sure, she’d sent him a text or two (He’d sent several) but they hadn’t truly spoken in that time. Tommy typed in the code 8-9-1 into the door’s keypad, pushing into the room.
Shubble sat on her bed, her hair down and boots beside the wardrobe. “Hey, stranger.”
“Like you can talk,” said Tommy. “It’s not my problem I have a normal fucking sleep schedule.”
She snorted. “You always were a sleeping beauty, weren’t you?”
Tommy smiled, drinking in that Shubble was actually here. The silence grew awkward for a second, Tommy procuring and dumping serval conversation points.
“So, you wanna grab dinner?” she said. “We have a lot to catch up on.”
And see Ranboo and Tubbo again? “I’ve uh—I’ve already eaten. We could—uh, what’s something else that needs doing?”
Shubble glanced at the bathroom, her clothes flowing out the hamper and falling into the doorway. “Well, we could do our laundry?”
“What, spend our night beside the washers?” he snorted.
She smiled. “Have you ever talked with someone over laundry?”
“Course not.”
“Well, you’ve got to try it,” she said. “At least just this once.”
And how could Tommy say no to that? Before he knew it, Tommy was walking side by side with his sister, laundry basket under one arm as he tried to explain why Phil’s lectures were bitchy. As they shoved their clothes into a free machine, Shubble asked about his Auslan classes, and Tommy immediately started ranting about Yellow. Once the machine was running, they moved to the bench in the corner, their arms just brushing. It was a busy time of night, nearly all the machines full, but the laundry room was empty, machines rattling against each other.
“Uni is just a whole other ballpark,” said Tommy. “You were right about that, at least.”
“It’s a lot,” agreed Shubble. “But you’ve made some friends, right? I wouldn’t want to go bribing anyone to talk to you.”
“You think I can’t make friends? Fuck you,” he said, shoving her off.
“Oi!” she said, shoving him into the wall.
“I have plenty of friends, just so you know. In my lit classes I’ve got Tubbo and Ranboo, and I’ve also got fucking weird friends. There’s Ponk who has lemon magic, Jack the crossdresser—not that crossdressing is weird, he’s weird because he works at McPuffy’s—and Quackity and I get on like a house on fire,” he said, running his fingers over the cookie burn on his hand. It had puffed slightly, and was now a small streak of red between his thumb and forefinger. “Unrelated question, but if I wanted to set Quackity’s room on fire, you wouldn’t happen to know which room it was, right?”
“I already told you, he’s not worth your time,” said Shubble, easing back. “Prank someone else.”
“But it’s personal,” said Tommy. “My reputation was on the line.”
“Which prank did he get you with? Was it the private elevator, the malfunctioning keypad or calling the zoo?”
“Fucking Mister Bear,” said Tommy. “Don’t tell me you fell for it, too?”
Shubble huffed. “Quackity tried to get me a couple times, but I always saw it coming. We declared a truce in our first year after the firecracker incident. Realised we were both going to get expelled unless we sorted out our differences.”
“You have to help me get back at him,” said Tommy. “I know he’s hard—I already found the fucking Do Not Help list on his floor—but I just need the room. I’ll take care of the rest—he won’t even know it’s you.”
“There’s only a handful of people who know where he is to begin with,” said Shubble. “If I tell you it’ll get traced back to me.”
He stayed silent, glaring into his sister’s golden eyes.
She sighed. “Fine. There are extra rooms you can’t reach from the normal corridors, that’s all I’m telling you.”
Tommy blinked. “So the floorplans are really fucked.”
She smiled, but her eyebrows stayed creased. “Yeah, I guess they are.”
The washing machines continued to rattle, sending vibrations all the way to Tommy’s shoes. He bounced his leg, taking a deep breath of the humid, soapy air.
“So… what have you been up to? What do you even do in your third year of lit?”
She winced. “Dissertations, mostly. There’s too much specialisation—I just want to do everything, and my tutes keep trying to whittle it down smaller,” she said. “I feel like I’m actually trying this year, though.”
He tilted his head at the odd tone. “Is it to do with classes, or your—your other stuff.”
“Other stuff,” she admitted. “I’m properly using my time, and it—it feels strange. I haven’t worked so hard since I was a kid, you know?”
“What, like in a bad way?” said Tommy.
“Oh, nothing like that, of course not,” said Shubble. “If there was anything cult-like going on I’d get you straight out of here. I feel properly busy, you know?”
Tommy did not know. Shubble had been busy her entire life, but apparently she wasn’t busy enough? What was fucking busy enough to eat up every hour of her day? “Yeah, I get that.”
Their machine beeped, and the two climbed up, pulling out their clothes and moving to the dryer. Tommy shoved in their stuff without a word, eyes catching on a white off-the-shoulder top, flowers embroidered all along the hem. “Wait, isn’t that Katherine’s?”
Shubble’s hands stuttered. “What’s Katherine’s?”
“This shirt,” said Tommy, pulling it out from the other wet washing. “No, I’ve definitely seen Katherine wear it.”
“Oh, yeah, I… I stole that from her,” said Shubble.
“Does it not just fucking fall off you?” said Tommy. “No offense to you, but you’re built like a fucking beanpole.”
She blinked. “Yeah—uh—doesn’t actually fit. It just makes me nostalgic, I guess. I pull it out when I get homesick.”
“You get homesick even when I’m right here?” said Tommy, raising an eyebrow.
“You just make me the regular sick,” she said, taking a step back from him before breaking into giggles.
Tommy threw a wet sock at her, but continued piling things into the machine. “Bad joke, you can leave now.”
“No,” she said, putting a hand to her chest. She scoffed again, helping Tommy throw in the last items. “And speaking of jokes, have you got any ideas for what your prank might be?”
He shut the dryer with a click, inserting the coins into the slot. He’d already—fuck, Red had done a prank, but Tommy hadn’t. “Dunno yet.”
“I gave you the prank lecture, right? About how to make a proper prank?”
“Not that I recall,” said Tommy. “Can I skip it?”
“Nope! Take a seat and I’ll explain to you the wonders of pranking,” she said, raising a hand in the air.
He smirked, moving back to the bench and preparing for Shubble’s monologue.
“Before we begin, there’s a difference between pranking and punishment. Punishment is when people get hurt, stuff gets broken and people get suspended,” she pursed her lips. “It’s illegal most of the time, if that means anything to you.”
“Legal is my middle name.”
“Of course,” said Shubble. “But basically, punishment is pulling down someone’s pants, pranking is replacing all their underwear with dinosaur-pattern ones. It takes a lot more effort and it makes it funnier for everyone.”
She began to pace between the washers. “Secondly! Here in the Red house we have a pranking culture, not a pranking grocery store. If you’re googling funny college pranks, you’re doing it wrong,” she said.
“Already knew that,” said Tommy, ignoring how he’d googled that himself.
“Although, if you are looking for ideas, you can add site:reddit.com to find some better answers. Not that you’ll need that, though. The third thing to remember is that it’s very hard to come up with an original prank, so instead let people be part of the joke. Instead of eating yoghurt out of a mayo jar, make an artisan mayo club where you go out in public and eat yoghurt together. Unless you’re going for first place, you can just work on a couple little pranks over the year. Besides, prank of the year is almost always won by groups.”
“And that’s gonna be you this year, right?” said Tommy.
A smile touched her face, one that she quickly hid even though her eyes lit up. “Well, I hope so, anyway. I’ll have to start planning my big reveal.”
“Anything you can share with me about your reveal?” said Tommy. “I mean, you’re not gonna tell me much, but can you tell me when everything gets revealed?”
“Well…” She tilted her head.
Tommy leaned forward.
“Let’s say… February,” she said, voice quiet. “You’ll know by the end of February.”
“What the fuck, you are playing the long game,” he said. “You need to sit your ass down—this’ll be your last break before Christmas at this fucking rate.”
“Oh, I hope not,” she said, sitting beside Tommy, this time leaning against him. “It’s going to be worth it, though. I promise. I want to make this year unforgettable.”
Tommy glanced down at his bracelet. “I think it already is.”
Another washer beeped, but the two stayed seated, Tommy staring at Shubble’s green shoelaces, perfectly clean compared to her muddy boots. Tommy and Shubble, two mismatching peas clinging to their pod. Even when they didn’t belong together, they clung on for dear life. Even when they kept secrets, it was still Tommy and Shubble.
“You were right about laundry talks,” he said, finally. “This shit fucks. We should do this every week.”
She huffed. “I’d love to.”
Notes:
The amongus dress was one of the very first concepts I had for this fic, it's the second ms paint thing I ever drew (I can't show you the first bc it's spoilers) Anyways, admire my art:
[Image ID: A figure in a ballgown sits in the centre of the frame, the background is pure white. The person is wearing a red ballgown with a blue plate across her breasts, mimicking the visor of an among us crewmate. Small blue amoguses wrap around the base of the dress, and also where the corset meets the skirt. The person's short, curled hair is pinned back with a blue amongus clip, and they wear a necklace that looks like the imposter's kill button, End ID]Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 14: Dorm Heist Battle Pass
Summary:
dorm heist battle pass
I prank shit with my mask
Hunting down Connor ‘cause I wanna, wanna
Wanna get that dorm heist battle pass.Wordcount: 3.2k
Estimated reading time: 13 minutes
Date published: November 5th, 2024
Notes:
We're all going to ignore how close this story could be to a Miraculous Ladybug college au.
in all seriousness, I've never interacted with the Miraculous fandom so any coincidences are incidental <333
In other news I have spent 10 hours in the past 2 days trying to apply for an Auslan qualification and gotten absolutely nothing else done. Praying I get in because if this doesn't go through I'm going to have to drive 8 hours for the closest in-person course and I really want to get in.
Just had to catch a chicken lmao
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
What separates artisan from hobbies? Is it the planning? The four year arts degree? Getting sponsored from some rich bastard?
Lacy grappled with such thoughts daily, questions consuming her as she travelled through locked doors and open windows, air vents and false walls. Was art simply the inconvenient of others, provoking unwanted emotions, creating eyesores in unused space? Was art rooted in the woman’s perfect mask or the man’s unfounded trust? Lacy moved from one room to the next, trying to satisfy her hunger for knowledge. Chocolate bars and beef jerky and chewing gum, her sponsors giving whatever they could. She moved without a trace, tiptoeing around sleeping students and dirty laundry, picking through piles of books and rows of nail polish, the red bottle’s lid ever so slightly unscrewed.
She opened the next cupboard, glancing around for her tribute. Heels and sneakers stared back at her, but nothing edible. She beamed, her fingers itching to create once again.
Art did not come from the soul, like most people thought. True art, she knew, began with the laces.
“I’ve got to find Connor,” said Tommy, pushing out of his room. “The sonic dude, remember?”
“Why?” said Clementine. “I mean, not that I’m enjoying studying, but what are you trying to do?”
“Remember the lettuce club?” said Tommy. “And how he came through the fucking roof? If anyone can find Quackity’s room, it’ll be him,” he said, ignoring the elevator in favour for the stairs. The past week he’d been forcing himself to slog up and down the five flights, and after fucking around for ages he’d found a reliable route to the ground floor. Was it the fastest? Who fucking knew, but at least he couldn’t get lost.
“And he had beef with Quackity, remember? I bet he’d love to help me fuck him over.”
She shrugged. “Pretty solid. Well, far more solid compared to your oral.”
“Nope, this is a study free zone,” said Tommy. “Oral presentations are actually against my boundaries, get that shit out of here.”
“What, like how Casper Wolf edited the Trotula to make it seem like a man wrote it? Were women practitioners against his boundaries?”
Tommy shuddered. “How are you so good at that? That was mentioned once last week, why the fuck are you remembering it?”
“Oh, I’ve shadowed lit students a few times,” said Clementine. “Can’t say it’s my favourite degree, but it’s definitely up there.”
He blinked. “You know, sometimes I forget you’re a thousand years old and not just some teenager fucking around.”
“Hey, I’ve only been here for two centuries,” said Clementine. “L'Manberg isn’t that old—don’t even get me started on Harvard ghosts, they’re so fucking obnoxious.”
“Since you’re so old and wise, why don’t you say my oral presentation?” said Tommy.
She raised an eyebrow. “You want me to do your oral?”
“Fuck me,” said Tommy, taking another staircase down. “Maye you can swap the magic so you’re deaf but can still speak?”
“You wish,” said Clementine. “Do you even know where Connor is?”
Tommy shrugged. “His room is probably on the second floor, given he took the stairs instead of the elevator. Well, unless he’s a stair bro.”
Just as anything unnecessarily challenging, the dorm’s nightmare staircases drew a community of stupid guys. The self-named stair bros had taken oaths against the elevator, citing climate change and exercise and whatever other bullshit they could think of, but they couldn’t fool Tommy. In the only way guys knew how, they turned using staircases into a pissing contest. Tommy nodded to one such stair bro as he made his way down, their solidarity founded in stupidity.
“He also likes mario kart,” said Tommy, once the guy had passed.
“Everyone likes mario kart,” said Clementine.
“Uh-uh,” said Tommy, raising a finger. “Trust the process.”
He combed through the second floor, finding no sign of Connor. Tommy moved down to the ground floor—that’s where he normally played mario kart, right? He wasn’t asking anyone for help, fuck no. Not after the Quackity situation. Instead, he scanned through the central area, cutting through the kitchen and making his way around. He ducked around the corner, spotting the back of Connor’s head as he—as he went downstairs.
“We have a fucking basement?” Tommy hissed, hurrying after him. “Why the fuck didn’t I know about this?”
“What do you mean you don’t—how have you never been in the basement?” said Clementine.
“I don’t fucking—” His bracelet began burning, and Tommy stumbled to a stop. “Fuck!”
She snorted. “That timing is hilarious. Do you remember where that storage cupboard is?”
Tommy blinked, running through the floor’s layout. “Yep, yep,” he said, hurrying back around the corner. It was the doorway just before the kitchen, if he remembered correctly. Tommy tried the handle, and sure enough it unlocked, revealing stacked chairs and dusty rugs.
“Have fun finding whatever mascot stuff you’re doing,” said Clementine. “Do you want me to look for Connor?”
“No, do homework or some shit,” said Tommy. “Mask up.”
The last thing he saw before the rose petals covered him was Clementine’s middle finger. Tommy closed his eyes, picturing a red sash over one shoulder. Not anything adventurous, but something to break up the shape of the dress. He added an embroidered amogus just beneath his collarbone, too, just big enough to point out and get a laugh.
Clementine appeared seated on the carpet, her middle fingers still aimed at Tommy.
He smirked, waggling a finger.
She just rolled her eyes, leaning back onto the faded cream carpet.
He wasn’t sticking around for Clementine’s temper tantrum. Instead, he moved straight for the door, walking out without a second glance.
Unlike when Tommy masked up by choice, the surprise mascot sessions left him with little to do but wander around, hoping he’d eventually find what he needed. And by the lack of desperate eyes on the ground floor, he was going to be climbing more stairs. Tommy took his sweet time moving around, slow enough that nobody would think twice before stopping him. After a lap of the second floor, he went up to the third, quickly finding his target: a group of students filling up water balloons, Stephanie in the centre. Whatever liquid they were using certainly wasn’t water, but whether it was soda or alcohol or what, Tommy had no clue.
The groups’ eyes swung towards him, Stephanie lighting up. “Hey, Red. You wouldn’t happen to have half an hour free, would you?”
Twenty minutes later, Tommy found himself standing on the edge of the quad, braiding another student’s hair and pretending he knew what the fuck he was doing. The water balloons from earlier had been split into buckets, each dashed with red food colouring. When Tommy had frowned at them earlier, Stephanie had aptly explained their target. “Anyone who dares wear white.”
While the others were preparing in the Red dorms, Tommy was the distraction and alibi. They had a group of four sitting around a bench, stationed only ten paces from where the campus police officer ate his lunch. The prank relied on hiding in plain sight. Risky, but all Tommy had to do was play it cool and pretend he knew how to braid. If he could fool the girl in front of him, surely the cop would fall for it.
“You really don’t know what you’re doing, huh,” she said, turning to meet his gaze. What was her name, again? Pauline—no, Paula. She had a fifteen marked on her wrist—an impressive number of points compared to everyone else.
He waved a hand in the so-so gesture.
Paula rolled her eyes, pulling her fingers through the twists Tommy had made, fingers catching on the knots. “We could swap?” she said. “That is, only if you want to.”
Tommy nodded, letting Paula climb out and take her place. She let her thin fingers pick through his hair, pulling out jewelled pins and whatever else women used to keep their hair together. It finally fell in a wave to just past his shoulder blades.
Paula ran her fingers through his scalp and down to the tips of his hair, then began fiddling with the top section. There was something intimate about her standing over him, her side just brushing Tommy’s back as her fingers moved methodically through his hair.
A splash sounded on the other side of the quad, quickly followed by another, and another. Shrieks quickly followed, the officer turning towards the noise.
Paula’s hands hesitated for half a second, but their group continued talking, as if nothing was wrong. The officer jumped up and jogged towards the sound, just as planned.
Two people on Tommy’s table stood, walking away as the first two ballooners showed up. Tommy lifted his hoop skirt, the two dumping the empty bucket beneath it. Then, they sat in the two empty chairs like they’d been there all along, joining in the braiding and quiet conversation.
Tommy shuffled the bucket as quietly as he could, making room for the next bucket, and the next. Stephanie was one of the last to arrive at the table, grabbing a ukulele out of her bag and strumming it like she’d been there the entire time. They all spoke quietly, not a hint of the chaos they’d wrought across the quad.
Surely a disguise so simple would fail—their red-stained victims were looking around, grouping up with each other and pulling off soaked jackets. Some even walked past their table, with not a hint of recognition.
Tommy caught Stephanie’s eyes, a smile snaking onto his lips.
“Not just yet,” said Stephanie, turning back to her ukulele.
Tommy eased back. Paula’s hands had made it to the base of his scalp, weaving his loose hair much faster than the rest. It felt strange to have his hair clumped against his spine, and Tommy sat up straighter, trying to emphasise his silhouette.
The officer approached their group, all of them falling silent. “Excuse me,” he said. “Did you see which way those Red pranksters went?”
“Oh, I saw them going towards Joffrey Hall,” said Paula, pointing away from the Red dorms. “Probably aiming for the Dyroffing dorms.”
Was that even a real building? Tommy held perfectly still as the others nodded along, not daring to even look at the officer.
“Thanks,” he said, jogging off in the wrong direction.
Tommy shared a look with the rest of them, ladies bursting into giggles once the officer was out of earshot.
“Okay, I think we’re clear,” said Stephanie. “We can stop the pitch perfect background character roleplay, excellent work everyone.”
Tommy grinned, giving a salute.
“And thanks for your help, Red. You’re all good to go.”
Tommy pointed to his skirt, raising his eyebrows. Not that anyone could see them under his mask, but it was good practise for his Auslan classes.
“We’ll sort that out, don’t worry about it,” said Paula. “Your hair’s all done—where should I put the spare pins?” she said, holding out the gold pins, red rhinestones sitting on the end of each one.
Tommy shook his head, closing her hand back up. With a couple more waves and a gracious bow, he went back towards the dorms. “All done, where are you?” he sent.
“Ground floor storage,” Clementine returned, so Tommy made his way back to the storage cupboard once again. He opened the door to find Clementine exactly where he left her, still lying on the carpet.
He clicked the door shut, and Clementine broke into a smirk.
“Unmask,” said Tommy. “Did you do anything while I was gone?”
She shrugged. “Broke your flappy bird high score.”
“My FUCKING THIRTY-FIVE?!” he said, snatching out his phone. “How the—did you know how hard I worked on that?” He pulled out his phone, opening the flappy bird act to be greeted with a fifty.
“I’ll fucking kill you,” he spat, clicking to make sure the score was real. “I’ve been gone for half an hour, how the fuck did you do that? I’m gonna get your ass exorcised faster than you can say big sexy men.”
Clementine laughed, the sound bouncing in the space. “I also did a bit of your introduction, if that makes up for it. It’s in the notes app.”
“This better be fucking good, if I have to write one more shitty—” He swapped to the notes app, still muttering to himself.
Whilst records of male practitioners are rampant throughout Europe, women’s medicinal knowledge was taught almost exclusively through oral methods. The female practitioner’s teaching was entirely different from men’s, but was effected as medical studies became formalised and canonised—
“—huh. S'alright.” He glanced at Clementine, catching a shit-eating grin. “But get that fucking smirk off your face, you spelled affect wrong.”
“You wound me,” she said, collapsing on the ground once again. Dramatic bitch. “I’m going to die a second time, your words impale me so.”
“Boo-fucking-hoo,” said Tommy. “With that attitude, you can fucking stay here.”
“Hey—” she said, but Tommy was already slamming the door in her face.
“That was rude,” said Clementine, back at his side at an instant, arms folded over each other.
“We’ve got shit to do,” said Tommy. “Revenge, remember?”
“…You could play flappy bird, instead.”
Tommy rolled his eyes, continuing to bicker as he made his way back to the stairs. He’d been here for—what? Three months—and he’d never seen the basement. Tommy moved down with hesitation, greeted with a sizeable seating area, bookshelves breaking it into study nooks. A sliding door sat against the back wall, gym written in frosted letters. Tommy gave the central area a cursory glance before continuing onwards. Connor would definitely be one of those guys who worked out often but didn’t have a lick of muscle to show for it.
Tommy hadn’t ever been part of the gym-folk, he’d had more than enough time sweating in a box, hah. But as the new house mascot, he was excellent at assimilating, even in gyms.
“Tell me if you see Connor,” said Tommy, cutting off Clementine.
“Hey, don’t you want to hear this place’s backstory?”
“Sure, whatever,” he said, walking through the sliding doors. He was hit with a blast of cold air, alongside the delicious aroma of human suffering. Multiple people were scattered around the room, but Tommy avoided eye contact. He didn’t want to distract them from their exercising trance or whatever the fuck gym people did. He walked past the treadmills and weights, coming across an expanse of fake grass, a tractor tire sitting in the centre—what was this, a fucking vet?
There was no sign of Connor. Tommy even ducked into the changerooms, finding all the stalls empty.
“He probably left already,” said Clementine.
“Probably,” he agreed. “That was a shit time for masking up.”
“What did you—”
“I was the alibi for a water balloon assault,” said Tommy. “The balloons had food colouring.” He returned to the main area, this time making a lap around the edge of the room, glancing in every nook. Empty, not Connor, empty, empty, not Connor—those two were KISSING??, not Connor, holy shit, that was Connor.
“Finally fucking found you,” said Tommy, before he could think.
Connor grinned. “What can I say, I’m a busy man,” he said, gesturing to his controller, his laptop open to fortnite.
“Too busy to enjoy my company?” said Tommy. “What’s a guy gotta do around here to hang out with his mates?”
“Well, I’m here for my battle royale, so if you don’t—”
“Nah, I’ll be quick,” said Tommy, dropping the act. “I need to get revenge on Quackity.”
Connor set his controller down, meeting Tommy’s eyes. “Have you got a plan for that?”
“Of course I do,” said Tommy. Everyone kept acting like the man was immortal, but he was only twenty-one. All Juniors were shit. “I’m not going to drag you into my beef, I just need information. You’re a man of the walls, right?”
Connor stayed silent as Tommy explained his plan. “And what am I getting out of this?” he asked, when Tommy finished.
“Satisfaction at Quackity’s downfall?” he tried.
Connor reached for the controller.
“Wait, wait,” said Tommy, putting a hand on top of the controller. “You like fortnite, yeah? I could buy you a new skin?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to pay a fifty bucks for the golden sonic skin?”
“Fifty dollars?!” said Clementine.
“Yes,” said Tommy, before he could overthink it. “You just have to tell me where Quackity’s room is.”
“Deal,” said Connor. He pulled a business card out of his pocket, handing it over. “There’s my number, get me the skin and I’ll get you sorted out.”
Tommy accepted the business card, scanning at the comic sans number before flicking it over. The 2006 Sonic title card stared back at him. He snorted. If nothing else, Connor could commit to the bit.
He grinned. “I’ll get that right to you,” said Tommy. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
He kept his grin on all the way to the elevator, glancing at the business card every so often. This university was really just a list of side quests, wasn’t it? He filed into the elevator with two others, the scent of freshly-baked bread washing over him. Sure enough, a loaf sat in the corner, steam still curling from the tin.
Okay, time out. What the fuck was up with the elevators? Sure, he could accept elevator soup for the initiation. Strange things were great for helping people bond, but they were in November.
Why did the food keep changing? Who the fuck was baking every day just to leave it in the elevator? Tommy resisted the urge to tap his foot, glaring at the golden-brown loaf. Whoever cooked it knew what they were doing, the crust smooth and honey brown, a criss-cross pattern running through the top. His stomach growled again. How come nobody ever touched the food—or even fucking acknowledged it? Who was cooking things daily just to leave them in the elevator?
When Tommy made it to the sixth floor, he shared his rant with Clementine, watching her roll her eyes.
“What? Do you know why that elevator shit happens?”
“Can’t say,” said Clementine. “It’ll ruin all the fun.”
“…Is this because I didn’t listen to your gauntlet fountain lecture?” said Tommy, punching in his door code.
“No, why would it? Of course it’s because of the fountain lecture,” she said. “I worked so hard on my speech and you weren’t even listening.”
“I apologise for the consequences of my actions,” said Tommy, instantly. He kicked off his shoes, opening the cupboard to chuck them inside.
He froze at what he saw.
“No, do you apologise for your actions?”
The door had been locked—Tommy locked the door, and nobody else knew the code. Lacy wasn’t real, Lacy was just a prank played on first years. This was just a cruel joke from Shubble, she took the laces from her work boots, Tommy’s trainers, his—his mint condition Yeezys. Shubble wouldn’t dare touch his Yeezys.
“Tommy?”
“Where the fuck are my shoelaces?”
Notes:
I spend three hours researching women's medieval literature and women's attendance of Bologna university for this chapter. I used it for like three sentences. I'm fine, I promise.
That's a fat lie I need to impart my new knowledge. Yous need to learn about Elisabetta Sirani she's insane. Bro was one of the fastest renaissance painters, creating 200 paintings before the age of 29. She wrote her signature as EMBROIDERY on the subject's clothes instead of just signing the corner. She was so talented that she was the first woman declared a master and permitted to train up apprentices and run her own studio, and she used her talent to train up a new generation of women artists. Her paintings are focused around female subjects, whether religious, fictional or mythological, such as the Virgin Mary and Circe. She was the eldest of five children and was so successful with her painting that she was the primary breadwinner of her family, so well-beloved by the city that when she died people threw accusations of poisoning.Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 15: The Taming of the Printer
Summary:
Coursework builds up as the semester approaches its end, pushing everyone to their limits. Tommy gets to be the Philomena Cunk of feminism in this chapter.
Wordcount: 3k
Estimated reading time: 12 minutes
Date published: November 14th, 2024
Notes:
Congratulations, you've been reading for 50k words! ╰(*°▽°*)╯
Boring things that happened since i last posted: trump got elected, we got the dream smp download, a bunch of Australian students had their final exam answers leaked to them (lmao)
Cool things that happened since I last posted: Shawn4651 made THREE new pinterest boards. They're called CANNED VENISON " EASY GOOD"........., No bake cookies recipe peanut butter and CANNED VENISON GREAT EASY METHOD
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Say, you guys wouldn’t have any spare shoelaces lying around, would you?” asked Tommy, trying not to look at his sandals and socks. Laceless sneakers were useless when he had to climb so many stairs, so he’d resorted to fashion crimes. As a white man his crime was less likely to be punished, yet another example of tertiary education privilege.
“Shoelaces?” said Tubbo, from across the table. “Why?”
“Ah, you know how these things go,” said Tommy. “Theft, you know?”
The others gave him a look, so Tommy just rolled his eyes, staring at the library’s high-vaulted ceilings.
“No, we don’t?” said Tubbo. “Why—what’s the point in stealing laces?” said Tubbo. “Especially your grotty-ass ones.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Tommy. “There’s a chronic shoelace thief in the red house—her name’s Lacy. Bitch got into my room last night and took the lot of them.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“I’m serious,” said Tommy. “Look, even Shubble messaged me about it.”
He pulled out his phone, showing Shubble’s texts—sent at one-am, the fucking loser.
*Shubble sent a picture*
Why didnt u tell me Lacy got us??
How long has the snack been gone
“That reminds me,” said Tommy. “I should probably tell her that I ate the snack.”
“Snack?” said Ranboo.
“If you leave a snack Lacy will eat that instead of your laces.”
“She eats shoelaces? Your dorms are fucking weird,” said Tubbo.
“No, she—well, she probably doesn’t eat them,” said Tommy. “Fuck if I know, to be honest.”
“I’m so glad I have a normal dorm, that sounds like a fucking circus.”
“You’re just jealous of how cool we are,” said Tommy. “You wish you had our level of joy and whimsy.”
“Says the man wearing socks and sandals.”
“Well I’m sorry I don’t have any sneakers at the moment, they’re all fucking useless,” said Tommy.
Ranboo jumped. “We’re in the library, remember?”
Tommy repeated himself in a harsh whisper. “Sorry I don’t have any fucking shoelaces. Aren’t you supposed to be studying?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be studying?” said Tubbo. “The presentation is tomorrow.”
“At least I have a fucking script,” said Tommy.
“Again, I don’t need one,” said Tubbo.
“Sorry we can’t all be child prodigies,” said Tommy. “Since we’re doing it tomorrow, I’m going to practise now. You don’t have a choice.”
Tubbo just snorted, flipping his laptop shut. “Let’s hear it, then.”
Tommy stood, pulling up the script on his laptop and reading it out. It was mostly completed, all he had to do was finish his paragraph on the falsification of manuscripts and find a quote on thirteenth-century female occupations.
Tubbo clapped when he finished, ignoring the glares from the students around them. Fucking nerds. “Sounds pretty good, how are your slides looking?”
Tommy winced. “Haven’t started yet.”
Tubbo snorted. “Have fun with that.”
“Don’t worry, I fucking plan to.”
With the grace of a slinky, Tommy plonked himself back at the table, slouching as far as he could in his chair. Tubbo was flicking through an archive of medieval art, Ranboo sitting opposite. Tommy couldn’t see his screen, but Ranboo wasn’t even touching his computer. He just stared, his shoulders hunched up to his ears.
“You good, man?” said Tommy. “Ranboo?”
Ranboo’s eyes flicked up, his body reacting half a second later. “Oh, me? Yeah, I—I’m getting through it, you know?”
“Wait, what’s wrong?” said Tubbo. “Are we being too much?”
“No, it’s—it’s this oral,” he said. “I—I can’t do public speaking. It’s not just the anxiety, my memory issues always play up.” He sighed. “I can remember the facts fine, but I forget what slide I’m up to, or what I was asked and then I get stressed and I just get worse and worse and worse,” he mumbled, fingers fidgeting. “I go from forgetting little things to forgetting everything, I—I don’t even remember if it was you or Tommy who asked me this,” said Ranboo. “Sorry.”
“Hey, we don’t care,” said Tubbo. “That sounds like absolute shit, is there stuff we can do to help?”
“No, I… ranting is enough,” he said. “You guys really don’t mind, right?”
“Of course not—”
“—If I didn’t like it I’d just leave.”
Ranboo snorted. “That—Tubbo, do you know how to comfort people?”
Tubbo blinked. “…Was it something I said?”
Ranboo and Tommy burst out laughing, only growing louder when Tubbo said, “What? What did I do?”
“Don’t—Don’t worry about it,” said Ranboo, still smiling wide. “You’re just being you, that’s comforting enough.”
“Whoa, take me to dinner, first,” said Tubbo. “You can’t go complimenting me like that before we’ve started dating.”
“You’re single?” said Ranboo. “Well—I mean, not for much longer.”
They burst out laughing again, Tubbo winking at Ranboo and setting them all off once again. When they finally calmed, Tubbo said, “In all serious, tell me if Epithet is bothering you, I’ll fucking deck her.”
“With those flabby things?” said Tommy, reaching across to squeeze his arm.
“Fuck you, my flabby arms are gorgeous,” said Tubbo.
Ranboo snorted. “Well, thanks. I’ll let you know if—if I ever want her punched,” he said. “And I do have a support system set up—the disability team all know me by name, I’ve got Jeff and I’ve got you guys, of course.”
“Who’s Jeff?”
Ranboo froze. “I—uh—he—Jeff isn’t—he’s a plushie.” Ranboo’s cheeks reddened as he said the words, eyes darting around. “A-A cat plushie. Whenever I get stressed he talks me through stuff. He—He’s a really good listener.”
“Awww, I wish I had an emotional support plushie. Do you have pictures of him?” said Tubbo.
“N-Not on this phone, sorry,” said Ranboo.
“Boo,” he said, slumping back in his chair. “Maybe we can bring Jeff to your presentation, he’ll make it less shit.”
Ranboo’s smile faded. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“How did land ownership differ between women in the monastery and upper class women?”
“Land ownership?” repeated Ranboo.
“Yes.”
“Right, she—the—uh—“ he trailed off, eyes darting around as his hands shook.
Fuck. Tommy stared down at his desk, averting eye contact to lower the pressure in the room.
“I—I—sorry, I—you—can you repeat—repeat the question?”
The student frowned, repeating the response louder than before, as if that would help Ranboo remember it.
“It had to do with marriage,” he said, quickly. “The—uh—Herrad of Landsberg was a nun and considered married to God, which differed from—from—” He trailed off once again, staring at his slide.
Tommy winced, faking a loud, disruptive cough into his elbow.
“Ranboo?” said Professor Epithet.
He flinched, eyes darting back towards the front. “Sorry, I—I—sorry.”
She sighed, scribbling down some final notes, “That’s the end of question time, that will be all. Next we have Lavender.”
“I—Thank you,” said Ranboo, hurrying back to where Tubbo and Tommy sat. He bumped into the corner as he did so, almost sending Tubbo’s water bottle flying. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispered, quickly taking a seat.
The next presentation began, Ranboo fidgeting like he was trying to defuse a bomb. All the while he just stared into space, oblivious to Tubbo and Tommy’s frequent looks. He was going to kill whoever made oral presentations part of a literature degree. Then he’d sue the university for emotional damage, get them to pay off Ranboo’s degree for him.
The next presentation passed much smoother than Ranboo’s, the subsequent students’ content blurring together.
Finally, Professor Epithet put her pen down. “That will be all for today,” she said. “Presentations will continue in tomorrow’s tutorial.”
Ranboo packed up on autopilot, gaze still vacant. Tommy quickly followed him, exchanging a look with Tubbo. He made it to the entrance of the building before his footsteps faltered, eyes darting around once again.
“Ranboo?” said Tubbo.
“I—yes, Tubbo?” he said.
“How are you feeling?” said Tommy.
“I—I’m fine,” said Ranboo. “Or, I will be. I just need—need to decompress, okay?” Ranboo pulled out his phone, typing something at a rapid pace. “I’ve done everything for the day, I just need some alone time.”
“You sure?” said Tommy. “That was fucking awful in there—I think we could all use a break. Watch a movie, or something.”
“No, really,” said Ranboo. “I know you guys mean well, but—but the best thing I can do right now is be by myself. We can do the movie another day.”
“What if you have another panic attack?” said Tubbo. So much for being subtle. “I don’t want you feeling lonely—we can help you, you know?”
“I—I can always call you,” said Ranboo. “I—I appreciate you guys and all but um—I need to be alone. Bye.” He hurried towards the university centre, leaving Tubbo and Tommy behind.
“I’m breaking into his room,” said Tubbo.
“You’ll make him feel worse,” said Tommy, despite thinking the same thing. “Do you even know where his room is?”
“Of course,” said Tubbo. “And breaking in isn’t a bad thing if I bring cookies.”
“It’s still breaking in,” said Tommy. “I don’t know if he can take any more surprises today.”
Tubbo hummed. “Maybe I’ll just text him. I’ll only break in if he doesn’t respond.”
“That’s more like it,” said Tommy. “Call me if you need backup, yeah?”
“Will do.”
Tubbo followed through on his promise, breaking into Ranboo’s room with a box of subway cookies a couple hours later. He sent Tommy a blurry photo of the results, Ranboo curled up on the couch and nibbling on a cookie.
Tommy would have loved to join them, but his work couldn’t wait any longer. Not only did he need to complete his writeup on women practitioners, but Professor Manuel’s essay was due on the same fucking day.
The next day of classes was jam-packed, the three working their asses off to catch all the content. For the first Thursday this semester, Niki had cancelled the Auslan class, leaving the trio with an extra hour spare. Tommy turned down Tubbo and Ranboo for dinner, telling them to enjoy their date while he married the grind, making his way to the library.
Tommy found himself a place on the ground floor, a nook right by the entrance. Sure, it was louder, but Tommy was not venturing to the silent areas with fucking Clementine. He told her as much.
“What are you talking about?” said Clementine, appearing on his desk, midway through a backbend. “The silence is great! I can talk as much as I like without you interrupting me, and you don’t even tell bad jokes.”
“My jokes are great,” said Tommy. “Not my fault your humour is shit. You should get better at laughing.”
“If your jokes are so good, why don’t you add them to your essay?”
“Fuck you, maybe I will,” said Tommy, scrolling through his paper once again. He sighed. “You know what? Humour doesn’t come from this laptop, I’m drafting this bitch by hand.”
Tommy opened his laptop bag, flicking through the papers until he found the instructions for the library printer. Using printers was the modern equivalent of taming horses, except printers made scarier noises. Tommy scanned through the instructions, then scanned through them again, the same as a printer would. The secret to taming printers was to think like a printer, either that or spend ten years specialising in the subject.
“You probably have no idea what I’m doing,” said Tommy, refreshing the list of nearby printers. “You know, because you’re so old and all.” “The last dude I shadowed was doing a computer science degree,” said Clementine. “I can use Java and a typewriter.”
“Fucking nerd,” said Tommy, refreshing the list again. Library – G finally appeared, Tommy clicking on it. The printing menu vanished, no sign of whether he was successful or not.
“That should do it,” he said. “You wouldn’t happen to know where this floor’s printer is, would you?”
“The librarians are literally paid to help with this stuff,” said Clementine.
He groaned, but moved to the front desk, asking the librarian for help. He followed their directions, eventually finding a row of printers. He swiped his ID card on the closest, the machine rattling with the groans of lost student’s souls.
Tommy stilled, watching it slowly spit out his five pages—okay, he was aiming for double sided, but he could take single. No big deal.
Once the printer stopped making noise, he tentatively grabbed at the paper, frowning at what he saw.
For some fucking reason, all his pages came out pink. Paragraph after paragraph printed in aggressive magenta.
“I didn’t—did the printer have a—”
“—Hah! Get pranked!”
Tommy spun at the familiar voice, coming face to face with Bad. He still wore his signature black hoodie, red highlights around the rim.
“Is this really the time?” he said, before he could stop himself. “Printers are scary enough as they are, how am I supposed to hand in a pink fucking draft,” he said, despite Manuel’s drafting due date having been over a week ago.
“Hey, language, this is a library. There could be kids around,” said Bad.
Tommy bit back his default response, instead saying, “Really, Bad?”
“You don’t know him!” said Clementine, quickly. “You’ve only met him as Red.”
Fuck him. Fuck him in his fucking feminist ass.
Bad blinked. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”
“No, no, it’s just—I’ve heard about you on the grapevine, you know?”
“Oh, the bake-off, right?”
“That’s the one,” said Tommy, pulling out his finger guns. “Were you the one to burn the pasta?”
Bad scoffed. “Of course not! That’s nothing but a rumour, I can assure you.”
Tommy knew it. He had been the one to turn up the heat—trying to bring it to the boil faster and burning it in the process.
“But anyway, this is my first ever prank,” said Bad, moving closer to the printer. “I swapped all the ink cartridges to magenta so nobody could print what they needed to. Pretty good, isn’t it?”
Tommy’s shoulders betrayed him in a shrug. “It’s definitely not something I’ve ever seen before,” he said. “Makes it memorable, you know? I’m definitely going to remember this when I hand Manuel this pink fucking essay.”
“Language!” said Bad, faster than before.
Tommy smirked.
“You’ve got to watch your mouth, but thanks!” said Bad. “Hope your drafting goes well.”
This was definitely Bad’s first attempt at a prank. Tommy wasn’t going to ruin his enthusiasm, not when he was on the right track. It was a good idea, but unfortunately ruined in its execution. This wasn’t the sort of prank where you declare yourself as the prankster, it was better left in the background, like the banana duct-taped to a door on Tommy’s floor. It certainly wasn’t winning prank of the year, but the lack of explanation made it funnier.
Not that Tommy would try to explain that to Bad. He once said that the worst reaction to a prank was no reaction at all, but there was a truly heinous response: constructive criticism.
If anyone—fuck forbid Quackity—ever gave Tommy a compliment sandwich after he pulled a prank, he would burn the university down.
Tommy made it all the way back to his desk before he realised his paper was covered in magenta handprints. He dropped the essay, flipping over his hands to find dark pink smeared across them. “Fuck me,” he said, grabbing the pink sheets and dumping them in a bin. He hurried to the closest bathroom, scrubbing his hands under the tap.
The pink didn’t leave.
He swore, grabbing at paper towels and staining them in the process. “I’m fucking done for, Clem,” he said. “I’m turning into an Oompa Loompa.”
“Aren’t those orange?” said Clementine.
“Well, the male ones are—” Tommy tried and failed to flick the water from his hands. “—Who knows what the Lady-Loompas were up to while the Loompa Lads were busting a child-abuse move. I’m going to get this everywhere.”
“Maybe you need hot water?” said Clementine.
“Do you know how far I am from my shower?” said Tommy. “I already lost my shoelaces, I am not staining my good jeans, either.”
“You could let me do it,” said Clementine.
“No I fucking couldn’t,” said Tommy, marching back to his study nook. “Your sticky fingers are not touching shit. I’ll get to the dorm without a single stain, just you wait.”
Tommy followed through on what he said, ignoring Clementine hovering over him, eagerly awaiting his downfall. Using his only ink-free fingers—his pinkies—he manoeuvred all his supplies back into his bag and got it zipped. Instead of using the laptop bag’s handle, he cradled it to his chest, using his wrists to hold it in place while he travelled across the campus. The trek was highly successful, Tommy slaying the elevator by elbowing the button he needed. In fact, he’d made it to his dorm without a single hitch.
He stared at room 198’s keypad.
Well, one hitch.
With little other ideas, Tommy let his laptop bag fall to the ground, punching in the code with his pinkies. It hurt to press the buttons with his weakest finger, but Tommy was a mascot, he knew how to endure.
Once the door opened, Tommy just kicked his stuff in until it hit the edge of his bed, letting the door swing shut behind him. He could finally shower.
Tommy tore off his clothes with a mixed of closed fists and teeth, stepping into the water. With the combination of hot water and Shubble’s goat milk soap, Tommy finally freed his hands from the pink stains.
He got changed quickly, embracing his thick hoodie as a ward against the cold. Magenta crisis averted, Tommy could fuck around with his essay for a little longer before calling it a night. He stepped out of the bathroom, reaching for his laptop bag with spotless hands.
His laptop wasn’t the only thing waiting for him.
A tomato sat just on top of his bag—the bag he’d only just put down—coloured orange-red and slightly greener towards the star-shaped stem.
The tomato was back.
Someone had placed a tomato in his room—someone who wasn’t Shubble was leaving them. One tomato in his room was just a funny prank, a harmless bit of fun. But two tomatoes? That was targeted. Personal.
Tommy was a marked man.
Notes:
I'm not apologising for this chapter being late, yous are THANKING me for writing this chapter at all. In the past week I've had three exams, (two of which happening on the same day. while I was EXTREMELY ILL) and then I had to go on a wild goose chase to get medical forms filled in so the exam board wouldn't kill me. This chapter is a poorer quality because I don't care. I don't care why the ink on Tommy's hands was still wet I don't care about the proper way to remove ink and I don't care about how printers work. Everyone in the comments say "Thank you Pearl you're so hot even when you don't upload"
The medieval women's history stuff is real, though. You should learn about female roles on Medieval society from this link. You'll have to switch on your critical thinking brain but imagine how cool you'll feel when you know more stuff:
https://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/education/resources/medieval-society/
^^ For my brainrot girlies Tommyinnit from Dream SMP literally wants you to click this link^^Leaving kudos is slay but comments that say "Thank you Pearl you're so hot even when you don't upload" are the MOST BAE
Chapter 16: Dsmp REACT to Miss Universe 2024
Summary:
Ranboo invites Tommy and Tubbo to enjoy a family tradition with him, watching the latest instalment of Miss Universe. They grow closer together as they behold the scandal of a women-beauty-competition-turned-feminism. Like seriously Miss Universe tries to do both and it doesn't work but it makes it FASCINATING to watch.
Wordcount: 2.8k
Estimated reading time: 11 minutes
Date published: November 22nd, 2024
Notes:
Had a rough time but HERE WE ARE LETS GOOOO. Got hit with some moderate burnout, but I'm hoping it's just the temporary one instead of the combo I've been building for the past two years. No knowledge of Miss Universe is required for reading this chapter, but I had a HARD time finding the live show. They livestreamed it to youtube but made it members only, and asked me to pay like EIGHTY DOLLARS to get to the tier I could use to actually watch the show. The evening it aired I spent hours scouring youtube to find the full show, resorting to one where this Vietnamese guy just dubbed over the top of the English as he watched, such a banger, every time Vietnam came on stage he went like "bla bla bla VIETNAM!! :D" It made it so much more enjoyable.
Changed my bedsheets for the first time since July. It feels really nice.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sure, the heels bet Tommy made with Tubbo brought them the worst of both worlds, but having to read London Labour and the London Poor out loud was the true killer. By the time he finished the first chapter, his tongue was ready to fall out of his mouth.
“Can’t you just find an audiobook for this?” said Tommy. “Or even text to speech? It’s all common domain, you know?”
“But what if I enjoy the sound of your pain?” said Tubbo. “Besides, you always do the voices.”
“Fuck you, I’m removing your voices privilege,” he said, snapping the book shut. “These chairs are killing my back, let’s get out of here.”
Tommy and Tubbo went for a walk around the quad, bickering quickly turning into insults, ending with Tommy’s phone being stolen. Tubbo booked it, Tommy making chase across campus. He finally cornered Tubbo around the back of the history hall, Tubbo jerking at a staff entrance door even when it didn’t budge.
Tommy grinned, but Tubbo didn’t admit defeat. Instead, he held the phone to his mouth, saying, “Hey siri, call Ranboo.”
“Sorry, I don’t have a number for Ranboo.”
“Hah!” said Tommy. “You really thought I’d save it as his name? You are not bringing Ranboo into this.”
“Hey siri, call boob boy.”
“Calling Boob Boy.”
“FUCK!” said Tommy, lunging for the phone.
Tubbo shrieked, jumping back until he hit the brick wall, Tommy pinning him against the ground. Water was already soaking into his pants—who knew what shit was on the concrete here. He snatched the phone back just as the call connected.
“Yello?” said Ranboo.
“Ignore him! Ignore whatever he—”
Tubbo jumped on top of him. “—Do you think Tommy looks like he had mega bloks instead of lego?”
“I FUCKING DID NOT—”
“—This is very important, Ranboo. It makes sense, right?”
Ranboo snorted. “I—I can’t go choosing a side and all, you know?”
“That means I’m right!” said Tubbo. “I fucking told you so.”
“Fuck you!”
“So—uh—” started Ranboo. “Not that I’m bored of this or anything, but are you two doing anything this evening?”
“I’m free,” said Tubbo. “What have you got planned?”
“Well, there’s this show I love to watch every year as like a family tradition and all, but since I can’t do that this year I thought I’d watch it with you guys?” said Ranboo.
“We can be your fake family,” said Tubbo.
“What’s the show?” said Tommy.
“Miss Universe,” said Ranboo. “It might not be your style, but—remember that stupid heels thing you did? This is the same sort of stuff, you might enjoy judging and whatever.”
Tommy and Tubbo shared a look.
“Fuck yeah—”
“—What snacks are we bringing?”
“Oh, anything’s fine,” said Ranboo. “It doesn’t start until five, you’ve got time to finish whatever you were doing.”
Tubbo gave Tommy a look, the two lunging for the phone once again.
Their fighting eventually ended, replaced by a smuggling trip through the dining hall. Their spoils ended up being a handful of ice creams and far too many croutons. With the blacklisted goods safely acquired, they made their way through the blue dorms, only having to ask for directions once. The flowerpot outside Ranboo’s dorm was already larger than before, green bulbs just tipped with purple sitting in the centre of the plant.
Tubbo knocked on the door, Ranboo quickly letting them in. The three got cozy on Ranboo’s two-seater couch, then uncosy when Tubbo rolled off, taking all the blankets with him. They bickered all through the preshow until Ranboo banished Tubbo to the bed, leaving Tommy and Ranboo plenty of space on the couch.
Miss Universe opened—as expected—with a pretty woman. Many of them, and entire fucking dance number, to be precise.
“What in the high school musical?” said Tommy, as more women walked onto the stage and joined in. They were surrounded by Mexican musicians—oh, and a rapper in the centre, mixing the traditional with modern. Wait, those women weren’t backup dancers, each wore a sash with their country’s name.
Ranboo sighed as the song ended. “It—It’s not all music, I promise,” he said. “The opening number is a new thing.”
Each woman loudly announced their country, shouting through all of them in alphabetical—
“—Holy shit she’s just like Jack!” said Tommy, pointing at Miss Botswana. “Bald!”
Ranboo huffed. “They’re not even the same race.”
“Their jewellery is fucking incredible,” said Tubbo. “Do you think they use real gems?”
Each of the contestants wore white, most having complex necklaces and earrings or elbow-high white gloves.
“Definitely real,” said Ranboo. “They get a different sponsor every year.”
Spain and Zimbabwe’s microphone didn’t work when they went to announce their country, Tommy wincing. “I need to stab their tech people,” he said. He didn’t have any experience talking in costume, but tech issues were the bane of any event.
Between another advertisement, the two hosts came out, both dressed in classy eveningwear. The woman was dressed in a gorgeous midnight black dress, rhinestones covering the bodice. Their clothes stood out from the dark blue background, yet didn’t drag away attention from the contestants—perfect for this sort of competition.
Two more commentators sat outside of the stage, one dressed in white and the other in gold.
“Wait, what year did the commentator win?” said Tubbo.
“2018,” said Ranboo. “Miss Philippines.”
“Is that why she’s wearing white, too?” said Tommy.
The show switched to a pre-recorded video of the contestant’s experience in Mexico, Tommy’s jaw dropping. “Look at their outfits,” he said. “The outfits.”
“HOW THE FUCK DO THEY WALK IN THOSE HEELS?” said Tubbo.
Tommy blinked, his eyes widening as they strutted down an entire flight of stairs. The recording cut to the preliminary competition—before switching back to the hosts.
“I hope Miss USA gets eliminated,” said Tommy. “I bet she’s a bitch.”
“Hey!” said Ranboo. “Miss USA has no style, it’s our national tradition.”
The structure of the competition was explained, and then the judges were introduced, making Tommy cackle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Those judges are so fucking random,” he said. “They literally go here’s a fashion designer, a famous rapper, the first ever female nuclear physicist and an Instagram influencer.”
“It’s part of the experience,” said Ranboo. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Holy shit I want those sunnies,” said Tubbo.
“IS THAT THE HOT TO GO WOMAN?!”
Ranboo groaned. “Okay, stop talking. That’s just a woman with heavy makeup, not Chappell Roan.”
They jumped straight into announcing the top thirty women, playing a clip about each woman’s experience as they walked up. The way the contestants moved was fascinating. No matter if they were standing or walking or stopping, they always looked fluid. Tommy bit back a comment on how hard that must be, instead watching a video about the most inspiring Miss Universe story.
Miss Egypt was the next contestant announced, a wide grin across her face.
“Why does her makeup look like that?” said Tubbo. “Is it a cultural thing?”
Tommy took a closer look at it. “No, she has vitiligo, you fucking idiot.”
“That’s so cool,” said Ranboo. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen something like that, every year they bring in more and more diversity.”
They watched up to the twentieth contestant in silence.
“Okay, I’m getting sick of the cut scenes,” said Tubbo.
“Ranboo hummed. “Some years they show the women’s activism or an interview.”
“You can hardly fucking see them,” said Tommy.
“Oh, so now their looks matter?” said Tubbo.
“What the fuck, you just said you didn’t like them either,” said Tommy.
“You should apologise for being so shallow,” said Tubbo.
“They’re telling me their fucking dating profiles,” said Tommy. “Ranboo, at what round do they drop their tinders?”
“Shush, I’m trying to listen.”
“Hi, I’m Miss Russia and I love travelling and long walks along the beach,” said Tommy, as Miss Russia posed in the centre of the stage.
It cut to her interview, shadows and warm light thrown across her face. “I come from the largest country, and I hope to become a cancer scientist.”
Even Ranboo laughed at that one, Tubbo slapping Tommy and squashing back onto the couch.
“Those captions are shit,” said Tubbo. “Are they AI generated?”
“The mistakes are part of the charm,” Ranboo repeated, even as he shuddered.
“Oh, is it like Eurovision?” said Tubbo.
“Like what?”
“Eurovision,” he repeated. “They decide who the best singer is in Europe every year, and it’s the worst-organised, most rigged fucking show.”
“Shubble can’t stand it,” said Tommy.
They got to the end of the thirty contestants, and neither Miss USA or Miss Britain made it in. The former Miss Universe talked about her experience as the winner, but all Tommy could focus on was her stunning dress. The pale blue sheath dress stood out on the stage, with giant balloon sleeves reminiscent of blossoms. Even though she only said a few lines, the woman seemed to radiate power. What was it? Was it her smile, her tone of voice? Tommy held still, digesting everything he could about the shot, every smile and tilt of the head and the exact shape of her hair, anything that Red could replicate. He held his tongue again, secrets weighing his shoulders down.
His secrets were interrupted by the announcement of a swimsuit competition.
“Wait, so they all walk out in bikinis?” said Tubbo. “Isn’t the whole thing meant to be women’s empowerment?”
Ranboo shrugged. “It’s a woman’s beauty competition while also trying to be a celebration of feminism,” he said. “It doesn’t always manage both, but it just makes it more addicting.”
The first woman stepped out in blue swimwear, a sheer golden cape on her shoulders. Tommy was once again entranced by the way they moved, smiling perfectly and using the cape to highlight their poses—Tommy needed to do this shit while mascoting.
“Wait, did Puerto Rico copy Vietnam?” said Tubbo.
“She did!” said Tommy. “You didn’t tell me there would be fraud, Ranboo.”
“I—” Ranboo glanced between them. “—No. They get a set list of swimwear to choose from, and they pick the one that works best for their body type and skin tone.”
“I’m sorry to break this to you, but they all have the same body type,” said Tommy.
“Who designs them?” said Tubbo.
Tommy snorted, taking a bite of his ice cream. “What, you wanna buy a pair?” he said. “Make all the girls jealous?”
“Always,” said Tubbo. “How much do they cost?”
“Well, last year’s was around eighty dollars.”
“Eighty?” he repeated. “Do you know how many iced coffees I could buy with that?”
The three burst into laughter again, watching more and more contestants make their strut across the runway.
“So what exactly are they being judged on?” said Tubbo. “Is it really as shallow as who looks the prettiest?”
Ranboo shrugged. “Well, it’s also about how they move,” he said. “See how she just fumbled the cape as she took it off? She’ll lose points for that.”
“Fuck me, how many times would they have to practise that?” said Tubbo. “That sounds fucking insane.”
“And they’re still wearing heels,” said Tommy. Talking about heels was safe, he wore heels for an entire week. It could never be connected to Red’s identity.
“I hope Miss Egypt gets in,” said Ranboo.
“I’m all for Miss Russia,” said Tommy. “She could be getting a college education and instead she’s fucking around on a stage. King shit.”
“And she wants to research cancer,” said Tubbo.
“Yep, she actually knows why she’s at uni, you should ask for tips, Tubbo.”
“Fuck you,” he said.
The next competition was the evening gowns, and the three of them leaned forward, quickly speaking over each other as they shouted at the gowns.
“Look at Bangladesh’s scoop back—”
“—Do you see those arm pieces—”
“—HOLY SHIT LOOK AT MISS CANADA, ARE THOSE THE FUCKING NORTHERN LIGHTS?!”
“Look at the sleeves!”
“The waves in the fabric!”
“I’d kill for that dress—”
“—I’d die for that dress.”
Tommy and Tubbo exchanged a look, then launched at each other, tackling until they fell off the couch, bumping the TV stand.
They only pulled apart when the round ended, a guy coming onto the stage and singing a song. Whoever he was, seeing him sing his admiration for the women as they walked past was fucking fantastic, Tommy needed to be like him when he grew up. The next stage was an interview round, Tubbo and Tommy declaring truce as they watched each woman answer a random question from the judging committee, each woman thinking on the spot while keeping up their pageant persona.
“This is just like how we voted in our school prefects,” said Tubbo.
“What the fuck?” said Tommy.
Miss Nigeria was the first to answer, and she was given a stupid fucking question. What is more important, being liked or being respected? She stared directly at the camera as she spoke, grabbing Tommy by the throat and forcing him to listen.
Miss Thailand was the next to step up.
“What qualities must someone have to be a truly successful leader?”
“They asked that exact question to the prefects,” said Tubbo.
“Your school was fucking weird,” said Tommy.
After Miss Thailand came Miss Venezuela, who was asked yet another gut-punching question. “Describe the ideal woman of today.”
They stayed completely silent as she answered, waiting for the interpreter to speak in English.
Tommy frowned. “Did—Did she understand the question properly?”
“It might have been her, or it might have been the translator,” said Ranboo.
Another cut scene started, this one with a group of contestants sitting around the table and talking about their experiences with Miss Universe.
“Normally all the cut scenes are like this,” said Ranboo. “We finally got there.”
In the final round, all the contestants were asked the same question, the others wearing noise cancelling headphones as they answered one after another.
“Holy shit, my school used headphones, too!”
“We’re trying to hear the question, shush!” said Ranboo.
“Miss Universe has inspired generations of women, what is your message to the ones watching you right now?”
They listened to Miss Nigeria’s answer in silence, a radiant grin across her face. She had that same effect as last year’s Miss Universe, carrying herself high despite her modest evening gown, a slim sheath with a simple emerald cape, flowing out behind her like her country’s flag.
The trio listened and critiqued everyone else’s answer, finishing with Miss Venezuela. Her smile grew confident as the question was translated, giving the best answer of all:
“The crown tonight does not only go to the representative of Miss Universe, but the crown goes to every single woman that has earned the respect, love, and visibility for us to be here.”
Tommy nudged Ranboo. “You hear that? We are all Miss Universe.”
Ranboo snorted, grabbing Tommy’s hand, and Tubbo grabbed the other.
“The universe is everything, but without teamwork we’d be nothing,” said Tubbo.
The three giggled through the ad break, Tubbo cackling when Tommy rubbed his thumb across his hand.
The ad break ended, the singing man from earlier returning.
“WHY IS HE BACK?” said Tommy. “HE KEEPS WOMAN SIMPING WITHOUT ME!”
Tubbo shushed him, squeezing his hand as if it would calm him.
Ranboo met Tommy’s eyes and smirked, tucking a strand of Tommy’s hair behind his ear.
Tommy laughed again, placing a kiss to each of their hands to hide his red cheeks. The three giggled like school children as another interview segment played, hardly paying attention.
“They nailed the lighting,” said Tommy, as 2023’s Miss Universe gave a speech. She wore a large princess dress, ruffles moving across like a lake’s ripples or a desert’s sand dunes.
Tommy blinked, and the five woman on the stage had shrunk to two, closing their eyes and pressing their hands against each other, excited smiles on both their faces.
The background music faded, and the three fell silent, paying attention to the screen. The moment stretched on and on, quiet enough that Tommy could hear Ranboo’s fridge humming, hear Tubbo’s little intake of breath and feel Ranboo still. This night was just what Tommy needed. Even when he was overrun with assignments and draining his energy, he got to do it with his friends, watching them grow comfortable with each other, daydreaming of being even closer. Maybe there was some other world where they were already best friends. Some other universe.
“And the winner is Miss Denmark!”
Notes:
Okay now that you've actually read it I can tell you the real reason this took so long. I had this chapter handwritten by Sunday and typed up by Monday, but then I had to get my laptop wiped, spent six hours trying to get my toxic boyfriend microsoft word to download AND THEN I LOST MY NATASHA.
Let me explain.
I've been using the same microsoft account since 2019, my word settings carrying over from device to device and keeping everything just how I liked it. Since I had to transfer to a new one, I lost all my settings and had to change from the default stuff again (Aptos font my beloathed, go die in a hole) So it took a while to set all that up, and then I went about my usual editing process, solving the red squiggly lines, addressing all the first draft notes, and listening to the whole thing with text to speech.
But you see,,, my text to speech voice has CHANGED.
It used to be Microsoft Natasha, a female voice with an Australian accent who sounded fairly natural except when text was italicised, or when dialogue ended with a question mark. I've been using Natasha since 2019 and have probably listened to 200k words with her.
APPARENTLY in 2022 Microsoft took all of their natural-sounding voices and added them to whatever their garbage AI app is, leaving users with ONLY one female and one male voice, getting rid of all the English-speaking voices EXCEPT for two british and two American voices. I spent HOURS trying to recover Natasha but she's been wiped from the internet. The only proof she ever existed is her voice being included in a 2022 yt video showing all the microsoft voices and a sketchy website that can only read 500 characters at a time in her voice. She's lost. Stolen by Microsoft and forced into an AI app, given breathing sound effects and more stuff to make her sound real. She no longer struggles with italics or makes random static noises when you press play midway through a document save. This chapter would have been here last night but my grief and outrage at Natasha took hold. This fic is NOT a microsoft safe space and I WILL be adding Natasha as a side character to this story.Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 17: IRL venting in AMONGUS?!
Summary:
Tommy becomes a man of the walls, then finds an unexpected visitor in the red dorms. Contains a funny amount of unresolved romantic tension, an abnormal number of birth metaphors and a rice cooker.
Wordcount: 3.4k
Estimated reading time: 14 minutes
Date published: November 24th, 2024
Notes:
SURPRISE EVERYONE THERE'S A BONUS CHAPTER!! If you're checking in after a bit, make sure you've read the Miss Universe chapter, too.
I should say a fun little tidbit here so everyone gets to know me better, uhhhhhh my subway surfer high score is 12.5 million and I have the character Prince K. (WITHOUT spending real money, paying to win on a pay to win game is CHEATING)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I got the skin.
Meet me at the 3rd floor elevator, Sunday 8pm. Don’t bring your supplies.
Tommy awoke to the message from Connor, fifty dollars poorer than the night before. That was a shorter timeframe than he thought, but it wasn’t too bad. Tommy still had no idea what his supplies were. He still wanted to go with graffiti, but with what marker? What could he draw? Was he going to be Banksy, scrawling spray paint and disappearing or Michaelangelo painting friezes on the chapel ceiling? The quick drawing was the safer option, in and out with little chance of Quackity catching him.
Safe was also boring.
If he wanted Quackity to feel afraid, he had to go big. The classic example of artwork was the cock, a low-risk investment guaranteed to bring in a small profit. But Tommy could never. Shubble would look down on him for choosing something so cheap, she would recreate the Sistine chapel.
Unfortunately, Tommy wasn’t insane. While any moron could make a dick joke, dicking on a moron took particular talent. Maybe he should go with a death threat, those were always fun and harmless.
No, the best pranks were the ones with the smallest materials. Why cover the room with glitter when you could create a single patch in the centre, or a single stack of beer cups instead of a pyramid? It all said I was here, I was here and you didn’t even know. You’re safe only because I’m merciful. Yes, it was terror Tommy needed. Terror would make Quackity overthink, to pace back and forth wondering what comes next, consumed by the incident even if Tommy did nothing else.
“You done monologuing?” said Clementine.
Tommy blinked. “Thought that was in my head, but no, I’m not. If I’m going down the graffiti route, I’m using something permanent. Quackity isn’t getting It off his wall unless he fucking repaints it. Assuming it’s a secret-secret room, even the admin won’t know about it.” He paused, taking a bite of his chocolate bar. He’d forked out at the floor’s vending machine, grabbing a chocolate bar for himself and one for the wardrobe. “Although, I guess Quackity kind of is the admin. I’ve gotta learn how this place is fucking ran.”
“You do,” said Clementine. “Once you understand the systems you can start weaponising them.”
“Weapons! Maybe I’ll leave a knife on Quackity’s floor.”
“Moving out of prank territory, buddy,” she said.
“It could be funny.”
“It could also lead to police involvement.”
Tommy groaned. “Fine. We’ve got time to work it out, though. We’ll come up with something good.”
With his coursework eating up the day, eight pm rushed upon him. He shoved his flatlining laptop on charge and hurried down to the third floor.
Connor leaned on the wall opposite the elevators, scrolling through his phone, just as he said he’d be.
“Ayup,” said Tommy, making his way over.
Connor put his phone in his pocket. “Come this way,” he said, guiding Tommy through the floor.
Tommy followed, Connor breaking into thoughtless chatter—women and gaming, mostly. As Tommy had sunk hundreds of hours into both subjects, he found it easy to join.
Connor led him to the floor’s ambulant bathrooms, stepping into the middle one. He beckoned Tommy in, flicking the lock behind them.
Tommy stared at the toilet, an image of Queen Elizabeth taped to the lid.
He turned back to Connor, the two standing only a handspan apart. Connor’s brown eyes looked black in the warm lighting, a soothing void framed by pale skin and yet another sonic hoodie.
“Are we about to kiss?” whispered Tommy, when the moment stretched on.
“Sssorry, wrong type of fanfiction,” said Connor, stepping onto the toilet seat. He grabbed at the textured wall behind the toilet, some brutalist bullshit that had the wall split into two different panels, a sharp line of black running through the centre. Connor wedged his fingers into the corner of the cladding, a portion of the wall swinging outwards.
“Lizzy you bloody legend,” whispered Tommy, ducking his head in respect for the former monarch.
“The way down is through here,” said Connor. “Can’t talk once we get started, so get your yapping down now.”
“Silence is my middle name.”
Connor rolled his eyes. “Anyways, don’t show anyone this place. I’ll tell Quackity what you’re doing and you’ll lose all your Connor clout.”
Tommy scoffed. “My Connor Clout?”
“Exactly, you don’t wanna lose that. This whole thing won’t take long,” said Connor, flicking his hood back up. The fucking emo, they were indoors—even Lizzy had her crown off. He stepped into the wall cavity, ducking his head through the gap and straightening on the other side. He pulled out his phone flashlight as Tommy followed, struggling to shuffle into the small space. The two shimmied past the next bathroom, and the next, Tommy sucking in his stomach to get past the vertical pipes. A less-adaptable man would struggle with such a feat, but Tommy was a corset-wearer. If he could make it across the quad in heels and a corset he could make it between a wall and a dusty-ass pipe.
The path forked, and Connor turned right, the light from their entrance vanishing. A strange silence fell over the space. Not a true silence, but a muffling of every noise, like the city early in the morning after a heavy snow. And just like snow, their footsteps were loud as shit, grating Tommy’s very eardrums. Slamming doors and voices had been replaced with muffled creaks and thumps, a limbo between life and death.
“It’s fucking weird back here, innit?” he whispered. “Musty as shit, d’you reckon there’s any mould growing in here?”
“Dude, I said be quiet,” said Connor. “But there’s no mould yet.”
“Good to know,” he said. The second mould gets involved, nobody believed anything you said. Do something smart? It’s the mould making you manic. Do something dumb? It’s impairing your concentration. Nobody believed he was immune to mould except Shubble, but she didn’t fucking count.
Clementine yawned. “This is boring,” she said. “I’m gonna watch someone’s movie.” She disappeared through the wall, Tommy snorting.
Connor sent him a glance.
“What? Can’t a man entertain himself with nothing but his thoughts?”
Connor turned again, stepping out into a wider space, his arms just barely brushing each wall.
“Now this is gold-class service,” said Tommy. “I’m surprised they didn’t turn this space into a discounted dorm, it’s such a waste of space.”
“Not wasted,” said Connor, still walking forward. His phone light stretched into the distance, but Tommy couldn’t see any end. The harsh light just faded into the dust-filled darkness.
Connor didn’t continue, instead dropping to his knees and approaching a tunnel on the right, only as high as Tommy’s hips.
Tommy stopped. “Absolutely not.”
“Well, you wanted to get into Quackity’s room, right?” he said.
“Yes, but I’m not following your ass for the next fucking hour.”
Connor shrugged. “You do you, man. I got my skin, doesn’t really matter if you follow or not.”
Tommy scoffed. “Real funny.”
Connor just crawled in without another word.
“Wow, you’re really committing to that,” said Tommy. “Going through all that shit for nothing, I’m still not—”
The light from Connor’s phone dimmed, leaving Tommy in complete darkness.
He paled, hurrying after him. Tommy stumbled blindly until he caught up, staying close enough to use Connor’s light without putting his ass in his face. The tunnel grew worse as it continued, metal bars cutting across the wooden surfaces frequently, meaning no matter where Tommy put his shins it fucking hurt. How did babies do this all day? Dust covered every surface, a fine black that was certainly caking his hands.
“I’m getting so many diseases from this,” said Tommy. “I’m going to sue the—”
“—shush,” said Connor. “Whole point of coming this way is that it’s secret. Is it really secret if people can hear you?”
“Well—”
“—Seriously, if you don’t stop talking then I’m not moving.”
“Alright, you don’t have to be so—”
Connor stopped, Tommy almost running into him.
“Shit, I get it. No more yapping.”
When he didn’t speak again, Connor continued, the path stretching further and further. How far were they travelling? Connor had surely taken him right across the building by now.
The tunnel finally ended, the ceiling raising once again and splitting off in both directions. One way was nothing but a narrow gab between two walls, but the other was much wider—not quite as wide as the gold class, but platinum class, at the very least.
“Right here,” whispered Connor, moving to the wider side. Instead of moving further, he reached downwards, prying up a tile.
Light pierced the tunnel, Tommy shielding his eyes from the fucking sunlight. When he finally adjusted, Tommy looked down, a scowl stretching across his face.
Quackity’s room was on the edge of the building, with not one, but two windows. Of course this bitch would take the best room in the whole fucking building, and of course he had a fucking fur rug in the centre of it. Rich prick.
Connor put the tile back down, leaving Tommy in sudden blindness.
“That’s the room you need,” he murmured. “But you can’t do anything today. Don’t tell me what you’re gonna do or when you’ll do it, plausible deniability and all,” said Connor.
His eyes adjusted painfully slowly to the darkness, he was only just able to make out Connor’s fuzzy outline.
“It’s too much effort for me to show you back,” said Connor. “You’ll lead the way. I’m not bailing you out when you get lost in this place without me.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he hissed. “I just travelled five miles ass over tits, and now you want me to do the same thing while fucking navigating?”
Connor snorted. “It’ll be funny.”
“When I get lost I’ll waste hours of your time, just show me the way out.”
“Keep yelling, Quackity loves yelling,” said Connor.
Tommy pressed a hand to his forehead. “Fine, but don’t blame me when we end up in the fucking archaeology department.”
No matter what Tommy said as he led the way back, Connor wouldn’t give him so much as a pointer. He made it to the other end of the shit tunnel, staring left and right for a long time. All Connor did was pull out his phone, playing flappy bird. Flappy bird, while Tommy was among us venting in real life.
Even when Tommy eventually chose to go right, all Connor did was follow him. No hint if he was right or wrong, just that smug fucking grin.
He was looking for a thin opening, one full of pvc pipes and dust. He found one on the left, sliding his way in and shuffling along until he hit a T junction. Both directions looked the same.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
Connor snorted—entirely unhelpful, if you asked him. Tommy closed his eyes, trying to picture their journey into the wall. Left, they had turned left.
Tommy confidently took the right path, sliding and ducking beneath the pipes, some of them still running with water. The entrance was in the middle cubicle, so he just had to keep shuffling along until he found it.
He hit a dead end.
“Hey, it’s okay,” said Connor. “We can always take the scenic route, yeah?”
“It does matter,” he hissed. “I followed your directions to a T—a fucking Tommy Innit T. Are the walls in this place fucking moving?”
Connor huffed. “Not these walls.”
Tommy glared at him, the white light from his phone casting sharp shadows on his face. “I fucking know where I was going,” he hissed. “I copied those directions perfectly, so how the fuck am I here?”
“Picked the wrong gap,” Connor whispered. “First one connects to the first couple bathrooms, but Lizzy’s one is further up.”
“Go on, then. Lead me.”
“Not happening.”
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Don’t reckon I could squeeze past you.”
“Hello?” said a muffled voice—someone outside the wall.
They froze, Tommy’s eyes darting to Connor. Shit in a shack, they were done for.
“Is—are there people in there?”
Connor grabbed his shoulder, dragging him back along the pipes without a word—or a light. Every thump and shuffle was a beacon to their location, Tommy holding his breath. Connor pushed straight past the T junction, ducking under another pipe, Tommy finally spotting the light in the distance.
Connor moved faster, ducking under pipes before Tommy could see them, popping out into the cubicle as easy as climbing out of bed. Tommy followed with significantly less grace, grabbing the walls with sweaty hands and hitting his head.
He pulled the wall shut behind Tommy, giving it an extra shove at the end.
After a moment of silence, he grinned.
“Well, there’s the walls for you.”
“That was crazy,” said Tommy. “Who do you think that was?”
“Eh, dunno,” he said. “But hey, next time you can always try shutting up.” He flipped his hood back down. “Well, I’m out of here. You should wash your hands.”
“I didn’t even piss.”
“They’re covered in shit, dude.”
Tommy looked down, finally noticing the grime coating his palms. It was dirtier back there than he thought—fuck, it was all over his pants, too. These were his good jeans, too. Fucking ass.
“Good luck, man,” said Connor, letting the door shut behind him.
Tommy didn’t follow, just locked the door after him. He just leaned against the bathroom wall, staring into space. He’d leave once his brain said something other than that was fucking weird. Once he got bored of staring at the graffiti on the walls and Lizzie’s low-resolution face.
When he did finally leave, he still felt strange. After spending hours in that muffled darkness—shit, what time was it?—the hallways felt vivid, every laugh echoing through him, every flash of colour foreign and new. Scrubbing his hands became a simple joy, room temperature liquid soap bubbling under freezing water. This is probably how babies felt when coming out of their mother’s vagina, except they spent nine months in darkness instead of ninety minutes. Tommy was still an infant at the university, really. Other than the time he spent masked up, everyone assumed he knew fuck-all. Not even simple concepts like referencing (he’d been using in-text references since grade nine, bitch). In fact, the whole place was like a daycare for adults—and almost-adults, too.
“Watcha thinking about?”
Tommy jumped, tripping over his own feet as Clementine appeared. “Stop scaring me like that!”
“Just stop being scare-able,” said Clementine. “Anyways, you were just quiet for two whole minutes, so watcha thinking about?”
“Big, manly thoughts, none of which are your business. Why did you wait two minutes?”
“Felt like it.”
He sighed. “So why are you back here at all? Did you get bored of the movie?”
“Nah, I saw Yellow in the hallways.”
Tommy blinked. “Yellow? What is she doing here?”
She shrugged. “Couldn’t exactly ask her. Do you wanna find out?”
Clementine directed him to the nearest empty room, Tommy instructing her to change into some clean jeans while he looked around. He masked up, his hoop skirt much slimmer than usual, covered in a glittery red fabric, the flounce fading into white. Clementine last saw Yellow on the top floor, so Tommy made his way to the elevator, pressing the button for the sixth floor.
The lift stopped at the fourth floor, Helena stepping in.
“Oh, Red,” she said, an easy smile breaking across her face. “Did you know Yellow’s here? I think she’s looking for you.”
“Where?” signed Tommy, tilting his head.
“I—sorry, I only know sign language colours,” she said. “Yellow was walking around and signing red,” she said, making the sign. “I think that’s what it means, at least. I think she was heading for fifth?”
They were passing fifth now. Tommy quickly pressed the lift button, signing “Thank you!” as he stepped out.
Back on his home floor, Tommy navigated with ease, heading for the staircase. Every person he passed turned towards him, opening their mouths to tell him the same fucking thing.
Each time, Tommy would interrupt before they could speak, signing “Yellow?”
He got pointed in the right direction over and over, Tommy moving for the far end of the floor. He turned another corner, spotting a glimpse of canary yellow disappear down the staircase.
If he was out of costume he could just shout, but all Tommy could do was lift his skirt and bolt after her. Yellow turning at the sound of heels on the floors.
Today she wore a patterned dress, dark yellow stripes zig-zagging across the bright fabric. The colour palate should have made the dress an eyesore, but paired with her dark brown skin and natural afro it created a radiant joy. Yellow smiled, giving a wave.
Tommy dropped his skirts, hesitantly waving back.
She smiled wider, holding out a card.
Tommy tilted his head, descending the stairs to accept it.
“Please –” signed Yellow, Tommy not recognising the second sign. She held up a single hooked finger, pulling it towards herself.
When Yellow noticed his hesitation, she stepped closer, unfolding the card and pointing at the words. The card was clearly handmade, but it wasn’t any old cut and paste job, this was fancy. Gold-foil butterflies were pressed into the paper, a scrawling cursive at the top reading invitation. The rest of the penmanship was hardly better than chicken scratch, a black ink that was smeared and smudged on some words, others scribbled out.
To the mascots of the Red and Blue house
I formally invite you to join me in the campus’s weekly Auslan lessons. We can only help L'Manberg when we can communicate, and the better we can do that the more we can contrubite to the university. The details of the class are below, I look forward to seeing you there.
Yours sincerely,
Yellow
Tommy blinked, reading through the information again. Yellow wanted him to show up to the Auslan classes, what sort of power play was that? No matter what angle Tommy looked at it from, he could only see it as genuine.
“You go?” she signed, mouthing the words as she did so.
Not knowing what else to do, he signed, “Yes.”
No matter what, Tommy needed to get into that Auslan class. Even if there were other factors at play, even if it was a trap, nothing would look worse than Blue showing up but not him.
“Great!” she signed, shaking her hands. “Where L-F—”
The fingerspelling was lost on him. “Again?” he signed.
“L-I-F-T.”
“Yes, yes,” he signed, beckoning her onwards. Tommy guided her to the fourth floor elevator—a surprising feat, given the fourth floor was notorious for its bad layout. They stepped into the empty lift, their dresses taking up enough space to almost squash the rice cooker in the corner.
Yellow kept staring at it, and Tommy smirked. He couldn’t let her come all this way without experiencing the true red house.
“You hungry?” he signed.
Yellow just glanced between him and the rice cooker.
Tommy smirked, lifting the lid of the rice cooker. A large dip was already missing from the middle, other students taking scoopfuls of rice. Tommy poured a small amount into his gloved hand, shoving it into his mouth.
He gestured to Yellow, and she huffed, holding out her hand regardless. Tommy scooped some rice onto it, and she blew it before popping it into her mouth. They exchanged another smile, both chewing on the plain rice, ever-so-slightly dry from how long it had sat in the cooker.
The doors opened to the ground floor, and Tommy quickly put the lid back as it was, the two stepping out.
Everyone’s eyes flicked towards them, lingering on Yellow specifically.
There were two routes Tommy could take. The first was where he made a show of throwing Yellow out, slamming the door and dusting off his hands. But Yellow only came to deliver an invitation, and she’d know right away if he switched up her. Tommy didn’t need her thinking he was full of shit.
Instead, he simply offered her his arm, Yellow wrapping a warm hand around it. The two walked through the common area and to the entrance, only stopping once they reached the edge of the quad.
Yellow drew back, signing “Thank you.”
He didn’t know the sign for you’re welcome. Instead, he brushed his hands aside with a psh, signing a bigger “Thank you.”
She smiled, turning around and walking across the campus.
Tommy watched her go, and he couldn’t help but match her smile.
Notes:
ayyyy bonus chapter done. I'll try to have the next chapter up on Tuesday (something for the Americans to eat on their thanksgiving break. (Girl I have American holidays added to my calendar for the sake of this fic) ) which doesn't sound very possible at all until you remember I'm trying to do the November Writing Challenge and write 50k in one month. Aaand currently I need *checks statistics* 23k to make that happen. Fun times.
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 18: Shit Tunnel Shebang
Summary:
Tommy finally gets around to pranking Quackity, but he's not very good at covering his tracks. (His alibi is PATHETIC)
Honestly I have very little memory of writing this chapter, but hey it's here.Wordcount: 4.2k
Estimated reading time: 17 minutes
Date published: November 29th, 2024
Notes:
I forgot to mention this in the last chapter so I'll do it now. When masked up, Tommy refers to himself as Red as do all the other students, and it's the same for the other mascots. When the mascots are signing with each other, they use the signs for colours to refer to each other as Red, Blue and Yellow, respectively. The colours function as their namesigns, which is a bit of a faux pas in the Deaf community. Namesigns are given from one Deaf person to another, and a hearing person cannot create their own namesign. Since these guys have only started their Auslan lessons, I thought I'd make that clear that what they're doing isn't the correct behaviour, and Niki will chew them out for it later on.
Oh, and speaking of which, I got accepted into a class to earn a cert 2 in Auslan!! To become a full interpreter I need to complete a cert 2, 3 4 and a diploma (each taking six months, assuming I pass) but this will be my first ever qualified Auslan class, and I'm so excited!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Phil’s lecture was off to a flying start, he had already lost his train of thought twice and was currently ranting about the generalisation of Tudor-era institutional newsletters. Sure, it was interesting, but they were supposed to be discussing Shakespeare’s Julius Caeser.
Tubbo tapped him on the shoulder, sliding a piece of paper along. Tommy glanced down at it, laughter bubbling up inside him. The sheet was broken into a grid, the title reading Phil Lecture Bingo.
The boxes contained things like “You young ones may not know”, “it’s typical of this period to”, loses train of thought, and right in the centre: Samsung smart refrigerator.
He gave Tubbo a look, taking a sheet and passing the pile on to Ranboo. A smile flitted across his face, and he took a sheet, too, passing it further down the line.
Tommy looked back the other way, a row of the sheets meeting his eyes. Wait, everyone was in on this. Whose idea was it to make this?
“You see this shit?” said Phil, reading through another passage. “Holden treats the late-nineteenth century reproduction as the original text, of course it supports the Christian ideals of the era. And in the field of history, who is the least reliable reporter?”
“Victorian era historians,” they parroted, the line drilled into them over and over.
Tommy just smirked, ticking off another box on his sheet. Phil continued on, but Tommy lost focus, thinking of the nail polish and the glitter sitting in his pocket. Today was the day he’d spring his prank on Quackity, but first he had to get through this class. The whole point of waking up on time was to show up for at least one of his classes, but now that was going to waste, too. Tommy didn’t bother taking any notes—Phil wasn’t even talking about their subject—but he absolutely crossed off each square Phil mentioned, stealing glances at Ranboo and Tubbo as he did so.
When Phil mentioned his wi-fi issues with his fridge, Tubbo pumped a fist, running a line through the centre of his page. “Bingo,” he whispered.
“Bitch,” whispered Tommy.
“I was so close,” Ranboo added.
The two inspected Tubbo’s sheet, finding no errors, unfortunately. They continued marking for the rest of the lecture, Ranboo finishing with a triple bingo and Tubbo and Tommy both having a double.
The class ended with Phil telling them to keep up with coursework and use their free time wisely. Tommy didn’t have any coursework to begin with. Last week he submitted Manual’s essay on The Faerie Queene, he didn’t have anything due until after thanksgiving. Most of his lectures were just fucking around anyway, none of the content working toward their assignments. The thanksgiving holidays were only a couple days away, and a portion of students had already left, the lecture halls emptier than ever. All the students poured out of the hall, chatting about the bingo sheets as soon as they were out of Phil’s earshot.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know,” said the woman with the pixie cut—Tommy could never remember her name. “I just found the stack under my normal chair. What other classes does he take?”
“Some advanced history, I think?” said Ranboo.
“Oh, one of my roommates does that,” said someone else. “I’ll go hunt him down for answers, we’ve gotta find out about this.”
“It has to be someone who has him a lot,” said Tommy. “The quotes were fucking spot-on.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it happen,” he said, pulling out his phone.
The group disbanded, some heading for Pixandria Hall and others for the building’s entrance.
Tommy followed the latter group, only for Ranboo and Tubbo to stop him.
“Hey, where are you going?” said Tubbo, grabbing his shoulder. “Aren’t you coming to Fable’s class?”
“Not today,” said Tommy. “I’m setting up a prank for someone, but I need to do it while they’re in class.”
“Ooh, what prank is it?” said Ranboo.
“Are you going to fill their room with newspaper?” said Tubbo.
“Of course not,” he scoffed. “I could never be so basic.”
“Then what is it?” said Ranboo.
“Can’t tell you,” said Tommy. “That would ruin all the fun. I’ll send pictures once I’m done, but I can’t let word go spreading around before I’ve even started.”
“Well… enjoy yourself, said Tubbo.
“Oh, I will,” said Tommy. “I’ll send you pictures once it’s done—oh, and can I use your notes for Fable’s lecture?”
“Absolutely not—” said Tubbo.
“—Sure,” said Ranboo, at the same time.
“Great,” said Tommy, throwing finger guns. “I’m buying everyone’s coffees tomorrow.”
“We’ll be your worms,” said Ranboo. “Right, Tubbo?”
Tubbo just punched him, Tommy leaving the duo with another laugh. He made his way to the third floor, locking himself in the middle bathroom stall. After paying his respects to Lizzy he plonked down his stuff, pulling at the panel behind the toilet.
It didn’t budge.
Tommy frowned, pulling at it again and again. What was the trick to it? Did he have to lift it up while pulling it? Give it an extra hard yank?
“Don’t tell me there’s some magic password I need, I’m sick of this place’s bullshit.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” said Clementine, leaning against the back wall.
Tommy stopped. “Can you move? I need to go through there.”
“Just walk through me,” she said.
“Come on,” he replied. “You can monologue at me while I go through the walls.”
She nearly dived out of Tommy’s way, spinning to lean against the bathroom door.
He scoffed. “At least you’re easy to please.”
“I was going to talk to you anyway,” said Clementine. “I’m just moving out of the kindness of my heart.”
“Sure you are,” said Tommy, pulling at the wall again. “Come on, just give me sssomething,” he said, dragging out the sound.
The wall finally popped out, slamming into the side wall.
He flinched at the noise, then grabbed out his phone and turned on the flashlight, checking he still had the glitter and nail polish in his pockets. He’d purposely worn his old trackies and shitty jacket to class, he wasn’t afraid to get either of them dirty. Even if it made him look like a wrongun, it was better than having to wash his jeans out twice. He climbed in without another word, shimmying through the walls with much more confidence than before.
“This is so exciting, what should I talk about?” said Clementine, as Tommy approached the first turn. “I have your full attention whether you like it or—oh, I know! We’ve been here for a couple months, and you’ve definitely built up a rhythm. I don’t have a single note on Red’s outfits, you’ve gone all-out and it’s absolutely shown.”
Of course Red’s outfits were incredible—Tommy wouldn’t have anything less. If there was one thing he got from Shubble, it was his excellent taste.
She hummed. “We do have to start thinking about Red’s pranks. While the baking was great for building culture, it’s not exactly red culture, you know?”
Tommy half-listened as he made it out into the gold-class walkway, scanning the walls for the shit tunnel, as he’d so aptly named it.
“Having a reliable time and place where people can find you is super useful,” said Clementine. “Whether it’s a nightly walk through the dorms or a card game you play each week, it means people will approach you. You won’t be something foreign that only shows up at formal events, but someone to bounce off prank ideas, emotional support or just someone to chat with,” she continued. “It can even help with the random mask-ups. If people need your help for a prank, they’re more likely to plan it when they know they can find you.”
“That would have been good to know when I fucking started,” whispered Tommy, ducking into the shit tunnel.
Clementine just laughed it off, continuing to list ideas for having a regular presence, Tommy rolling his eyes at most of them. The shit tunnel felt smaller when it was just him, but as long as he kept moving he could stay calm. Even though it had been ten years since Shubble got them out, he still couldn’t do dark, cramped spaces without getting shaky. As long as he kept moving he could hold it off, and concentrating on Clementine helped, even if she was lecturing about the advantages and disadvantages of masking up at night.
When he reached the other end of the tunnel, Tommy took a moment to stand and stretch, rubbing his aching knees. Was it possible to change floors from inside the walls? Navigating was hard enough in the hallways, getting lost in here would be far worse. No signs to lead him out, no students to call for help when he got stranded.
Tommy took a deep breath, inhaling mostly dust. He returned back to the ground, prying at the floor panels until he found the one that gave way.
“So in the midmorning there’s less people in the dorms, but the ones that are present will—shit, that’s bright,” said Clementine.
Tommy nodded, his heart racing. He didn’t dare make a sound—there was no way for him to check if the room was clear, and he couldn’t see anything. If he was caught now the prank was over.
After a few moments of painful wincing, Tommy could finally make out the room, quickly scanning for Quackity. Thankfully, he found it empty, mess scattered across the floor.
“Of fucking course he has a queen bed,” said Tommy, lifting the tile all the way up. The opening sat right above Quackity’s quilts, tangled around each other like he’d try to strangle something in his sleep. There was no easy way to get down, so Tommy simply dangled his legs, then dropped onto the bed. His knees jarred at the impact—shit, he must be getting old. Wasn’t all that stuff meant to start in his twenties?
He stretched out, finding a spare piece of floor to stand on as he examined the rest of the room. It was the same size as all the other standard dorms, but with one central bed and two windows. Instead of having one door, the room had two, one on either side of the bed. “So why is Quackity’s room impossible to find?” said Tommy, moving towards the door. He felt cockier than usual—which was saying something, he had a lot of cock to go around—but he had to at least try and find out.
“Don’t you dare,” said Clementine, as he reached for the handle.
“I have to check,” he said, twisting it open.
He was greeted with a wall of clothes, the man’s closet. Rows of button-up shirts and dress pants were mixed in with the occasional hoodie, nothing out of the ordinary. But behind the clothes sat… sat a whole other dorm.
A grin split across his face, and Tommy quickly closed the door again. “Clem, is he living in someone else’s closet?”
She snorted. “Oh, that’s hilarious.”
Tommy moved to the other door, finding another closet that backed onto a different room.
“So he just gets into his dorm through other people’s rooms?” said Clementine. “Do you think they know about it?”
“I should fucking hope so,” said Tommy. “Maybe he’s blackmailing them.” He pulled out his glitter and nail polish, smudging both of the containers with the black dust. There was a lot going on in this room, and it limited his options for where to leave his prank. The queen bed was a choppy sea of discarded clothes and notebooks, the desk a mountain of paper and the floor a shattered wasteland. Quackity’s charisma was nothing more than a persona, it seemed. It was only in a dorm inside a closet that he let his true self out. Tommy never would have picked up on it without seeing it himself, he was a fucking good actor.
No matter where he looked, he couldn’t find a place to leave the glitter. Sure, he could throw it on the fur rug or scatter it on his papers, but how much of a difference did it make when there was already pen ink splattered on the carpet and sandwich crumbs pressed between essays? The bed was even worse; books, bags and clothes struggling against the doona’s ferocious waves.
“Are you gonna go with the chair?” said Clementine, examining the battered thing. It was clearly not the dorm-issued chair, made of mottled wood and covered in little nicks and dents.
Tommy smirked, pocketing the glitter. “You know what? I have a fucking better idea.” He moved toward the disaster-bed, tugging off clothes and all the other junk piling upon it. “Sure, finding a small prank in your secret room is scary, but you know what’s scarier?” He pulled at Quackity’s bedsheets until they sat flat, a wicked grin stretching across his face. “Someone making your bed while you’re gone.”
It took him ten minutes to properly sort out the bed, fishing out all the junk from beneath the sheets and untangling each layer of blankets. Despite all the lumps growing in the quilt, Tommy was only able to find one pillow, which just looked pathetic in such a large bed. He arranged the pillow regardless, saying to Clementine, “Quackity either has shit taste in interior design or he’s in his piss-poor college student arc.”
“I can’t believe the red mascot thinks students should piss on the poor,” said Clementine, smirking. “We need to cancel her.”
“Ha-fucking-ha,” said Tommy. “How many years have you been at this university with that level of reading comprehension?”
“Lit degrees are all about lying,” said Clementine. “I could pull up plenty of evidence to prove my reading comprehension.”
“Such as?” said Tommy, moving to the desk and searching for a blank sheet of paper.
“Well, first of all, you’re breaking into another student’s room, one who has clearly taken out a loan to afford their studies, while all your fees are covered by an exclusive, private scholarship, awarded on a purely subjective basis.”
Tommy found a blank sheet, folding it in half and moving back to the bed.
“And you have connections all across the university—it could be argued that you only got in because of your sister, does that not reek of nepotism?”
“Don’t call me a fucking nepo baby,” he said.
“Oh, I’m not done yet,” she said, a wild glint appearing in her eye. “The only reason you know how to find Quackity’s room is because you bribed another student to tell you, and the whole reason you’re in here is to take revenge after Quackity used his own wit and ambition to cause you mild embarrassment. I think pissing on the poor would be very in-character for you.”
“Fucking ouch,” said Tommy. “Why can’t you do that with our essays instead of to me?”
“Oh, there’s another point,” said Clementine. “You’re cheating on all your assignments with external help. Unpaid external help, I might add, where’s my bribe money?”
“Don’t you see? By letting you be my assistant, I’m paying you in experience,” he said, playing along. “You can make so many connections through your work with me.”
Clementine laughed, a boisterous noise that should have bounced against the walls, but instead ran off into the distance.
While Tommy’s original plan had been to place the glitter in Quackity’s room and leave a bit of graffiti, (not anything complex, just an I could have done worse, but I didn’t. Fuck you.) but that was before he saw Quackity’s bed. It was just crying out for an act of kindness, and Tommy had always been a generous soul.
Tommy grabbed a pen from the pile beside the queen bed, opening up his paper card. Inside, he wrote:
Room service fees must be paid by Friday or a fine will occur. For any room service enquiries, please contact M. Baer
“I am the comedy fucking king,” said Tommy, as he placed the letter on the foot of the bed.
“No comment,” said Clementine, avoiding his eyes. “Are you going to put your name on it?”
“Nope, he’ll know who sent it. I reckon our work here is done.”
“But what about the glitter?” she said.
Tommy sighed. “Alright, I’ll find a place for it.”
He moved to a pile of Quackity’s shoes in the corner, grabbing a dress shoe and dumping the glitter directly inside it, tipping it all the way to the toe. He put the shoe back alongside the others, as if nothing had happened.
“You know, sometimes I can see how you take after Shubble,” said Clementine. “Real mascot material you’ve got going on,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye.
Tommy rolled his eyes. “Okay, I’m out of here,” he said, resisting the urge to puff up his chest.
Whatever pride he felt was ruined as he tried to get back into the ceiling, ending up climbing Quackity’s bedframe and levering himself through the tiny gap. His legs flailing as he hauled himself up into the darkness.
After covering his tracks, Tommy went all the way back to his room. Partly because he was too distracted to think about coursework, mostly because he wanted to shower and clean his dusty-ass hands.
Once he was clean, he made a half-assed effort at organising his desk before Clementine distracted him, the two debating outfit designs once again. Tommy started a pinterest board on Miss Universe, getting sucked into the beauty pageant rabbit hole.
He blinked and three hours had passed, his new board at almost a hundred pins. There was still no response from Quackity, but that was fine. He could still be out—dorm rooms were depressing as shit when you were alone—and even if he did find it, he wasn’t guaranteed to respond. If Quackity has going to prank him back he wouldn’t give Tommy a warning about it.
Just as he voiced the thought to Clementine, the door began to click, someone inputting the code. He couldn’t help but sit up straighter, this was the earliest Shubble had returned in months. Despite their promise to have more laundry sessions together, Tommy found himself in the laundry room on his own over and over, Shubble always out far too late.
The door burst open, Quackity marching in. “Who the fuck told you where I was?” he said.
“Told me fucking what?” Tommy spluttered. “Sorry to tell you, but you’re in my room, asshole.”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” said Quackity.
“Why the fuck are you here,” said Tommy, doubling down. “It’s one thing to make me call Mister Bear, and another thing entire to break into my fucking room. I should call the police on you.”
Quackity’s eyelid twitched at the word Bear.
“Seriously, how did your glittery ass get in my room?”
Quackity met his eyes. “Glitter, huh?” he said, lifting his pantleg to reveal golden sparkles coating his sock. “How could you have known about that?”
Fuck. “Physical glitter?” said Tommy. “Of fucking course not. I was talking about your glittery personality, dickhead. Can’t stand it myself, if I was really trying to prank someone I’d use something sophisticated, like—”
“—Don’t give yourself away,” said Clementine.
“—Like something bear-themed, bears are like the king of the forest, you know?”
Quackity’s eyelid flickered again, and it took everything within Tommy not to smirk at him. “Getting back to my first point,” he said. “I know you didn’t find my room alone, so tell me, who the fuck helped you?”
Tommy just lounged back on his bed, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t let a hint of it get to his face, his mascot training kicking in. “You really do think lowly of me, don’t you? Q—I can call you Q, right? Big Q, do you know who my sister is?”
Quackity stilled, face staying perfectly neutral. “Of course.”
Clementine sighed. “You are not beating the nepotism allegations.”
Tommy couldn’t help but huff.
“What, how could I not?” said Quackity. “We’re fucking friends, what does that have to do with you?”
Oh, Quackity knew exactly what it had to do with him. “You know, I’ve almost been here for a full semester,” he said. “I’m in the zone—some have said I’ve found my rhythm. I’m ready to take risks, start making ripples.” He adopted an innocent tone. “How long did it take Shubble to start with her crazy shit?”
“Three and a half months,” said Quackity, instantly. “If I remember correctly.”
“What do ya know, that’s how long I’ve been here,” he said. “In fact, I think I’m a little overdue.”
With baited words and bated breaths, he waited for Quackity’s response.
Quackity smirked, breaking into a chuckle, and then a laugh. He laughed long and hard, eventually leaning against the bookshelf. “I should have guessed she put you this,” he said. “What’s Shubble up to now, anyway? She’s been pretty quiet these past couple months, what prank is she planning?”
Tommy took the tone change in his stride. “Nah, she’s keeping this one secret-secret. I don’t have a fucking clue what she’s working on.”
“Nothing?” said Quackity, running an errant hand over the spines of The Spaces Between Buildings, On Being Presidential and Time Travel: Probability and Impossibility. “Not even a target? A timeframe?”
“Oh shit, she did tell me when,” said Tommy, sitting up straight again. “She said the end of February, I reckon. No clue what would take so long, and at this point I’m afraid to ask.”
“No kidding,” said Quackity. “Did you know last year she replaced every shower curtain in the building in a single night?”
“Wait, that was Shubble?” said Clementine, “Holy shit.”
Tommy agreed, but simply said, “Honestly, I’m not surprised. Make sure you don’t get on her bad side.” Quackity was no longer trying to assault him, but they’d entered a checkmate, Tommy trying to think of any reason to get Quackity out of his room.
“Trust me, I know.”
Awkward silence.
Quackity cleared his throat. “Well, now that we’ve got this… misunderstanding out of the way, can you pass on a message to Shubble for me?”
“Sure, as long as you fuck off.”
“I will, kid,” said Quackity. “First of all, tell Shubble that we’re overdue for a 3am bagel, we have a lot to catch up on. The second thing?” He smiled, putting on a pair of sunglasses. “Tell her if she goes back on her deal, I’m getting both of us expelled. This is your only warning.”
Tommy snorted, trying to bait another reaction. “Aye aye, captain. I’ll pass it on.”
“Good. Prank me again and I’ll make you regret it,” he said, moving for the door.
“Whatever you say, Q-man.”
Quackity hesitated as he grabbed the doorhandle, but ultimately continued, leaving without another word.
Tommy finally let himself laugh, trying to shake out the nervous energy.
“You did not have to antagonise him that much,” said Clementine. “I don’t think you want to end up on his bad side, either.”
“Nah, he’s harmless,” said Tommy. “Besides, I could always get Shubble to rock his shit. I should tell her what Quackity said before I forget,” he said, pulling out his phone.
Quackity said he’d kill you if you don’t have a midnight bagel or smth w/ him
K
Also I said you were the one to tell me where his room is, so just roll with that
WHAT
Somehow the balmy August days have shifted into November’s chill, the university holding its breath for the upcoming exams. We’re approaching a time of rest and relaxation, time to enjoy with family and friends, but there’s one final push before we get there.
One of the highlights of my week as the president is the open office hours, where anyone—staff, student, alumni—have the chance to say their piece. It is my greatest joy to listen to these different perspectives, whether it’s an arts student suggesting a different structure for exhibitions or a journalism student wanting to understand our internal record-keeping procedures, every week manages to throw a new question at me. Just last week I had a student bring up the current support networks in place for residential disputes and behavioural offences. He highlighted the shortcomings of our current system and offered thoughtful insights on how to solve the problem. I was able to jump straight into action, bringing it up with the college board and arranging a committee to do an internal review. We’re hoping to roll out changes early next semester, to improve the quality of life for every person studying at L'Manberg.
I cannot stress enough that without this student bringing the problem to my attention, it could have taken months or years for my team to become aware of it. I commend him for his efforts, and would like to encourage every other student to be the same. I may only be one man, but by giving everyone more chances to communicate—whether it be a suggestion for the dining hall furniture or an overhaul of the grading system—I can always offer a listening ear.
- President Shane U. Sugamon.
Notes:
So yeah um still aiming for that 50k. Good news is that somehow I only need 9k more, bad news is that I also have an 8 hour shift.
Anyways I do actually have a question for everyone,,, I was thinking of some povs from the mascots, and ngl I've drafted out a couple and really like how they sound, but to share them it would be revealing the mascot's identities. I feel like it's an open secret about who the Yellow and Blue mascots are but I don't know if just dropping it on the reader's heads will be as fun as making you guys wait until Tommy finds out. So really I just want to know who do you think the other mascots are?
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 19: Mclogngaal
Summary:
This was the last chapter I wrote during november and tbh it's all just a haze. It has Auslan class and McPuffy's and hopefully funny jokes. I failed to spell Mcdonalds in the chapter title and thought it was funny.
Wordcount: 3.3k
Estimated reading time: 13 minutes
Date published: December 4th, 2024
Notes:
this is the first chapter I've posted without doing a proper edit, in my defense it's 1:20am. I'll have a proper look at it tomorrow, for now if you see any typos point and laugh.
Dec 6th: Okay it's now edited, so sorry to everyone who read the slop I posted earlier. Pointing and laughing is still encouraged, but at least it has a plot.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
North America had weird holidays.
Like Thanksgiving. It was some colonialism thing, Tommy wasn’t interested in it, but for whatever reason they gave him a long weekend for it, allowing him for some quality gaming time.
Unfortunately, his plans of being a shut-in were thwarted by Shubble.
She showed up on Saturday afternoon, then just sat on her bed, typing away at her laptop as if this was a normal occurrence. When Tommy had stared at her, all she said was “What?”
“Why the fuck are you here?”
“It’s my room, too, you realise.”
“You’re meant to show up at two am, not two pm,” he said.
She shrugged. “I’ve got a day off. It is the Thanksgiving weekend, after all.”
Tommy waited for her to elaborate, but she just turned back to her laptop, typing as if nothing had happened. The two ended up having dinner together, Shubble drawing him into conversation about the upcoming exam season and how his classes were going. She shared stories about her own classes, but Tommy couldn’t tell if she was lying or not.
Other than Shubble’s bullshittery—which she still refused to elaborate on—Tommy spent his time on a shopping spree, ordering prank supplies from near and far. Clementine had rightly convinced him without paying tuition, he had room for the extra spending. Red could easily use that loose cash, and Tommy found plenty. At the moment he had tubs of silly string, duct tape, a litre of red food colouring alongside countless sharpies and zip ties. There was more still on the way, but he had already built a sizeable collection, piling up on his desk. Next to it he had a running list of what he could actually use them for, Shubble adding her own ideas to the bottom while Tommy was asleep.
Classes started back slowly, students still hungover from whatever thanksgiving partying went on, but the lecturers accommodated that. It was the final structured week before finals, there was only so much they could push before their classes stopped caring.
On Thursday evening Tommy found himself in the Literature and Culture building’s disabled bathroom, Clementine trying to talk him through Yellow’s Auslan invitation.
Tommy dutifully didn’t listen to a word of it.
Niki’s Auslan class was scarier than the opening ceremony, scarier than Tommy’s first walk through the dorms, even scarier than male students staring at him. In all those cases, he’d been thrown in the deep end, given no warning and no time to prepare. He had no idea what to expect, only his ability to improvise.
But the Auslan classes weren’t like that. Tommy already knew that it would be a voice-off environment, the room heavy with silence despite the boisterous conversation. He knew this week’s topic was weather words, and they’d be refreshing on last week’s food and drink. He knew that Yellow always sat up the front, nobody sitting next to her until they had to rotate conversation partners. Her mascot status made her an outcast, no matter Niki’s attempts to include her.
As Tommy, the situation was easy to deal with. He could ignore her like everyone else, having the occasional practise conversation with her—they’d never exchanged anything significant, just that her favourite colour was yellow. Basic bitch. But Red was on equal footing with Yellow, only set apart by the level of their wit and grace. Was this another field of competition, or were they were here to learn Auslan? For the betterment of the university or whatever shit Yellow wrote. Was Niki’s room a neutral or combat zone? Was Yellow preparing to rip the rug out from under him, making Tommy the butt of a well-thought out joke? What if he showed up and was dunked in glitter and slime like those guys from monsters inc.?
Normally he’d ask Shubble about these things. She was always able to sniff out a scam, whether it was that scummy shithead Tommy met on Animal Jam or pulling him the fuck away from an unpaid internship, and don’t even get him started on the cult. Even if he had seen Shubble, there was no way Tommy could show her the letter. His identity had to stay secret, and if Tommy so much as hinted at the letter, Shubble would just put the pieces together. Nobody was seeing that letter until he fucking graduated.
Sure, Clementine had tried to talk him down, but that was her job. Even if she was certain Yellow would destroy his reputation, all she would do is hype him up.
“Tommy, you’re not even listening to me.”
“I am listening,” he said, meeting her eyes.
She raised an auburn eyebrow.
“Well, I’m listening spiritually, you know? I can feel your soul in communion with mine.”
She sighed. “You know, I should be the one getting consoled right now, not you. You’ve had plenty of Auslan practise, and now I have to pretend I know all of that, too.”
“You?” said Tommy. “Sorry, the centuries-old ghost is having trouble learning a new language? You can probably speak fucking Greek.”
“Cur linguam Graecam discam, cum lingua Latina eligere possum?”
“Fuck you, you’re on your own for this,” he said. “Mask up.”
He closed his eyes, trying to make his outfit as sign-friendly as possible. Niki always stressed the importance of clothes while interpreting. Bright colours and bold patterns were straining on the eyes, making it harder to follow signing. Gloves, nail polish and excessive jewellery had the same effect, leaving Tubbo to take off his countless rings before every class. It was all about the little details, the tone of his dress, the length of his nails, how small he could make his masquerade mask.
Clementine thumped as she gained a physical body, Tommy opening his eyes once again. His dress was a muted scarlet, the bodice a velvet V-neck, three or so seams running down to the skirt, box pleats fanning outwards to gain extra volume. Instead of his nail’s usual sticky gems and glitter, the scarlet tips fading into salmon-pink. They were shorter than usual—still long, but not enough to stop him opening from a can of beer. A good thing, too, because Tommy loved alcohol and drugs.
“Thought that might work,” sent Clementine, smugness dripping from the words.
Tommy gave her a perfectly-painted middle finger. “Fuck you.”
She took a gracious bow, leaving without another word.
Tommy stared at the mirror, letting enough time pass between his and Clementine’s entrances. He could get through this. If not for himself, then to spite Clementine. Her struggles with Auslan were entirely her own fault, she should have been paying closer attention.
He spotted Niki’s classroom, Yellow standing in the doorway. Her shoulders dropped when she spotted him, giving a hesitant smile.
Tommy approached at his bitch-royal pace, only stopping when he was an arm span away, meeting Yellow’s green eyes behind the mask.
Yellow didn’t move.
Tommy pointed at the door, frowning—shit, his eyebrows were covered. What were the other Auslan cues for questions?
“Wait,” signed Yellow. “Wait Blue.”
Wait for Blue. Easy enough, of course. Blue seemed to be the punctual sort, knowing lateness was neither fashionable or stylish.
Another set of heels clacked down the hall, both turning and greeting Blue with a smile. She was clad in pale blue, a cardigan wrapping around her wide frame.
She glanced between them both, pulling out the invitation from her pocket. Shit, was he supposed to bring his?
Yellow beamed, signing, “Come in, come in!” pulling the door open. Tommy and Blue dutifully followed her, letting Yellow pull out two chairs on her normal table. She fluttered around some more, grabbing Niki’s attention as the two found their seats.
Tommy exchanged a look with Blue, giving her a nod.
She returned it, and the two glanced back to Niki.
In the one-week break from Auslan classes, all of Tommy’s skills had vanished, leaving him with a headache before the class had even began. It was easier than he hoped to fake his incompetence, struggling to remember signs and fumbling the ones he did know. He could blame the second part on his nails, at least. Despite being duller than usual, they still made his fingerspelling clunky even when he wasn’t trying.
At least he was doing better than Clementine. Tommy delighted in glancing over his shoulder and seeing her sign “What?” over and over again, forcing Tubbo and Ranboo to fingerspell even simple words.
Sure, he’d have to put up with their teasing once he unmasked, but for now he could just point and laugh.
“Today weather what?” Blue signed, raising her eyebrows at Tommy.
“Cold,” Tommy signed back, shaking closed fists below his chin.
“You like cold?” Yellow asked.
Tommy pursed his lips together, going over the signs he knew. “No. Favourite weather sunny. Your favourite weather what?”
Blue and Yellow glanced between each other.
“Who?” signed Blue.
“Yellow,” he signed, twisting the okay handshape on his hair.
Niki clapped, staring directly at the three mascots.
Everyone’s hands paused, turning towards Niki as she moved to the front of the class.
“You sign what?” she asked, pointing at Tommy.
Tommy blinked. “Yellow?”
“Yellow,” Niki repeated, “Yellow namesign or colour?”
Yellow frowned. “Both?”
“No,” Niki signed. “Are you Deaf? Am I Deaf? No,” she signed again, shaking her head for emphasis. “Namesigns must—” Tommy missed the next couple signs, Niki’s hands blurring together, but he caught the word fingerspelling at the end.
She moved to the whiteboard, uncapping a marker and writing in large letters.
Namesigns can only be given by Deaf people. Auslan is their native language, and they understand how the grammar works. Namesigns are gifted to hearing people who are part of the community, but NOT chosen by them. Everyone here is hearing, so we will fingerspell names.
Niki repeated the signs again, copying everything on the board, Tommy managing to follow along far better.
She pointed at the last sentence, then spelled, “Y-E-L-L-O-W.”
Tommy repeated it alongside the class.
“Everyone understand?” she signed. “Good. Weather sign practise.”
By the end of the class, everyone’s hands were blurring together, Tommy suppressing his yawns. Niki was as gracious as ever, slowing down her signing for the mascots even as she taught the rest of the class, getting everyone the content they needed. Tommy had no idea how she did it, but no matter what, everyone left her classroom with genuine smiles.
After the class some Red students approached him, complimenting his shitty signing and encouraging for him to come again. Tommy ended up escorting them back to their rooms, feeling at home the second he stepped into the red dorms.
Clementine was right about him finding his rhythm, he was used to the Red house, idiosyncrasies and all. All he needed to do now was set up some pranks of his own.
“Can I get a vanilla matcha latte and a happy meal?”
“Was the drink large or regular?” said Niki, punching in the details. It definitely wasn’t the drink she expected from President Sugamon, but as long as he was paying she wouldn’t make a fuss.
“Regular, please. And just on card, thank you,” said Sugamon, pulling a wallet from his blackwatch overcoat.
“Your order number is thirty-seven,” said Niki, clicking on the option for card. She didn’t wait for Sugamon to scan, just returned to her orders. Open shifts were the worst, a skeleton crew put on for a university campus. No matter how much she begged the McPuffy managers, they left her and Jack to deal with the entire morning rush themselves. While Jack worked the fryers and made all the burgers, Niki was left to deal with the onslaught of customers. At the moment she had eight orders up on her screen, the customers hanging around her bench like sharks circling bloodied water.
Jack passed a handful of burgers down the chute, Niki tossing them in the first bag and handing it out. “Order thirty-three!”
The door shrieked as another customer entered, but Niki just focused on her orders, counting nuggets and tossing chips into soulless cardboard. Her tongs were oily, the close team not cleaning them properly. It took everything within her to not gag at the texture.
“Order thirty-four!” she said, having to shove the words from her throat.
Moving to the city wasn’t supposed to be like this. The city was supposed to be her fresh start, the perfect place for her bakery. Her plan was simple, spend six months working at McPuffy's, save up until she could afford the campus business lease. Work hard and she would live the dream.
Then her car broke down on the freeway. Her appendix burst. Her rent went up. Six months had folded into three years and counting, Niki once again turning down Thanksgiving with her parents. They insisted that they didn’t care how poor she was, or that her dream had failed, they just wanted to see her.
They were as blunt as ever—Auslan left no room for sugarcoating—but this time it was painful. Niki couldn’t bring herself to drive fifteen hours to the backwater town she was trying to escape, the one she promised never to return to.
“Order thirty-five!” she called, dropping another bag on the counter.
Sugamon let out a chuff behind her, engaging the other customers in conversation. “I was born in Carlton, in the southern reaches of Victoria. It was a fairly small town—not what you’d call small towns here, of course. Yes…” He trailed off, stroking his beard.
There was something insufferable about his voice. Whether it was the gravelly tone or his Australian accent, it carried over every other noise in the shop. Over the sound of bubbling oil and shrieking timers, customers chatting and metal clanking, the words drilling into her very skull.
“Of course I miss it,” he said, answering someone else. “There’s a strong sense of community in those towns—everyone banding together against the harsh landscape. It’s hard to hold your head high against the threats of bushfires and droughts when you’re by yourself. Nothing taught me more about life than watching my Aunty during the shearing season. I think of her every time I enter a meeting,” he said.
Niki’s hands began to shake. “Or—Order thirty-six!”
“Oh, that’s yours, Simon,” he said, continuing to talk and talk and talk.
Niki pulled out another nugget box, only to find the nugget tray empty. She sighed, moving into the back of the kitchen. She could still hear Sugamon, his voice knocking through her very thoughts.
“Sup, Niki,” said Jack, flipping a row of burger patties. “What are you missing?”
Her throat went tight, her tongue weighed down by the words swirling inside her.
“Nuggets,” she forced out, words hardly louder than a whisper.
“What?”
Niki pointed at the nugget basket hanging above the fryers, tipping them onto the tray.
“Ah, sorry,” said Jack. “There’s more chips down at the moment—I’ll get them up for you as soon as possible.”
“Thanks,” Niki mouthed, the sound refusing to budge from her throat. She kept raising her hands to sign, trying to apologise to the customers, to thank Jack for his help, tell Sugamon to stop talking. She tightened her grip on the tongs as he droned on and on, talking about the loving L'Manberg community, or the fascinating agricultural program, or his favourite coffee order. Word after word spilled from his lips, spilling through the kitchen and sloshing over Niki’s ears, clinging to her and sliding down her skin.
She robotically moved to the coffee machine. Measure the matcha powder. Add the boiling water. Mix. Froth the milk. Add the syrup. She put the lid onto the coffee, building herself up to speaking. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Swallowed it again. She made a small hum, stuttering at first but it soon smoothened.
“Order thirty-seven,” she said, meeting Sugamon’s eyes.
Sugamon just smiled, stepping up to the counter. “Thank you so much,” he said, putting ten dollars in the tip jar. “Have a wonderful shift.”
You too, she tried to say, but nothing came out. Instead she stretched her lips in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, silence falling between them.
Sugamon left without another word, leaving Niki to take another order, then another, and another. She’d traded her backwater hometown for a backwater job, surrounded by oil and noise instead of bread and peace. The closest and furthest she’d ever been from her dreams.
“Unmask,” said Tommy, ducking under a broom in the storage cupboard. He leaned against the wall as his ballgown disappeared, replaced with his sleeping trackies—and no shoes. Goosebumps prickled up his legs, Tommy wincing away from the dusty tiles. “Where are my shoes?”
Clementine appeared on the top shelf, dangling off it like a cat. “I was brushing my teeth, why do I need shoes for that?” she said.
Tommy ran his tongue along his teeth—sure enough, they tasted minty.
“So how did the stickers go?” asked Clementine.
He shrugged, pulling the sheets of amogus stickers out of his pocket. “I didn’t use many—it’s hard to concentrate on cooking while stickering people. Got a fair share out on the walk over, though.”
“And you didn’t ruin the cookies?”
“Nope. I’m a cookie expert, now.” He put the stickers back in his pocket, then turned to meet Clementine’s eyes. “So how’s the Bleak House essay going?”
“You need to note your quotes better, I spent nearly an hour trying to find that quote from Esther.”
“What, in chapter three?” said Tommy.
“That’s the one,” said Clementine. “Feel free to mention where your references come from in the future, that was fucking awful.”
He snorted, goosebumps prickling up his arms. “You’d remember if you were paying attention in class,” said Tommy. “Come on, it’s cold as shit in here.”
Clementine peeled herself off the shelf, floating alongside Tommy as they made it to the elevators.
Tommy pressed the button, then pressed it again when it didn’t light up. “Why isn’t it fucking—”
The doors suddenly slid open, revealing a cream wall.
A sign in the centre read Elevator out of service. Sorry for the inconvenience.
“That’s not a lift, that’s a fucking wall,” said Tommy. “What the actual fuck?”
“No, look closer,” said Clementine.
The border of the poster was actually a small row of text, Tommy squinting to read it. Designed and financed by Paula, built by the following people.
Tommy scanned through the list of names, recognising Jack Manifold among them.
“They added a fake elevator?” said Clementine. “That’s just plain impressive.”
“Fucking genius,” said Tommy, stepping back and taking a picture. It looked identical to the other lifts, how was Tommy supposed to notice there was five instead of four? The fake lift’s doors closed again, the illusion complete.
“I haven’t seen anything like that in years,” said Clementine, sticking her head inside. “Do you know how expensive this would—Holy shit, this is portable,” she said.
Tommy’s eyes widened, the possibilities running through his head. “Holy shit. I need to up my game.”
“You do,” said Clementine. “But we have bigger fish to fry, first.”
“Like what?”
“Finals are next week,” she said. “And trust me, it gets intense.”
“Good thing I’m not doing any exams, then,” he said. “I could never be a woman in stem.”
“You don’t need exams, you’re the mascot,” said Clementine. “Trust me, you’re gonna be masking up like crazy.”
Tommy shuddered. “Fucking fantastic.”
Notes:
To design sugamon’s jacket I googled “overcoat bierd” and used the first image that came up. Yes I can spell beard but it's been a rough month.
In the dying hours of November i was doing sprint after sprint, till I had 1k words to go, then 500, then 200. I pulled up the clock and shat out words at such a rapid pace, stopping the second it clicked over to 12. I counted up my words, added them to my final wordcount, deliriously tired and having to count them twice to make sure I got it right. My total was 49,978.
22 words short. twenty two words. This whole author's note is 258 words. I officially lost november, and my response was to fall asleep. In the days before I had been going to sleep at 1am and waking up at 6am to get more writing in, and to be honest the whole week is a blur. If I look back at my statistics I can see that I started that final week with 26k words and ended with 49k. I still don't know where those words came from, or where they went once they were written.Next week's chapter is going to be the final exams and then the end of semester, and I won't be posting chapters during the holiday break. There'll be more details about dates and that next week, and I'll also be posting a oneshot soon because oneshots are cool and fun.
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 20: Everywhere at the End of Semester
Summary:
Finals week. Tears, falling bookshelves, cross-campus sprints and multiple word crimes committed. Tommy balances mascoting with assignments and all the emotion that comes with it.
Wordcount: 4.4k
Estimated reading time: 18 minutes
Date published: December 12th, 2024
Notes:
played dnd for the first time and had a blast. I was DMing and picked a basic premade campaign (sneak through the goblin's camp to steal an apple pie recipe for the wizard) and the party members failed the first puzzle room, ate one of the goblins (with the goblin still alive in their stomach for MULTIPLE TURNS) tortured a homeless family and then went to go kill the wizard. This chapter is properly edited but through sheer force of will, I was so tempted to just post it typos and all.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The university’s scheduled classes were finished for the semester, leaving a chaotic week of exams and finals. It was only Monday, but the regular ebbs and flows of traffic were in disarray, students wandering around like lost hens as they tried to find what they needed. Exam-takers checked their timetables again and again, moving in rushes before they started. Whether they were scribbling on papers or doodling at tables, Students clung to each other’s sides as if it would ward away the looming exams.
Tommy was working hard himself, his Bleak House essay due on Wednesday night and he was scrambling to meet the minimum wordcount.
Clementine hung far closer than usual, asking questions about what he was writing and what he needed to do next.
It wasn’t even lunchtime when Tommy’s bracelet burned.
“That’ll be the exams,” said Clementine.
He groaned, climbing from his chair and slipping out the room. He moved to the closest storage cupboard, finally having memorised the locations of the ones on his floor.
“You’d be best off heading to Pixandria hall,” said Clementine. “That’s where most exams are held.”
“Got it,” said Tommy, shutting the door. “Do you reckon you could fluff out the part about Esther’s tense for a couple hundred words?”
“Will do,” she said.
“Good, mask up.”
Today Tommy’s shoulders were bare, puff sleeves dropped to the neckline of the dress and covering right down to his wrists. Despite its poor coverage, the fabric was thicker than usual, meaning Tommy hopefully wouldn’t freeze to death while out and about.
Clementine didn’t even look at him as she emerged, just moved straight back to the dorm. Not that he was nervous about exams—of course he wasn’t—but wishing him luck wouldn’t hurt.
Tommy tapped his right foot as he waited for enough time to pass, slipping into his mascot-sona. Pull back the shoulders, soften his frown and move intentionally, gracefully. When enough time had passed he moved through the dorms, the weight of finals hanging over everyone. Red’s presence seemed to make it heavier, people talking softer, glancing to him and glancing away. Nobody grabbed for his attention, so Tommy left the dorms behind, following the clusters of people towards Pixandria hall. He didn’t even know what exam was happening—it better not be some stem shit, Tommy was hopeless with that stuff. He couldn’t exactly comfort students when he knew fuck-all, too.
The sign on Pixandria’s door read International Relations, and inside was tense, the lobby filled with students carrying plastic sleeves, water bottles and snacks, each having to pass the invigilator’s—Schlatt’s—examination. He let Tommy in with a nod, Tommy glancing around, trying to identify each student’s house. Most people looked at him then glanced away again, returning to their pre-exam complaining and muttering.
He pulled his shoulders back, trying to mimic the Miss Universe contestant strut as he made his way to the largest group of Reds.
The closest student turned towards him, saying “Hello Ma’am. How has your morning been?”
Tommy shrugged, making the so-so gesture. He wasn’t the focus of this conversation, even if the others tried to deflect. “How are you?” he signed, emphasising the movement.
“That means how are you,” said a woman with glasses—oh shit, that was Stephanie. When did she learn Auslan?
The guy shrugged. “Well, I got to sleep at a decent time last night, even if I woke up at the crack of dawn. Could be worse.”
“Could be worse?” said Stephanie. “Don’t you have three exams today? I’ve only been studying for one and that’s stressful enough.”
He shrugged. “I’m just gonna wing it.”
Tommy winced. Sure, you could get away with winging a literature exam or maybe a language exam, but International Relations?
“Don’t give me that look,” he said. “I got here on time, I remembered my ID and I’ve even had breakfast,” he said.
“Oh crap, I forgot my water,” said Stephanie. “I was going to buy a bottle on the way over here but I didn’t. I—crap.”
Tommy took a closer look at Stephanie, her lips cracked and red.
…Was that really all he was masked up for?
“I water buy?” he signed, raising his eyebrows.
Stephanie frowned. “That’s the sign for water, right?” she said, running a hooked finger down her cheek.
He nodded, then fingerspelled “V-E-N-D-I-N-G.”
“The vending machine?” said Stephanie. “I—of course, you can buy me some!” she said. “Just take my card—and get whatever water is cheapest, I don’t care.”
Tommy nodded faster, accepting the card and hurrying for the door.
Schlatt hardly gave him a glance as Tommy pushed out onto the paving, rushing for the closest machine. Tommy would have an easy time smuggling banned objects into the exam, but he could never. Cheating was not acceptable in the Red house, and he would lead by example.
…Well, unless it was funny. If someone could convince him of a good enough joke, he wouldn’t say no to helping them cheat. Tommy made his way to the entrance of the chemistry building, locking eyes with the vending machine in its lobby.
It only had candy.
Tommy swore and hurried further into the building. The vending machines were located where people spent a lot of time doing nothing, mostly around eating areas and elevators. Nothing drew people in for an impulse purchase better than being stuck next to the instant snack machine.
Tommy turned the corner to the lift, drinks right beside it. He pressed on the option for water, scanning Stephanie’s card and watching the spiral slowly rotate.
The bottle finally dropped to the bottom, Tommy snatching it up and rushing back through the hallway. Holding his dress up with one hand and the bottle in the other, he began to run across the campus, his train flowing out behind him. He slowed to enter Pixandria, panting as he pulled the door open.
The students were lined against the wall—shit, they were about to go in. Tommy locked eyes with Stephanie, hurrying past Schlatt and passing her the goods.
“You ran?” she said, accepting the bottle and credit card. “Thank you so much,” she said, cracking the bottle open and taking a drink.
Tommy gave a salute. He didn’t know how to sign anything for a Red student or even good luck, but there was one thing he could never forget.
“Red win,” he signed, giving her a wink.
Stephanie’s eyes lit up, and she repeated it.
The doors to the exam room opened, the line of students filtering in and leaving Tommy behind.
Chairs squeaked and papers rustled before the doors closed, Tommy’s heavy breathing filling the space.
“Well, there goes my favourite exam,” said Schlatt, in his thick American accent. “International relations,” he mused. “I couldn’t stand the exams when I was a student, but you can’t pass the subject without them.” He huffed. “You wouldn’t know much about Diplomacy though, would you? Bit hard when you can’t speak.” He laughed at his own joke.
“You’re here why?” signed Tommy, glancing around the room.
Schlatt just blinked at him—Good.
“You Auslan don’t know,” he signed, adding a “Stupid,” to the end.
“Sorry, I only speak English and Patriotism,” said Schlatt. “Only reason I’m here is so I can see what shit gets confiscated. It’s mostly just kids getting obnoxious with the food they bring, but your Red people always try something stupid.”
Tommy scoffed. Smuggle illegal items? His students would never.
Again, unless it was funny.
He hadn’t heard of anyone bring in something stupid, but even a simple whoopie cushion could provide the perfect exam comedy.
“Do you wanna see what I’ve got from this group?” said Schlatt, pulling out a tub in the corner.
Honestly? Tommy had an essay to work on. He’d done his duty, the only reason he’d stay masked up was for shits and giggles. Schlatt induced neither reaction.
“Sorry,” he signed. “Want go.” Was there an Auslan sign for dormitories? He’d have to ask Niki.
“Guess that’s a no,” said Schlatt. “If you hear about any students smuggling the good shit I want to know about it, understand?”
Tommy huffed, nodding along even though he planned no such thing. He waved goodbye to the chancellor and made his way out the door.
“Finished,” he sent to Clementine, stepping into the milky sunlight.
“That fast? Tell me when unmasking.”
“Will do.”
Today was the last dry day of winter, grey clouds hanging over the campus but not yet threatening to pour down. He made it to the edge of the quad before his eyes caught on a yellow beacon in the centre.
Yellow was crouched on the winding pavements, other students gathered around her as they focused on something on the ground.
Tommy changed directions, cutting through the centre to see what all the fuss was. Yellow held something white in her hand, hunched over the concrete with—oh, it was chalk. Tommy drew closer still, finding the centre of the quad covered in drawings, little doodles and words of encouragement, large spirals and unfinished hopscotch squares filling the space.
The Yellow student closest to the edge noticed him. “Oi Red, what are you doing?”
Yellow turned at the name, Tommy giving a wave.
She smiled, returning the gesture and beckoning him over.
“Why chalk?” he signed, pointing at the one in Yellow’s hand.
Yellow shrugged. “Want draw. You help?”
Tommy pressed his lips together. “I—small chalk, small,” he signed.
Yellow pumped her fist, the action pairing strangely with her accordion-pleat capelet dress.
He really couldn’t stay long when Clementine was expecting him, but he did have one thing he needed to draw.
Yellow handed him a piece of pink chalk, directing him to an empty space beside a bench. He smiled, lowering himself down and shoving his dress out of the way. He had a masterpiece planned, the most innocent of pussy cats—with an emphasis on the pussy. And by pussy, he meant a dick. You couldn’t tell when it was all drawn in the same colour, but it was there, and that was enough.
He could give them a little clue, actually. Tommy drew an arrow pointing to the pussy cat, writing Richard in flowing handwriting.
He heard a gasp behind him. Yellow resting her hands over her mouth. “Why?” she signed, shaking her head in exasperation.
“My cat!” he signed, a wicked grin across his face.
“Cat?” she repeated, widening her eyes.
She definitely knew what was going on. Tommy quickly stood, handing the chalk back to her. “Thank you,” he signed. “I red house go,” he said, translating the words directly. Niki could never know about his lazy signing.
He eventually unmasked in the first floor’s disabled bathroom.
“Did it all go well?” said Clementine, back in her ghostly form.
“Yep, how’s Esther?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Still can’t find the quotes for the first page, but I fixed up your shitty fifth paragraph—you really did make a mess on this one.”
“Sure, sure,” said Tommy, exiting the bathroom. “I’ve had my break, I’m all juiced up and just ripe for a squeeze.”
“Stop saying words,” said Clementine. “That was awful.”
“Your name is literally Clementine but I can’t be too citrus-y?”
“You gave me that name,” she said.
“Eh, semantics.”
They continued to bicker as they made it back to the elevator. The food in the corner was completely ravaged, scones with jam reduced to crumbs and a sticky knife. Were the pre-exam jitters getting the best of everyone or had it been sabotaged?
Before Tommy could make it to his room, his phone began to buzz, Boob Boy appearing onscreen.
“Ah shit, Ranboo was texting me earlier,” said Clementine.
“What did he say?” said Tommy, his phone buzzing again.
“Just pick up—we’ll play it by ear.”
Tommy clicked accept on the call, saying, “What’s up, Ranboo?”
“So I was just wondering if you were hungry yet—”
“—Oh yeah, he invited us to lunch,” Clementine interrupted. “I said yes—figured you wouldn’t care.”
“—it’s still a little early for lunch, but we can just grab something small,” Ranboo continued, unaware of Clementine.
“Yeah, that sounds good,” said Tommy. “Fuck it, I can go now, where are you?”
“Library,” said Ranboo. “I’ll meet you at the dining hall, okay?”
“Okay,” said Tommy. “Wait, is Tubbo coming?”
“I already asked that!” said Clementine. “He wasn’t awake yet.”
“I mean, has he seen your message yet?” Tommy smoothly and handsomely recovered.
“Not yet,” said Ranboo. “To be honest, I think he’s still sleeping.”
“That’s Tubbo for you,” said Tommy, as the elevator descended. “We should bring him a coffee afterwards.”
“Sounds good,” said Ranboo. “See you in five.”
“Yeah, see you.” The second he hung up, he added, “I’m basically the perfect mascot, I nailed everything today. I bet I’m the best mascot yet.”
Clementine smirked. “Just give it a couple days.”
A couple days and six mask-ups later, Tommy had certainly not nailed everything. First he got lost as he tried to escort students to their dorms, then a student started crying in front of him and he panicked, and then he spilled those coffees.
But the worst moment didn’t come until Thursday night.
Tommy had already masked up for Niki’s Auslan class, learning exam and university vocab that was endlessly useful, then he’d done a lap of the entire dorms, watching someone’s laptop as they went to the bathroom and helping another student with their dishes. It was the perfect mascoting night, his midterm was submitted and he’d even cleared his floor. Tommy had unmasked and gone straight to bed, drifting off to a blissful, stress-free sleep.
…Sleep that was interrupted by someone shaking him.
“Wake up!”
He peeled his eyes open, finding a mirror image of himself shaking him back and forth, mouth pressed in a thin line. Clementine.
It was too early for this.
Tommy pushed Clementine away, closing his eyes again.
Clementine slapped him.
Tommy bolted upright. “What the fuck?” he said, his voice sounding wrong. He stared down at the red silk covering him.
Oh. He was masked up.
Clementine sighed. “We were so close.”
The rose petals rushed over them both, Clementine returning to her ghostly form.
“You bitch-slapped me,” said Tommy, rubbing his cheek.
“You had to mask up,” said Clementine. “But you were asleep, Shubble would have walked in on you.”
“What the fuck, It’s fucking…” He grabbed for his phone, blinding himself with the lock screen. “Two am. Who needs Red at fucking two in the morning?”
“Go find out,” said Clementine. “Preferably before Shubble shows up.”
She wasn’t back yet? Tommy glanced across the room, finding an empty bed. He was going to kill Shubble, was she trying to run herself into an early grave? He pulled himself out of bed, stumbling into the elevator and pushing the button for the ground floor. Once the doors closed, he said “Mask up.”
“Hey, you cannot—”
The words were cut off as the petals rushed over Tommy, replacing his pyjamas with a frilly red nightgown, spreading out behind him in a sleepy trail. His usual masquerade mask was replaced with an eye mask, resting across his forehead but ready to use at any moment. Hell yeah, even his costume knew what was up.
Clementine huffed when she emerged, raising an eyebrow at Tommy.
He rose a finger before she could say anything, the elevator still descending. He was too tired for this shit, he better be showing up to a game of sleeping logs or he wasn’t going to take it.
Clementine just reached forward, pulling Tommy’s eye mask and letting it snap back against his forehead.
He glared at her, but Clementine just smirked, the elevator pinging. She gestured to the door, Tommy sighing and stepping out. Despite the late hour, three people were still in the main area, each hunched over laptops and the likes. Tommy gave each a nod, moving through the space and seeing if any of them were in distress. None of them jumped out, so he continued on his walk, going through the loop of dorms.
Laughter and shrieks echoed through the halls, followed by little pops. Was that champagne?
Tommy followed the sound, hearing more pops.
Unless one of those students won the lottery, that wasn’t champagne. He followed the noise down to the basement, a nerf bullet flying past his head.
Ah, that would do it. Twenty or so people ran around the basement, armed with plastic guns and foam bullets. They were all in their pyjamas, too—who organised this? And more importantly, were there any guns to spare?
Tommy glanced around the room, his eyes landing on Quackity—clad in purple-silk pyjamas and wielding a direct-prime blaster. Only the most intelligent of men would choose that gun, Quackity must have been the one to organise this.
Quackity’s brown eyes lit up as he approached. “Red! Get down here before you blow my cover!”
Tommy hurried across, ducking beside Quackity and pressing his back to the bookshelf. “How are you?” he signed, as bullets whistled past their heads.
“Great to see you too, Ma’am—here, you can use this gun,” he said, handing him a break-action blaster. “What better way to work off finals stress than shooting at each other’s heads?”
Tommy cocked his gun. Oh, it was on alright.
“Right now we’re doing STEM versus arts,” said Quackity. “See that group in the corner? Statistics, the lot of them.”
Tommy tightened his grip on the gun, moving to a shooting stance. He was going to spread their sheets alright. Everyone knew STEM stood for Shoot Them Every Moment.
Tommy popped around the corner of the shelf, lining up and squeezing the faded plastic trigger. He was in for a night of fun.
…Or so he thought.
Tommy was completely immersed in the game, adrenaline wiping away any hint of tiredness, until he was running and jumping in his heels, weaving between shelves, his nightgown flaring out as he moved. He held back his laughs and shrieks, glaring and throwing hands at whoever dared to shoot him. He vaulted over furniture and dived for loose bullets, recklessness only increasing the energy in the room.
One such dive left Tommy slamming into a shelf, the entire thing wobbling back and forth.
He jumped back as it tipped further, fuck. He dropped his gun, grabbing the shelf to try and steady it. Too late. The shelf thudded to the ground, the floors shaking.
The room fell silent, but Tommy just stumbled to the side, checking if anyone got hit by it. The shelf lay flat, thank fuck, nobody else near it.
“Holy shit, are you okay?” said Quackity. “That didn’t fall on you, right?”
Tommy shook his head, signing “Not hurt,” after half a second. Thank fuck for Niki’s lesson on emergency signs.
“What happened?” said another person, stepping closer.
Tommy’s hands hesitated. There was no way he could explain this without miming it out—which was fucking embarrassing, to be frank. He winced, then mimed out slamming into the shelf, then making the motion of the shelf tipping over.
“Okay, temporary truce,” said one of the stem guys. “I’m not paying for that shelf, I had nothing to do with this.”
“It’s not broken, fellas,” said Quackity. “It’s fine. We just need to get it back upright, you know?”
Between the entire group, they managed to haul the shelf upright, shuffling it until it sat flush with the others. All that remained was the pile of books, their original layout lost in the fall. They continued to fuss over him, but Tommy kept pushing them away, he could put books back on a shelf, no problem. It was his mess to begin with, he was perfectly capable of getting himself out of it.
The nerf war’s truce quickly became its ending. Once the students saw a single consequence of their actions, they were far less eager, picking up bullets and guns and returning them to Quackity’s tub. They moved upstairs with slower conversations and yawns, hopefully returning to their rooms.
Quackity was the last to leave, making sure he’d removed any evidence of the event before picking up his tub and moving for the stairs.
He gave Tommy a smile before he left, and Tommy returned it.
…His smile fell when he realised how many books remained.
At first the work wasn’t too bad, Tommy sitting beside the shelf and slotting book after book on the bottom row. He built up a decent rhythm that way, but the bottom shelves filled quickly, and soon he had to stand. Going up and down was fucking awful, threatening to throw out his back. His left shoulder was throbbing, too, pain finally kicking in from hitting the shelf. Tommy found himself daydreaming of his bed, of sliding into the cool cotton covers, resting his head on a pillow that was firm but not too firm, hearing nothing but the gentle hum on his fan, Shubble breathing in the bed across from him, just like old times.
The last book he shelved was called Haunted Mansion, an old, leatherbound journal that he shoved between two picture books with little care. He made his way back to the elevator, his eyelids heavy and head begging for his pillow.
He unmasked in the elevator once again, tulle bedroom gown replaced with his normal cotton pyjamas. His bed had never felt so soft.
Tommy’s final mascoting duty for the semester was attending a commencement ceremony, for all the students who started their degrees midway through the year. He stood on the stage between Yellow and Blue, shaking hands with each Red student that passed, large grins across their faces. He sat through speeches and applause, trying to take in the face of every student that passed him. Some were fresh-faced, moving straight through high school to university, but most were older, pacing studies with work and families and love and laughter. No matter which path students took, they had learned from their time at L'Manberg, and hopefully L'Manberg had done them good in return.
In just over three years, he would be in their shoes—well, Clementine would be in their shoes, and he’d be shaking Clementine’s hand as she accepted his diploma. Would they crack jokes at each other? Stare longingly into each other’s eyes, finally saying goodbye?
Clementine wasn’t coming with him on his winter break. The mascot bracelet couldn’t ever leave the university campus—something about the localisation of the magic, Tommy was half-asleep when Clementine explained it. What it meant for him was that tonight he had to hide the bracelet beneath his mattress and pray nobody stumbled across it in the weeks he was gone. Tommy would spend Christmas back at home in the UK, catching up with his mother and high school friends, then he’d return fresh for the second semester.
Tommy met the eyes of another student, giving the warmest smile he could as he shook their hand.
The next student passed and pressed a hand against his chest when Tommy reached out.
Tommy quickly retracted his hand, repeating the gesture.
One day he’d be graduating, here. Tommy had survived an entire semester—how hard could five more be?
After the graduation’s festivities were over, Tommy stayed masked up, finding himself going for one final walk through the dorms. At this time of night they were usually at their loudest, doors slamming as students moved from the dining hall and back, getting up to all sorts of shenanigans. Most students had already left for the winter, and the ones that hadn’t were out partying.
The empty dorms only echoed Tommy’s thoughts, walking through the first floor and basement, glaring at the books he reshelved.
He stepped into the lift when Clementine’s voice interrupted him.
“Found a tomato.”
Tommy took a moment to close his eyes, letting out a long sigh. “Again?”
“Yeah.”
Maybe his room was just haunted. With the amount of other stuff going on here, he wouldn’t be surprised. Tommy stepped out on the sixth floor, admired the view and wandered down more staircases, eventually coming across the tiny Nevada stairs. The small group of dorms was similarly abandoned—wait, who was that?
A lone silhouette stood in front of the window, fluorescent lights flickering onto their black hair. Quackity.
Tommy moved beside him, glancing out the window to see what he was staring at.
The sky was a light-polluted charcoal, campus flooded with streetlights and long shadows, not a single person moving about. Tommy could see rooms alight in the Blue and Yellow dorms, the occasional figure moving past them. Most of the windows were dark.
Quackity had heavy bags under his eyes, nursing a golden can in one hand, the other wrapped around his waist. “End of the term, yeah?” he said, bringing the beer to his lips.
Tommy gave a small huff, then a smile. He kept his hands clasped in front of him, this wasn’t the time for boisterous miming, just slow talks.
“Y’know, most people have already left—I’ll be gone by tomorrow.” He shrugged. “Just thought I’d enjoy one final night.”
“Same,” signed Tommy.
Quackity just hummed. “I should get around to learning sign language, shouldn’t I?”
Tommy shrugged, moving closer to the window.
“Pile of shit, isn’t it?” said Quackity.
Tommy swung back to him, mouth hanging open.
Quackity snorted. “Have you seen the administration here? This place is running on crack and prayers.”
Tommy pointed to himself with a sassy flick of his wrist.
“And you, of course,” said Quackity. “At the end of the day, nobody sees how much work people like us put into this place.”
Quackity continued to stare, but not outwards. No, he was staring in the window’s reflection, staring at himself backed by empty dorms. He had another sip of his drink, then another.
He sighed. “As much as I’d love to be here all night, I should get going,” he said. “See you next semester, Red.”
Tommy raised a hand, and the two parted ways.
He traced back through his semester, through heartwarming conversations, mascots, secrets and mystery tomatoes. The semester passed like weeks instead of months, but Tommy couldn’t find that lost time no matter how hard he looked.
He returned to his dorm for the final time for the year.
A break was just what he needed.
Notes:
Break just like me fr. Hiatus. This is going on hiatus until January 14th when semester 2 starts.
Tommy's nightgown is based off the nightgown Ariana wears in the Wicked movie. I enjoyed the film a normal amount (it reignited my love of theatre and I now crave the backstage).
Thank you for 1k hits <33333
!!Mandatory rest stop!!
Did you know you’ve been reading for 70k words? Take a look around at your surroundings, is it past 10pm right now? If you’ve been bingeing this, now is the time to go to the toilet, have a snack and a drink of water. This is a good spot to leave the fic and pick back up again later <3Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 21: Harkness Mess Bechdel Test Empty Nest Blue Vest, Lemon’s Sake Tomato Take Large Fries Chocolate Shake.
Summary:
Tommy returns to the university, jumping straight into mascoting and helping students settle. This is fine with Clementine, until Shubble starts knocking on the door. The tomato saga's plot thickens, much like cornflour in tomato soup.
Word count: 5.5k
Estimated reading time:22mins
Date posted: January 14th, 2025
Notes:
Welcome back from the break! I took like two whole weeks off of writing and spent my spare time building a miniature house and eating through some audiobooks in the process. I read book 1 and 2 of Tamora Pierce's Circle of Magic and loved it, and I'm almost finished with Heaven by Mieko Kawakami. That one is a lot heavier and not something I'd usually pick up for myself but it's written so so well. I also wrote a 14k oneshot about familiar Tommy finding the stupidest witch to accidentally bond with (Tubbo) I also spent another four hours wrangling my calendar for this fic and added two new colours to sort events further. If I lose this calendar I'm literally done for.
ANYWAYS this chapter marks the FIRST time this fic has passed the bechdel test, which is a really funny sentence to write. There's been plenty of scenes with female characters but believe it or not, this is the FIRST scene where two characters who are both confirmed female (not masquerading) are talking. The characters are Shubble and Clementine by the way and their dynamic is soooooo fun. The number of minecraft whiteboys in this fandom makes writing female content so easy to forget about, sorry Puffy and Niki and Hannah and Tina and Aimsey I promise I'll write works centering around you one day I'm itching for some canon-based oneshots :(
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tommy arrived at L'manberg on Sunday with a smile on his face. His nails faded to red the second he stepped on campus, a tiny L'manberg shield over the top. It was relieving to see the colour back, having normal nails over the holidays had thrown him. Students clogged the beige hallways with suitcases and furniture, but Tommy was happy to move at a leisurely pace. He breathed in the scent of freshly-vacuumed carpets as he joined the lines for the lift.
He’d spent the four week break back at home, enjoying his mum’s homemade cooking instead of the ten-dish rotation of the dining hall. He kept in touch with Tubbo and Ranboo and even caught up with his school friends. They didn’t believe anything he said about L'manberg, but he was only bullshitting a little. It’s not like he could talk about fucking around with Clementine or upstaging Blue.
It took him a couple days to get used to the silence. With no bracelet he had no Clementine, and he found himself constantly asking questions to thin air. Some genuine questions, and a lot of are you seeing this shit? all to no response.
He made his way into a lift and up to the fifth floor, unable to help his smile as he punched in his door code.
Shubble had left the dorm in a mess. Papers were spread across the floor, dirty clothes piled in the walkway, pens and wrappers entangled in her sheets. Being alone was clearly not good for her, what the fuck.
Tommy took a moment to wrinkle his nose, then stepped over to his bed, lifting up the mattress and grabbing at a maroon bracelet. He slipped it back onto his wrist, the weight foreign after being missing for a month.
“Clementine?” he tried, a smile across his face.
Something blurred in the corner of his eye, Clementine emerging through the back wall of the apartment. “Hey, Tommy,” she said, smiling.
He couldn’t hide his smile, so he said, “the most handsome student is back on campus.”
“Oh shit, where did you see him?” said Clementine, instantly.
The standard answer to a question like this would be the mirror, but Tommy had a better idea. “Your mother’s bedroom, obviously.”
He was expecting Clementine to roll her eyes, or shoot back with I wouldn’t know, I was at your father’s house last night but her smile dropped. “That’s fucked up.”
“What? The way your mum was calling my—”
“Necrophilia is disgusting—did you know that’s a crime, Tommy? You really want to—”
“—Whoa, whoa, fuck you,” he said. “I did not mean—”
“—Fuck me? I’m dead, too, you realise.”
What a dick. Good thing Tommy could play dirty, too. “Well, according to the Harkness test I’d be able to—”
“Do not bring the Harkness test into this.”
And then, Tommy had an idea. You know those ideas that fall into your hands, perfectly formed for just the right moment? When heaven parts and delivers poetry, spilling from your lips before you could stop it?
This was not one of those ideas.
“I’ll hark on your mother until she nesses.”
Clementine stopped. Blinked.
He burst into laughter, slapping a hand to his knee.
“Don’t ever say that, ever again,” said Clementine, making Tommy laugh harder.
“This is all on you,” said Tommy, eventually. “You should never have accused me of nec-ro-philia. So glad to know that you missed me.”
She gave a longsuffering sigh—the first of many for the semester. “Can we just restart? You know, how was your holidays and what’s your new year’s resolution and all?”
“My holidays were great, I got a new vest,” said Tommy, showing off his blue puffer jacket. “And my resolution?” he quirked a brow. “Get more bitches.” He sat back onto his bare mattress—ugh, he’d have to make it today. “How about you? What’s a ghost like you get up to in these parts?”
“Exploring, mostly,” she said. “I had a bunch more time to talk to the other ghosts, and I found the president watching a movie at one point.”
“What movie was it?” he asked, flopping back onto the mattress and staring at the ceiling panels.
“It was a retelling of A Christmas Carol but with a bunch of puppets.”
“A muppet Christmas Carol?” said Tommy. “Oh shit, he has good taste.”
She shrugged. “It was alright, I guess.”
“Don’t say shit about it,” said Tommy. “It’s a masterpiece. You gotta tell me your resolution, too.”
“I haven’t thought about it at all,” said Clementine.
“Bullshit. Think now.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll get there when I get there.”
Tommy’s bracelet burned, the familiar sensation sending goosebumps up his arms.
“Ready to step back under the mask?”
Tommy cracked his knuckles, sitting himself up. “Let’s do this.”
Tommy masked up in the usual location, giving Clementine a confident grin before he left.
She took a moment to centre herself, taking in a slow breath, filled with dust and the scent of cleaning chemicals. It had been four weeks since she’d been corporeal, long enough that it felt foreign. She took in another breath, letting her shoulders rise and fall. Breathing was more of a habit than a reflex, and just like any habit it took a little encouragement to kick in. Clementine rubbed her hands together, then wiggled her toes, moving back to Tommy’s dorm. She was anything but steady, but the sensation would ease over time.
As she entered the hallway, she shifted into Tommy’s slouch, shoving her tingly hands into his pockets. The hands hit something solid, and it took Clementine a moment to recognise it. Tommy’s phone.
She should probably do something responsible like review the course syllabus or get their desk organised for tomorrow’s class, but flappy bird was calling her name. Had Tommy beaten her high score? She stopped, unlocking Tommy’s phone with her thumbprint to check. Still fifty, thankfully.
Up until a few years ago, phones were completely foreign to her. It was a steep learning curve getting used to them, but she continued to reap the benefits. Like flappy bird.
Clementine pocketed the phone and returned to Tommy’s dorm, wrinkling her nose at Shubble’s mess. She had definitely bitten off more than she could chew with this one, but the reactions were going to be priceless. Tommy was still completely clueless, even as his sister was losing her touch. Leaving her oversized boots right there? That was just asking for him to connect the dots.
Speaking of the mess, she should set up Tommy’s bed. At least so she was comfortable tonight. Their new timetable might be worth looking at, but Tommy could manage that by himself. He was masking up to help students settle, nothing important.
Clementine pulled open Tommy’s bag, digging through his abysmal amount of clothes until she hit his sheets. The cream was dull in comparison to Shubble’s fern-pattern bedspread, but she would definitely notice if Clementine tried to swap the two.
Just as she had wrangled the bottom sheet into place, the door rattled. Shubble was here, shit.
Sure enough, she opened the door and smiled when she saw Clementine. “I didn’t think you’d be here till later,” she said, none of her usual bravado. “Yeesh, I’ve trashed this place, huh?”
She knew her brother well, Clementine needed to pull every trick she knew.
Just start simple. She gave a Tommy-like scoff, kicking Shubble’s boots away from his bed.
Shubble tilted her head.
If there was one thing Tommy did with Shubble, it was talk. He talked even when she didn’t respond, even when he knew she wasn’t listening.
“…The holidays go okay?” she asked. “Mum was alright?”
“I’m good,” Clementine signed, making the thumbs-up gesture.
Even when she was tired and withdrawn, Shubble wouldn’t accept a half-assed excuse from him. And this was only the second time Clementine had ever interacted with her. The first was at the fabled lettuce club, intense enough that she could play off awestruck silence. Regardless, Shubble was distracted herself, settling into her new role and leaving as fast as she could.
She should call in backup. Shubble’s here, she sent, trying to keep her tone as neutral as possible.
Tommy’s response was instant. Is she okay?
Yes, she sent back, trying to infuse calm into the three letters. She couldn’t have him panicking without due measure.
“Are you okay?” said Shubble, her voice raising. “I—you can talk to me about anything. You know that, right?”
Alright, don’t freak her out. Clementine let her expression soften, mouthing the words I know.
And she meant it. The bond between siblings was rarely so strong—and even rarer that they chose to move back in together.
Coming back now, tell—
Tommy’s message was cut short as he hit the seven word limit. The winter break had left him sloppy.
Shubble dropped her gaze, turning to her mess. “Just—Just reminding you,” she said, softly. “I’ll fix up my stuff, now.”
Clementine paused for just a moment, then adjusted back into Tommy’s mannerisms. She moved for the bathroom, locking the door and switching on the shower. Storage closet, fifteen minutes, she sent, using her remaining words. It set a hard limit on her time with Shubble and gave Tommy something to aim for, even if he couldn’t respond.
Most of that time would be eaten up by her fake shower, but it gave them both room to breathe. It was far easier for her to masquerade as Tommy around Ranboo and Tubbo, the trio swapped between Auslan and English so much that nobody noticed her going nonverbal. Shubble had clocked onto it right away, but she might accept some excuse about a sore throat or something. Tommy would know.
When the mirror began to fog, Clementine ducked her head into the shower, wetting her curls and turning it off. She stood and waited for a minute or two more, rivulets snaking from her hair and down her neck and back. She’d forgotten water did that.
Finally, she stepped back out into the dorm.
Shubble was still moving around, dumping dirty clothes into a bag. Her eyes locked onto Clementine once again, her dark brows furrowing.
Clementine held her gaze for a moment, then turned for the door.
“Are you getting dinner?” said Shubble, as Clementine touched the door handle.
She paused for a second, then nodded. If Shubble insisted on coming with her it would make this conversation a lot harder.
“Can you grab something for me?” she said, instead.
Clementine softened. She turned back towards Shubble, putting on Tommy’s gentle face—nothing more than dropping his frown. “I will,” she signed, then quirked a grin.
Shubble eased, her eyes sliding away. “Thanks. I’ll be here for a while with all this mess, so—yeah.”
She raised a hand in response, then stepped out into the hallway, keeping up Tommy’s disgruntled aura. Even if he wasn’t aware of it, it did an excellent job at warding off unwanted conversation, and it would serve her well tonight.
She moved to the supply closet as quickly as she could, making herself comfortable amongst the brooms and pulling out flappy bird. As she guided the bird through precarious dives and falls she had time to process Shubble’s reactions, her mind drifting around and eventually landing on new year’s resolutions. She hadn’t done such a thing in decades—there wasn’t too much changing in her life other than the people she shadowed. Maybe she could do something about movies—they were always fun.
Her train of thought was interrupted by Tommy’s entrance. He hardly glanced at Clementine before asking, “What did Shubble say?” Not a hi, how did you go? Even unmask would have sufficed.
The university’s magic yanked her towards Tommy, the two making the slightest contact before her form melted away, leaving her intangible and invisible. She pulled her visual form back together, stretching her limbs as they were freed from gravity’s confines. “She was just saying hello, but when I couldn’t talk she noticed right away,” said Clementine, rubbing her hands together once again. Her ghostly form was like being smothered in a blanket, sensations fading back into numbness.
“Fuck!” said Tommy. “She’s gonna figure out everything.”
“We can recover from this,” she assured. “This is nothing—you know, one of the former mascots got caught masking up at a frat party—right in front of the drinks, too.”
“You do realise we’re talking about Shubble Berry?” said Tommy. “She’ll know if I’m lying—and I would never lie to her to begin with.”
“So? Shubble is lying to you, it’s just keeping things even.”
“She does not lie to me,” said Tommy. “Keep secrets? Leave me in the dark? Absolutely. But we don’t lie to each other.”
“Right, right,” said Clementine, changing tactics. “We can still work with that. Right now she thinks we’re grabbing dinner for you both, so we’ve got time to plan this.”
“That is not enough time,” said Tommy, as he headed downstairs. He continued to complain all the way to the crowded dining hall, shoving chips onto a plate and grabbing a carton of chocolate milk. “Mimimi, I’m so sorry for not talking to you, Shubble,” he said, putting on a high-pitched voice. “I just wasn’t feeling it but I’m completely better now—oh, and just ignore how the mascot was spotted out at the exact same time as me.”
She snorted, but Tommy didn’t notice the positive reaction to his joke. “There’s a couple different options we can take. Saying you couldn’t talk isn’t lying, and if you leave it open enough she’ll just assume you have a sore throat or something.”
“It’s still lying.”
Clementine shrugged. “Then be honest.”
Tommy snapped towards her.
“Not like that,” she said. “Tell her you couldn’t talk, but now you can, and you can’t explain why without putting yourself in danger.”
Tommy stayed quiet for a second, moving back for the red dorms. “… She’ll suspect I’m Red, though. Shubble is smart—she can put the dots together like that.”
“The mascot being out will add to your alibi,” said Clementine. “Nobody else knows about the shadowing, so if Shubble hears that Red was out she’ll confirm it’s not you.”
He blinked. “Then what will she think?” Tommy made it to the elevator, nobody giving him a second glance despite the two plates of food he carried—plates clearly from the dining hall.
“As you said, Shubble is smart. She’ll come up with something that makes sense.”
He was rendered silent as he stepped into the lift with two others, nothing to do but mull over Clementine’s words. Clementine examined the food in the corner—a bowl of macarons. The elevator society had gotten ahead of themselves.
Tommy stepped out onto the correct floor, waiting for the doors to shut behind him before saying, “Are we really doing this?”
“You’ll do fine,” she reassured. “We’re playing to Shubble’s strengths right now, letting her do the hard work.”
“Because she’s a try hard.”
“Because she’s a try hard,” Clementine repeated. “Just—try to stay quieter? Make it look like you’re easing out of being silent.”
“I’ll try,” he muttered.
They reached the fabled door, Tommy balancing both plates in one arm so he could input the code.
Shubble was hunched over her laptop, the screen draining the warmth from her skin and highlighting the bags under her eyes. She looked up as soon as Tommy entered, her shoulders raised to her ears.
“Hey,” said Tommy, breathy enough to be a whisper. The sound was stilted, but that would add to their image, not detract from it.
She shut her laptop as Tommy approached, moving to the edge of the bed.
Tommy sat down beside her, putting down the plates.
“Ease into it,” said Clementine, monitoring Shubble’s reactions.
Tommy kept his mouth shut, adjusting his position and wrapping his arms around himself.
“Thanks for—for the food,” said Shubble, grabbing a chip and nibbling it.
“Sorry about earlier.” Tommy’s words were still quiet, but just as stilted as before. He wasn’t a bad liar—he was good at committing to the bit—but his sister’s golden eyes were enough to disarm him. He avoided Shubble’s gaze completely, eyes locked on the opposite wall as if the discolouration in the paint fascinated him. The rest of his body language was perfect, closed off and defensive but making room for Shubble.
“I—I haven’t seen you that quiet before,” she said. “It—It freaked me out a little, to be honest. Can—" Her eyes darted away, then darted back. “I’d like to know why, if you’d tell me.”
Clementine jumped in again. “Just wait—answer this slowly.”
His eyes broke away from the wall only to spear her a glare. Despite that, Tommy followed her advice. He sighed, meeting Shubble’s golden eyes. “I can’t,” he said, voice wobbling.
Shubble held still. After a moment of silence she asked, “Grimmauld?”
The word didn’t make any sense to Clementine, but Tommy flinched.
“Grimmauld,” he repeated. “I—I wish I could tell you why. Really, I do, but…”
“That’s okay,” said Shubble, instantly. “It just caught me off-guard, but people go nonverbal for all sorts of reasons, y’know?”
Tommy’s blue eyes lit up, but he quickly smothered it.
“Even if you don’t know why, it doesn’t change the fact that it happens,” she said, putting a gloved hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “If I’m sticking around through your annoying talking, I’ll stick around for your silence, too.”
He leaned into the touch, finally meeting Shubble’s eyes. A soft smile flickered across his face, one that only Shubble could draw out of him. “Thanks,” he said, softly.
It was at that point that Clementine decided her new year’s resolution. No matter what shenanigans she stumbled across or how many hours she spent doing Tommy’s work, she would do everything in her power to create more moments like these.
After the emotional turmoil of Tommy’s first night, he struggled to get back into the routine of studying. It didn’t help that his tutors were all jumping in right where they left off, leaving no room for Tommy to step out of his holiday-hangover. It was only Tuesday night, but already he found himself dodging coursework.
Well, he had a half excuse. Clementine wanted him to visit the gauntlet fountain, and he had insisted he had to do it in costume. Definitely not to avoid studying—no, he could sense the red house morale dwindling in his manly heart.
Clementine had rolled her eyes at that, but she agreed to it regardless, Tommy masking up into a large ballgown that was far too cold for the half-frozen campus. Still better than Isabella Beeton’s Book of Household Management.
So Tommy made his way across the campus, slipping into his mascot persona and across the icy paving. Not an unreasonable amount of slipping, but there was only so much magic could do when stilettos were facing off against snow.
The fountain was still drained, each tier filled with snow—even the fire bowl at the top was full, no sign of the novelty event flame. There was another one coming this term, he’d have to keep an eye out for it.
But Clementine wasn’t after the gauntlet event, she wanted Tommy to look at the overall points leaderboard. Apparently the fountain had the oldest and fastest-updating board, despite how stupid it seemed. Who put a scoreboard outdoors?
Tommy moved around the fountain until he found a second brass plaque, letters inlaid despite the score constantly changing. Magic shit, of course. The yellow house was still in the lead, but red clung not two thousand points below it. It was still anyone’s game.
He circled the fountain again, thinking over the magic that powered it. This university was just filled with it, far more than any one person could create. But to think that multiple people dedicated their lives to a single institution was insane. Even something like this fountain would take a magical bricklayer—fuck it, a bricklaying wizard—to make the numbers change in real time.
Regardless, the longer he spent at the fountain the less he had to think about Beeton’s recipes.
…And if that meant taking back the long way around the quad Tommy would gladly do so. It was early enough in January that snow still dotted the campus, shoved out of walkways and onto the vegetation. Despite the thicker fabric of Tommy’s gown, it was still sleeveless, leaving his arms as bare as the quad’s leafless trees. Well, mostly leafless. Ponk’s lemon tree was as green as ever, a ring around the base bereft of snow. The pop of green was almost an eyesore on the campus, completely foreign and unwelcome in the harsh winter.
Ponk was nowhere to be seen—a shame, Tommy couldn’t compliment her on her effort with the bone ring. There was only one person in the centre of the quad; Lazar. He was armed with a snow shovel and a thick jacket, digging at his patch of thoroughly-dead lawn. Shovelling off the snow wasn’t going to make a difference, but that didn’t stop Lazar from moving faster and faster.
Tommy moved closer. Of course he’d help one of his distressed students—and it had nothing to do with the fact he didn’t want to return. It was his duty as the mascot, simple as that.
Lazar seemed all the more frantic, hardly noticing when Tommy approached. It was only when Tommy reached the end of the paving did Lazar glance up. “Whaddya want?” he grunted, hardly pausing between shovelfuls.
“You want help?” he signed, still not stepping closer.
“S’not like I’m getting in anyone’s way,” he said, misinterpreting Tommy’s sign. “Nobody’s gonna be out here when it’s piss-cold.”
Tommy scoffed, lifting his skirts and stepping onto the lawns, heels sinking until they hit earth. He mimed out digging up the snow, and Lazar paused.
“ ‘ve only got one shovel,” he said, finally. “So unless you’re using your hands I don’ reckon you can help.”
Right.
Lazar scooped down once again, then turned back to Tommy. “Don’t let your heels sink in,” he said. “Please.”
Tommy blinked, shifting his weight further onto his toes. Even with mascot magic, stilettos were no match for mud and snow. He reluctantly moved back to the paving, Lazar fussing over the indents his heels made in the dirt.
“Why’s America so fucken—why’s there fucking snow? Can’t do jackshit.”
He shovelled again, tossing it to the side. Some of the snow flung beneath Ponk’s lemon tree, and into the green circle. The snow melted before their eyes, maintaining a clean boundary.
Lazar swore under his breath, throwing more snow in that direction. No matter how much he threw, it all vanished into nothingness.
Tommy could only watch as Lazar grew more frantic, each throw becoming sloppier and sloppier, until he was shovelling right at the border. Something snapped, like a stick crunching underfoot.
The next shovelful of snow didn’t melt.
Shit.
“Shit,” said Lazar. “That was—jus’ too much snow at once, ey?”
He scraped the latest shovelful back from the border, making the edges even messier. Whatever magic was holding the circle together was long gone.
“Maybe we could just leave,” he said. “My grass is mostly uncovered—she’ll be growing back before you know it.” He met Tommy’s eyes. “You didn’t see anything either, it was like that when we got here—we were never here.”
Tommy nodded quickly, the two turning away from the incident.
They made it halfway across the quad when a student came sprinting in. It was Ponk, gloveless, hatless—not even wearing a jacket. “What did you do?” she said. “You better not have been touching my damn lemons.”
“I didn’t do anything,” said Lazar, putting up his free hand. “I don’t give a shit about your tree, mate. I’m just here to help my grass, y’know?”
“Then why on earth is my frost circle broken?” she said. “Lemons can’t survive subzero temperatures, you—you’ve doomed them.” She sounded genuinely distressed, throwing about her hands and glaring daggers at Lazar.
“My grass can’t either,” said Tommy. “I don’t know if you fucking noticed, but we are sharing garden beds right now.”
Tommy stepped between the two, folding his arms together and glaring at them both.
“Keep your students in line, Red,” said Ponk, her brown eyes ablaze.
“ ‘S a bitta fucken snow, mate,” said Lazar. “You know, the sky shit? Not that your magic fucken ass would care.”
Tommy swung towards Lazar, raising up a hand. He was not allowing magical discrimination.
“Oh, so this is about my magic?” said Ponk.
Neither of them knew Auslan, so he pulled his arms into a large x, mouthing no.
Ponk ignored him. “Just because I’ve put decades into citrus farming and am reaping the benefits? Stop being so jealous.”
Tommy moved his hands to his head, ignored by both in favour of more insults.
“Jealous? Of a fucken tree? All I’m sayin’ is that it wouldn’t kill you to share the magic around, yknow?”
Before Ponk could shoot back, a clacking emerged on the paving, Blue wrapped in a navy winter gown, the neckline and sleeves lined with white fur.
“Help me!” Tommy qickly signed, pointing at Ponk and Lazar.
“Why should I do anything when you aint done nothing for me?”
Blue nodded, approaching Ponk and placing a hand on her shoulder, making her jump.
Lazar opened his mouth, but Tommy jumped forward, shoving a hand over it.
Blue glanced between them, then sighed, mastering her disappointed parent gaze.
“Thank you,” Tommy signed, with his free hand.
Blue just smiled, pulling out a notepad and pen. She scribbled down a quick message, holding it out to Ponk and then Lazar.
Stop yelling, you’re adults. One person at a time.
Well, most of them were adults.
“I’ll go first,” said Ponk, and Lazar pushed Tommy’s hand away from his mouth. “I was sitting in the dining hall when I felt one of my wards break—I set them up to protect my lemons from the frost, but Lazar broke it. He’s trying to sabotage me.”
“Sabotage you?” said Lazar. Tommy raised a hand, cutting him off.
Blue gestured towards Ponk. “Continue?”
“The ward is buried beneath the ground—there’s no way he just stumbled across it or broke it by accident, it was deliberate. I normally charge a hundred dollars so I’ll accept that from Lazar in cash or direct transfer.”
Lazar spluttered again, but Blue just signed, “Thank you. L-A-Z-A-R?”
Lazar blinked, so Tommy nudged him. “I’m not paying shit,” he said. “I was taking care of my lawn—shovelling snow, not that you’d know—I actually have to put in the work to get these things done. All I did was throw some snow into the circle. It was all melting—I didn’t do shit.”
“Why were you shovelling here in the first place?”
“To make it easier for my lawn?” said Lazar. “The more sun I can get to it the faster it’ll come out of dormancy. No fucking way was I sabotaging your lemons or whatever?”
Ponk crossed her brown arms. “You still broke my circle.”
“And?” said Lazar. “Guess you’ll be out shovelling with me.”
Tommy slapped his arm, and Lazar snapped his mouth shut.
Blue speared Ponk a look, grabbing out her notepad. Then, she moved to the closest bench, sweeping the snow off it and sitting down.
She looked at the three of them, patting the seats beside her.
The rivals reluctantly took a seat, Tommy squeezing onto the end of the bench.
She scribbled out another message.
Lazar didn’t intend to break the circle and Ponk isn’t getting $$ for it. We’re working out a different solution.
The two agreed, throwing their own suggestions for compensation only for the other to knock them down. For a while it looked like they were getting nowhere, until Blue and Tommy added their own suggestions. Their status as mascots made them seem more reliable, both Lazar and Ponk more willing to listen to their respective mascots.
“I’m just saying, what’s the point of replacing the frost circle when we’re halfway through January?”
“I am replacing it, and even though you’re not paying for installation you could at least pay me for the replacement bones.”
“Again, why is that my problem? I broke your shit by accident—and you’re the one who planted bones beneath my lawn.”
Tommy rolled his eyes as they started going around in circles once again. He snatched Blue’s notebook, scrawling down his own message.
What if u remade the frost circle bigger so laz wouldn’t need 2 shovel
He pushed the notepad into Ponk’s face, and she read it aloud.
“I agree,” said Lazar, instantly. “As long as you don’t sabotage me, of course.”
“Do you know how long a circle like that will take me?” said Ponk. “That’s a whole night without sleep, and don’t even get me started on finding the bones.”
Lazar can find the bones, wrote Blue. Then Ponk installs it. Sound good?
The two made noncommittal grunts, but it was still progress. Blue gave Tommy a look, her eyes sparkling with mirth. They were finally getting somewhere.
Ten minutes later and the two had finally come to an agreement, wrinkling noses as Tommy forced them to shake hands. Tommy was ready to freeze his tits off—a new and fascinating experience. Women really did have it tough.
“Again, thank you,” he signed to Blue, once the others were gone. He pointed at where they all had sat, signing, “They were difficult.” He pulled a face, making Blue huff.
“Difficult,” she agreed, them mimed wiping the sweat from her brow.
A moment of silence.
“Your holidays good?” Tommy signed, trying to keep the conversation going.
Blue paused, then signed, “Alright.”
“But here is good?” signed Tommy, raising his eyebrows.
Blue nodded quickly. “Love it here. T-H you Auslan class go?”
The fingerspelling threw him off, but he got the jist of the sentence. “Yes! Love Auslan class.”
“T-H—”
Oh, she was signing Thursday.
Tommy missed the next part, catching again at the end.
“What?” he signed.
“T-H meet again?”
That’s right, the sign for meet. Two upright pointer hands joining together in the middle.
“T-H,” he repeated, a smile across his lips.
Blue’s eyes crinkled, and the two parted ways.
He was freezing his ass off, but the whole endeavour had taken what, an hour? And only now were his fingers going numb—thank fuck he could magic himself out of this dress, if he had to undo any buttons or zippers he was done for.
All finished, he sent, as he stepped back into the muggy dorms. At least the stuffy air was warm, burning hot against his ice-kissed cheeks.
Storage cupboard? sent Clementine, in response.
Yep. On my way. Tommy made it up to his home floor without an issue, Clementine already waiting for him when he unmasked.
“So how did it go?” she asked, uncurling in her ghostly form.
“Holy shit this hoodie is warm,” said Tommy. “We need to work on weather-appropriate clothing, first of all.”
“You spent the whole hour outside?” said Clementine. “Surely you didn’t spend that long at the fountain.”
“Nope,” he said, popping the P. “Lazar and Ponk were at it again, this time it took me and Blue to sort them out.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And you expect me to believe you were doing something?”
“Are you saying you did nothing?” he said. “If I find out you were flappy birding instead of—”
“There was no flappy bird, I promise,” she said. “I might have started a movie, but it’s not every day when I can choose what to watch.”
Tommy rolled his eyes, putting in his door code. “Let me guess, Pocahontas?”
“I—no, I was watching The Hoodlum. What’s Pocahontas?”
He groaned. “I’m not dealing with that kettle of fuck,” he said, opening the door.
“Kettle of fish,” she corrected.
Tommy stopped in the doorway. “Clementine,” he said. “Why is there a tomato on my pillow?”
“Hm?” She glanced into the room, then snorted. “Oh, this prank is golden.”
He stormed forward, picking up the offending vegetable. yellower than the last one but still completely intact. “This shit has been going on for far too long.” He brought it over to the desk, turning off Clementine’s movie and opening Microsoft paint. He was solving this mystery now.
The first piece of evidence came half an hour later. Tommy’s canvas was filled with evidence, the location each tomato had appeared, and what he was doing at the time of the incident. It was only when he started cobbling dates together that he hit the pattern; the fourteenth. A tomato had appeared on his bed on the fourteenth of January, December, November and October. The realisation had him shout out to Clementine, the two yelling back and forth for a considerable time afterwards.
Tommy inserted a rectangle and filled in the timeline beneath it, but truth be told, it brought more questions than answers. Thankfully, he wasn’t some rain-soaked cigarette-smoking detective, he had google:
Tomato university prank
Tomato prank
L'manberg tomato
Tomato appreciation day
Tomato appreciation day when
Significant tomate numbers
Tomatoes and the 14th
Things special about 14th
What is numerology
Notes:
NOOOOO TOMMY DON'T GOOGLE NUMEROLOGY YOU'LL GET ADS FOR IT FOR MONTHSSS
click to view Tommy's ms paint masterpiece
[Image ID] a microsoft paint document showing Tommy's brainstorming from the chapter, text is spread haphazardly across the canvas in different fonts, colours and sizes, the most prominent being the number fourteen, scattered over the canvas in multiple places. A hand-drawn tomato sits in the centre of the piece, orange highlights smeared across it and a frowny face drawn over the top. The first layers of text on the canvas list the locations, each written by hand rather than using in text boxes. The second section created was "people who know my room" with Shubble, Quackity and Clementine listed beneath. The third category is "what I was doing" During this section Tommy discovers that paint has text boxes, and immediately shifts to using a variety of colours and sizes. The list includes masking up, classes, dining hall and Clementine. The final category is written with a green impact font, labelled "When we found them" The list contains, word for word, "today (14th january) last day of term (dec 14th WTF), NOVEMBER 14TH??? FUCKING SEPTEMBER TOO???" The further the list goes down the more scribbles cover it, underlining the number, handwriting "WHY IS IT ALL FOURTEEN" all in the same shade of green. A huge title rests over the top of the tomato, colliding with all the text beneath it that reads "IT'S ALL FOURTEEN" [End ID]The movie Clementine was watching was the first thing that popped up when I went to r/film noir sorry movie fans I don't know anything about it lmao
I decided that for this chapter I wanted to make Lazar sound more Australian, so I just made him talk like me. His accent gets heavier as he grows angry which is really funny to me. Do I advise doing written accents like this? No, it makes the dialogue more unreadable and if you're not deeply familiar with the accent you'll probably make it sound very stereotypical. I just wanted him to talk like me <3333
Chapter 22: Pants 👖
Summary:
Pants 👖
Wordcount: 1.8k
Estimated reading time: 7 minutes
Date published: January 21st, 2025
Notes:
the chapter title for this is because i was writing snippets for this chapter on my phone and when I typed in the word pants it automatically came up with the jeans emoji. I thought it was really funny so I left it in, then also named the chapter after it lmao.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A sharp knock sounded on Tommy’s door as he brushed his teeth. He spat into the sink and opened the door without another thought—it was too early for him to be thinking straight—he hadn’t even eaten.
A familiar woman stood with a stack of paper in her arms. She was the one who organised the fake elevator—what was her name again?
“Good morning,” she said, flicking her dark hair over a brown shoulder. “My name’s Paula, and I’m the assigned RACS officer for this floor. I live in room 203 and today I’m just introducing myself to everyone.”
Tommy blinked, trying to process the words. RACS were the… the new health and safety thing? There was something mentioned about them last term, but nothing Tommy remembered.
“I’m Tommy,” he said.
“Nice to meet you.” She shook his hand, and passed him one of her papers. Tommy scanning through the title, L'Manberg’s New Support System: RACS. “Here’s some information about what my role is and what you need to do, but this stuff will be rolled out slowly. I don’t need your contact information or anything yet but if you have any questions my number is there,” she said, pointing to a number on the paper. “Hopefully we get to know each other better over the next semester.”
Tommy nodded, raising a hand—oh, he was still holding his toothbrush. “Guess I’ll see you around, eh?”
“Sure will,” she said. “Enjoy your day!”
Tommy shut the door again, giving the note a quick scan as he put his toothbrush away. A boring-ass newsletter if you asked him, but it got the job done.
“Wait, why the fuck didn’t L'Manberg have this set up?” he said, to the empty room.
“Set up what?” said Clementine, appearing . She read the paper as Tommy put on his shoes, giving a thoughtful hum. “This is a good idea. Normally mascots pick up the slack with social disputes, but Red can’t be everywhere.”
“RAs are at every college,” said Tommy. “It’s just common sense, so why the fuck has it taken L'Manberg this long? This place should have been closed decades ago.”
“They tried closing us, it didn’t work,” said Clementine. “After redeveloping the—”
“—Don’t tell me,” said Tommy. “I’ve got enough lectures without you adding to it.”
“It’s interesting, I promise,” said Clementine, as Tommy moved the sheet of paper to Shubble’s bed. She hardly counted as a resident but she’d enjoy the midnight snack.
Speaking of snacks, it was time for breakfast. Hopefully he’d catch Ranboo in the dining hall and they could bother Tubbo together.
L'Manberg’s New Support System: RACS
Beginning this week, the college board is initiating a new role to support students. While L'Manberg has an extensive framework for reporting issues such as property damage, resident disputes, and security, these are often intimidating upon first glance. To make these systems user-friendly, a new role is being introduced: Resident and Community Support. Newly appointed RACS officers will now guide students towards the forms they need whilst offering empathy and community, something that our forms cannot do, despite the best efforts of our IT specialists. Each floor of the various houses will have its own RACS officer, the first point of contact for any resident issues. Duties of the RACS officer include regular check-ins, hosting bi-monthly events and providing information on all aspects of campus life. The L'Manberg Student Support committee extends a warm welcome to the new RACS officers and implores residents to do the same.
On Thursday afternoon, Tommy, Ranboo and Tubbo found themselves in the dining hall, grabbing an early dinner before their Auslan class. The dish of the night was lemon pasta, the sauce so thin and weak that you couldn’t tell it was lemon until you read the label. Tommy had paired his with a can of coke, Tubbo with an iced coffee and Ranboo with far too much ketchup.
“I got to meet my RACS person today,” said Ranboo. “He seemed nice.”
“What even is this rack shit that everyone keeps talking about?” said Tubbo. “Why did everyone get the message except me?”
“They started talking about this months ago,” said Ranboo. “Do you read your emails?”
Tubbo’s eyes lit up. “Forgot I had one of those.”
“Tubbo, you’ve been here for a semester,” said Tommy.
“I’ve checked it before, you dickhead,” said Tubbo. “Just not in the past couple months, you know?”
“But yeah, RACS is the new system they’re putting in for students, mainly roommate arguments and the likes,” said Tommy.
Tubbo’s eyes darted around. “Wait, so the stuff the mascots do?”
“Sort of?” said Ranboo.
“Yep, mascots can’t be everywhere,” said Tommy. “They’d think dealing with the stealing policy is boring.”
“We have a stealing policy?” His brown eyes lit up. “Wait, Tommy. Do you think you could report your stolen shoelaces?”
Ranboo snorted, and Tommy choked on his drink.
When he recovered, he said, “That’s the best fucking idea I’ve ever heard.”
“That’s me,” said Tubbo, shovelling the pasta into his mouth. “The ideas man. Your life is my muse.”
“And what does that make me?” said Ranboo. “The audience?”
“No, you’re my humble assistant.”
A small smile touched Ranboo’s lips. “So I get to watch you spiral into obsession and madness?”
“Exactly!” said Tubbo. “I’ll get worse and worse until I’m wearing tinfoil hats and trusting nobody except you. I’ll force you to make my every meal and record all the fucked up shit I do.
Tubbo was back on his usual bullshit, but Tommy caught Ranboo’s smile widening. He saw exactly when he tilted closer to Tubbo. Not that he would point it out. Seeing the two of them get sappy was cute—unless they brought him into it, then it was fucking disgusting.
Clementine lazily floated across the room, stopping just before Tommy’s face.
He stuck out his tongue.
“Speaking of minutes, did you know the Auslan class is starting in five of them?”
Tommy whipped out his phone, then jumped to his feet. “Sorry to interrupt your sexual intercourse, but we’re fucking late.”
After a few moments of panicking, they stacked their trays together, Tubbo grabbing the pile. “I’ll put them away, you guys go ahead!”
Ranboo and Tommy nodded, the duo rushing for the door while Tubbo went in the opposite direction.
Just as they passed Fonk’s lemon tree—a large ring of dirt encompassing it as well as the lawn— Tommy’s bracelet burned, and he skidded to a halt.
“What is it?” said Ranboo.
The time-old excuse fell from his tongue. “I’m about to shit my pants 👖”
“I—what?”
“Consider them shitted,” said Tommy. “You go ahead, I’ll catch up with you.”
Ranboo opened his mouth, but then he flinched, hand jumping to his hair. “I’ll save your seat,” he said, then hurried towards the Literature and Culture building.
Tommy swerved and aimed for the closest building, the L'Manberg Library. He powerwalked across the marbled floors as his wrist hurt more and more, the burning travelling further up his arm. He slammed into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
“Mask up.”
The pain melted away as the rose petals covered him, finally giving him a seasonally appropriate dress. The dark crimson fabric was still a dress, though, his bare legs making him long for Clementine’s trousers.
Clementine was oblivious to his mourning, her face lit up in a brilliant smile. It wasn’t a smile Tommy had ever made, and it looked fucking weird on her face.
“What?” he signed.
Clementine blinked, hands hesitating. Eventually she pointed at the mascot bracelet, signing, “Fire.”
“Fire what?”
Clementine hesitated again, slowly stringing together her sentence. “Fire bracelet Auslan class new.”
He blinked, then clarified. “First Auslan class fire?”
“First!” she repeated.
She was right. This was the first time his bracelet had burned for an Auslan class, but her passion was surprising. Clementine still struggled with Auslan, why would she like it? Regardless he just grinned and flexing his muscles before leaving.
He mulled over Clementine’s words as he walked, a tentative smile stretching across his own face. Masking up every week for Auslan was one thing, but needing to mask up? It meant there was a red student who wanted him to be there, an expectation that Red wanted to learn Auslan and would show up, that Niki’s class was just as important as the university’s opening ceremony.
As Tommy approached the Auslan classroom, he came across a familiar face.
Quackity was hesitating by the door, but his shoulders lowered when he saw Tommy.
He smiled, raising a hand to him.
“This is the place for the sign language class, right?” said Quackity.
Tommy nodded, putting a hand on Quackity’s shoulder and guiding him in. He hadn’t seen Quackity since the end of last semester, but the break seemed to have energised him. He took in the people signing with wide eyes, nodding when Tommy placed a finger to his lips.
He scanned around for some reds to help Quackity, landing on a group near the front. If they said no he could always dump Quackity with Clementine, hah.
The two red students waved as he approached. He pointed at Quackity, then signed “First class. Learn help?”
They nodded, patting the spare seat beside them.
“Thank you,” Quackity signed, hesitating on the motion.
“Sign you know what?” asked the person beside him, Quackity blinking blankly.
The student just smiled, pulling out her phone and typing the question.
Tommy found his own seat as they took Quackity through the alphabet, Niki introducing herself to him.
Masking up for Auslan wasn’t just about being the mascot, it was the mascot being him. It was his idea to use Auslan, his idea to join the class and his idea to sign to everyone. There wasn’t an authority leaning over his shoulder telling him it was the right thing. Nobody was telling him to do this—not from teachers or parents or even Xornoth—and fuck that guy. He was the one to start this trend, it was his womanly hands shaping this part of the university.
Is this how Shubble felt when she did her big projects? She was always pouring herself into carving or gardening or something, did she watch her idea come to fruition and go ‘Yeah, I’m doing this right’? He never understood why Clementine worked so hard. Where did all that passion come from, and why couldn’t he get some of it? Why couldn’t he have the motivation? The strength? The creativity?
But using Auslan was… something. He couldn’t place the words to it, but for once he wasn’t tracing Shubble’s shadow, trying to fit into her silhouette. For once in his life, Tommy had something that was his.
When Niki began the class, Tommy found his seat beside Yellow and Blue, holding his head high.
Notes:
!!Gonna take a step back here and say I've really lost my motivation for this fic. I had to fight tooth and nail to get this chapter out and I'm not happy with it. I don't like the first chapters of this either and honestly I think I'm going to delete it all. Just thought I'd give you guys some warning so you can download it and whatever but yeah, just not feeling it anymore lmao
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae.
Okay just kidding but I promise there's a good reason for this. Tiktok getting banned was a shock to many people, especially when it came so suddenly. We like to think that ao3 is stable but it's still a US-based organisation and I don't like things the way are going over there. So please, download your favourite fics, you never know when they're going to vanish. Whether you keep your favourite fics in your bookmarks, subscriptions or your best friend's DMs make sure you download the ones you need. I did my yearly update of my downloaded fics and brought the number up to 78. Two of these have already been deleted by the original authors, but I can still read them whenever I want. Pants 👖
Chapter 23: Armicitis (Arm Appendicitus)
Summary:
Tommy has an interesting developments as the mascot, conversing with Yellow and Quackity and changing his future approach. Lazarbeam is on his usual specimen bullshit.
Wordcount: 3.5k
Estimated reading time: 14 minutes
Date published: January 29th, 2025
Notes:
Guys Shawn4651 made a new board, it's called DUMPLINGS " FLAT". and has one pin.
On a more serious note, I was working through some of my side characters and realised I made a pretty obvious mistake. Shabbir is my first attempt at writing a Muslim character, and while he hasn't shown up since chapter 4 I realised I really mischaracterised him. I learned that it's Haram for women and men who aren't related to make physical contact, and Shabbir definitely wasn't keeping that rule lmao. Friendship between unmarried men and women is also frowned upon, because it can lead to improper relationships.
To fix this, I decided to change Shabbir's gender, so from this point onwards her name will be Sajida. I'll also leave a note on the chapter where she is first introduced to make things clear. I want to write a diverse range of characters, but I will always make mistakes when trying to write things I haven't experienced. But I will learn from them and improve, as I always have. Enjoy the chapter <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It started with an itch.
Many things do—and there were many itches for each and every start.
An itch to start painting, an itch to change your job, a horror movie itch that makes bugs burst out of your guts, an itch to bake a new recipe, an itch that develops into terminal cancer. Today, Tommy’s itch was on his wrist. And his hand. And his arm. And it wouldn’t fucking stop.
It was the kind of itch that had his skin feeling tingly and ticklish, like rubbing your arm hairs against a balloon except the balloon was made from pufferfish skin. When scratching didn’t improve it, he sat back on his chair and put his hands flat on his lap, desperately trying to follow the conversation in his tute.
“Do you think that there's a coherent way to assess the magnitude of pleasures—objectively or subjectively?”
If he ignored it the itching would ease, after class he could try washing it. There was only half an hour left, and he needed this stuff. Ethics always did his head in, trying to understand them was fucking ass.
“So John Mill would say a rap enthusiast is equal to a classical enthusiast?”
Tommy blinked, turning to Ranboo.
Phil hummed. “Well, he did distinguish intellectual from bodily pleasure, but which one would he place rap music under?”
Okay, so he was a little distracted. The constant stabbing in his arm might have something to do with it, but surely he could push through it. Despite the agony running through his limb, only a handful of white lines sat on the surface, from Tommy’s own nails.
The pain was slowly spreading, needles crawling across his flesh like ants. He blinked, and everyone was packing up their stuff. He clicked control s on his laptop, a popup appearing on his screen: Unable to save blank document.
He grumbled under his breath, typing in bitch and then saving it.
Maybe he had cancer. Or appendicitis, that was super painful, right? Appendicitis, but in his arm. Armicitis.
Either way, he had two hours until his next class, that was plenty of time to work out if he was dying. He, Ranboo and Tubbo usually spent this block in the dining hall socialising—or in the library, if too many assignments were breathing down their necks. Tommy only spoke once they were out the door. “My arm is itchy as shit.”
“What, like a rash?” said Ranboo.
“Fuck if I know. I’ll give it a wash and see if it changes anything.”
“Lunch after?” signed Tubbo.
“Of course,” said Tommy.
Ranboo was still frowning. “If it’s still itching we should get it checked out.”
“Don’t worry, I know a doctor,” said Tommy. “She took a Hippocratic oath and everything.”
Unfortunately Ponk was studying botany, but surely she could just pour some lemon juice on his arm and cure him.
Tubbo grabbed his arm, frowning at it.
Tommy hissed, his skin prickling under the touch.
“I can’t see any rash,” said Ranboo, peering over Tubbo’s shoulder. “Are those red lines just from scratching it?”
“Yeah, I know there’s nothing else,” said Tommy, pulling his arm away from them. “But shit’s fucked. I didn’t hear a single thing Phil said.”
Tommy continued to complain as they moved to the dining hall, dumping his stuff at a table and beelining to the bathroom. He pulled up his sleeve and swapped his mascot bracelet to his left side, pouring cold water all over his arm. The itching fell away, water curling over his skin and carrying the offender around the sink and into the drain. Tommy let out an audible sigh, running his other hand over the damp forearm, shifting hairs out of place as his fingers glided across, all painless and as silky as the day he was born. He was cured.
Good, he was too young for Armicitus. He grabbed a paper towel and wiped his arm dry, but as he moved to the bin, the itch started again.
…In his other arm.
The itch was confined to his wrist once again—centred around the mascot bracelet.
“What in the fucking—Clementine, get your ass in here,” said Tommy.
He snapped the bracelet against his wrist, hoping the petty gesture would convert into psychic damage on her end.
“You don’t have to be so rude about it,” said Clementine, directly behind Tommy.
He jumped. “I’m allergic to the mascot bracelet, make it stop.”
Allergic?” She frowned.
“My arm is itchy as fuck, but only when I put on the mascot bracelet. Fix it.”
She grinned—fuck, he should have known Clementine had a sadistic side. “Oh, I think I know what’s going on. Is it an itch that spreads? Like, slowly moving up your arm and getting stronger and stronger?”
“Yes. Don’t say it’s parasitic worms—”
“Para—aw, you’re no fun. It means you unlocked the next mascot ability.”
“Holy shit!” said Tommy, swapping his bracelet back to his right arm. “Can I get a mascot gun now?”
“No, this is the aesthetics tier. We don’t have nearly enough points for the mascot gun.”
“Fuck you,” said Tommy. “So I’m just going to have a glow in the dark dress or some shit?”
Clementine just smirked. “Wanna find out?”
He matched her grin, hurrying down the hallway until he reached the fire exit. “Mask up.”
The rose petals rushed over him again, swapping his cargo jeans and shirt for another ballgown, this one swimming with tulle. Small flower tufts sat in rings around the skirt, adding texture to the otherwise perfectly red dress. Tommy scanned his appearance for the aesthetic upgrade, from his mask to his gloves, and all the way down to his heels.
When Clementine emerged in front of him, he just signed, “Where?”
She grinned, pointing behind him.
Tommy spun around, finding only a handful of rose petals on the ground. He turned back to Clementine.
“No, look,” she signed.
“What?” He spun around again, finding two handfuls of rose petals on the ground. Tommy paused, his eyes lighting up. Then, he put his weight on his heels and spun around, petals bursting out from the bottom of his dress and spreading all around him.
Tommy’s grin widened.
She beamed, pointing at the trail and signing “Flowers!”
He did another spin, petals spreading like rings of water, only stopping when they hit the walls. Tommy had gone from a beautiful woman to a beautiful princess, such a shame monarchies weren’t real.
Clementine’s expression softened, moving away from excited and into the sappy territory. Gross.
“Go eat lunch,” he signed. “I need to S-H-O-W O-F-F.”
She took a moment to understand the fingerspelling, but once she did she rolled her eyes. “Don’t fall over.”
He flipped her off. It would have been the perfect moment to call her a bitch, but he hadn’t earned his swearing privileges in Auslan, yet. Clementine went to join Ranboo and Tubbo, and Tommy spent a couple minutes playing with his dress. Kicking out a leg sent a burst of petals flying in that direction, lifting up his skirt and dropping it sent them gushing away from him. When he strolled, the petals gently drifted to the floor, but when he moved faster they flittered on non-existent breezes, highlighting his movement.
Once he’d built a considerable pile of rose petals in the corner, he pulled his shoulders back and began an elegant glide, making the most serene expression he could. Red always got extra attention when she was in the dining room—fuck forbid women get hungry—and today was no different. Most of the attention would be on his petals, at least. They would be creating a gorgeous trail behind him, but he couldn’t ruin his act and look back at them.
More people swung towards him as he reached the main benches, Clementine catching his eyes for half a second before he eased his attention elsewhere. Between the clack of his heels and the magical petals, Tommy could feel his mood rising, something Phil never managed to do.
You know what? Tommy needed to do a full-campus tour. It was self care, it was therapy, it was more of a chance for him to rub it in Yellow and Blue’s faces.
To be honest, they would just think it was cool. While the two mascots didn’t always agree with Tommy’s bits, they at least found them funny. Tommy left the dining hall behind and moved between the various campus buildings, picking one at random and wandering through it. The Botany Department, he soon realised, when he came across various plant-themed posters. The walkways were less populated than the dining hall, but each person he came across widened their eyes at his gorgeous dress, pointing to the petals behind him. A few engaged him in conversation, complimenting him as he performed a twirl or two for them. On the other side of the building was an English-style garden, hardly more than sticks and thorns in the late winter. The edges were lined with roses, but Tommy was the only one in bloom. He wandered between the manicured hedges, making his way to the far corner of the garden when he heard a second set of heels.
Yellow stood at the garden’s entrance.
Tommy smiled—an genuine smile—as he made his way over.
“How are you?” asked Yellow, still not moving.
He beamed, spinning in a circle and sending the petals flying.
Yellow gasped, then gave a spin of her own, golden glitter spraying from her bubble skirt.
Holy shit, she got her upgrade, too. Blue was going to be so jealous. Tommy pointed at Yellow and she pointed back. Now would be the perfect time for an ayo or a hell yeah, but he didn’t know how to say either of those in Auslan.
Instead, he jumped close enough to give a fist bump, a tiny puff of glitter coming from Yellow’s hand as they made contact. Holy shit, she was hilarious.
“Today you see B-L-U-E?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“No, why?”
“B don’t have—” She pointed down at her skirt, more glitter trickling down. “B nothing.”
Tommy made an L on his forehead, and Yellow held back a laugh, repeating the gesture. They moved into showing off what they could do, making a right mess in the process. At least Tommy’s petals were sustainable.
“Your G-L-I-T-T-E-R B-I-O-D-E-G-R-A-D-A-B-L-E?” he asked, purposely fingerspelling it as fast as possible.
Yellow gave him a look. “Sign better.”
“Sign slower?” he tried.
“No, sign better. I your fingerspelling don’t like.”
Tommy put a hand to his chest, feigning shock.
“Good,” signed Yellow. “Rose eat can I?”
“Eat?” Tommy repeated. “No, no, why—” His hands hesitated. “Please don’t eat.”
She sighed. “Boring.”
She was crazy. They must be putting drugs in the Yellow house’s water. No, it was the glitter. Yellow was leaving yassified cocaine wherever she went.
He didn’t know how to ask Yellow without resorting to fingerspelling, but this time he made sure to do it clearly. “You H-I-G-H?”
Despite Yellow’s insistence that she was completely sober, Tommy wasn’t taking any of it. He continued to poke fun at her, watching her get more and more riled up as she tried to defend her honour. Sure, it wasn’t very mascotly, but it was just the two of them. Yellow wasn’t just being Yellow, she was being—well, she was herself. Whoever that was, she and Tommy were just spending time together.
When she eventually had to leave, Tommy returned to the red dorms, making his rounds through each floor. It was the busiest time of day, day classes finishing and night ones beginning, everyone craving the dining hall’s mushy chips. So Tommy let himself get caught in conversations, finding the latest prank on each floor. The ground floor boasted an unusual number of pinatas, but the thing that caught Tommy’s attention the most was two coconuts sitting loose on the hallway floor.
He eventually found himself climbing the Nevada staircase up into Quackity’s domain, examining the new whiteboard. His face had finally been removed from the latest victims list, some other poor soul put in his place. He hadn’t seen Quackity since last week’s Auslan—even longer since he’d seen him out of costume.
He found Quackity in the window nook, computer on his lap and a frown on his face.
Tommy tapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped. “Red! What are you sneaking around for?” he asked.
“What’s this?” he signed, pointing at the laptop screen.
“What’s on my laptop?” Quackity repeated. At Tommy’s nod, he said, “Bullshit, if you ask me. You’d think a support system would actually include support, but apparently that was too much to ask for.”
“Why?” signed Tommy, trying to keep his words simple.
He signed, glancing around them. When he found nobody else, he settled back on the couch. “You know how these things go, Red. It’s never those at the top who are making a difference, it’s us.”
Tommy gave a hesitant nod, sitting down beside him. Quackity wasn’t making any sense, but he could pretend he did. Pretending was easy when he was masked up.
Quackity’s brown eyes softened. “You know it, too,” he said. “If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself. If they let me join the L'Manberg Student Support Committee then we’d at least have a middle management.”
The L'Manberg Student Support Committee… “Wait,” signed Tommy. “You upset R-A-C-S?”
He frowned. “R, A—yeah, the fucking RACS. I give it a month before they fall to pieces.”
Tommy wanted to say really? But once again he didn’t know the sign. Instead, he wrinkled his nose, shaking his head.
“I’m telling you, the RACS are fucked. It’s meant to be a support system, but who’s supporting me? Fucking nobody, as always.
“I can support you,” Tommy signed, resting a thumbs-up on his left hand and moving it towards Quackity. While most red students were out for a laugh, Quackity was trying to help everyone else, too. He was running the student board and helping new students on campus, and now he was trying to fix all the RACS business?
“As much as I’d love your help, I don’t think you’d enjoy the paperwork,” he said.
He wrinkled his nose again, pulling away his support sign.
Quackity laughed, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Oh really? You draw the line at paperwork?” His grin faded slightly, and he met Tommy’s eyes through the mask. “You have it pretty good, you know? Dressing up fancy and helping out the house, with none of the meetings.”
Tommy nodded but he couldn’t think of a single response. What could he say when Quackity was right? He wasn’t even missing classes. Clementine would be taking notes for him at this very moment, while he fucked around with rose petals. Quackity poured hours into the Red house, and he didn’t get anything back. In fact, Tommy hadn’t lost any time. There was nothing he could say to Quackity that would change that. Nothing that made it seem fair. Because it wasn’t fair, not next to someone who truly embodied the red house.
He was going to buy a chocolate bar for every RACS, administrator, and volunteer that kept this fucking dorm running.
There were no chocolates on the fourth floor vending machine. The thing was almost bare, only sparkling water and chocolate soda remaining. Nobody liked sparkling water and nobody would dare drink a carbonated chocolate drink.
If Tommy was more tired, he might have been tempted, but it was only nine in the evening. The dorms were still full of activity, and full of witnesses who would shun him if he bought such an abomination. So Tommy plodded down to the next floor, getting stumped when he couldn’t find the stairs to the next. He definitely remembered it being between the supply closet and the elevator, but it was nowhere. The stairs in this place must have fucking legs.
He finally found it after moving to the furthest corner of the floor, descending once again. This particular staircase was carpeted, an odd brown that contrasted with the normal tiled floors. The unfamiliar staircase spat Tommy out in an odd spot, and he took a moment to orient himself, soon finding the pile of coconuts. And this time it was a pile, with at least four of the things. It wasn’t the vending machine he was after, but four coconuts was much funnier than two.
After walking a loop around the entire floor, he finally found the vending machine, examining his options closely. He should take the most popular bar—whatever chocolate had the least remaining of—plain milk chocolate? No, Tommy needed to be bold, show he truly cared. Something like a Picnic, full of character and crunch.
But what if some of the RACS had a nut allergy? Quackity in particular seemed the sort to keel over and die if fed peanut butter. Maybe he should just get one of everything—there were seven floors, so there would be at least seven RACS that needed feeding.
But that would leave the last RACS with the shitty chocolate nobody else liked. So many choices, so many possible paths he could take, and all of them were wrong.
As Tommy hummed and hah-ed over his options, a student knocked on the door next to him—oh, it was Stephanie.
Tommy was about to say hi when Stephanie turned from his gaze, lowering her eyes.
Right, she didn’t know him. She only knew Red. Tommy turned back to the vending machine, doing his best to look disinterested.
She knocked at the door again, firmer this time.
It opened inwards, none other than Lazar stepping out. “Scarn on?” he said, two syllables of utter gibberish.
“You’re Lazar, right?” she said. “I’m Stephanie, I’m the RACS for this floor and—”
“—I didn’t do it,” he said, shutting the door.
Stephanie put her foot in the way. “Lazar, everyone knows that you made the garden shower. “
“And what of it?” said Lazar, opening the door again. “It’s just my prank. Why are you getting on my ass about a little prank?”
A garden shower? What, like a plant-themed baby shower? Tommy was invested, now, watching from the corner of his eyes as he pressed a random button on the vending machine.
“You made a lawn,” she said, deadpan. “Pranking is fine, but you can’t renovate an entire shower stall, especially when you’re planting grass.
Tommy snorted, unable to help himself.
Both of them turned towards him.
“Sorry, you’ve gotta admit it’s a little fucking funny,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Lazar. “All the other showers work fine, just let me have my prank shower.”
“You dug up the tiles,” she said. “If water starts leaking into the floors it’s gonna be a fortune to repair, and you’ll be the one who gets the bill. I’m just trying to help.”
“The grass will just soak up the water,” said Lazar.
“It really won’t.”
“Yes it will.”
“I’m not doing this,” said Stephanie. “I sent you a text yesterday and now I’ve talked to you in person, so I’m going to file that report.”
“What the fuck, you can’t fucking—”
But Stephanie was already walking away, holding her head high.
“Oi, you can’t—I’m fucking reporting you. Your manager is gonna hear about this shitass fucken—“
She swung around, icy glare making Tommy duck his head. “I don’t have a manager, so good luck.”
Lazar opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Stephanie let a small smile quirk across her face, then she left.
Lazar kicked the doorframe, muttering swears under his breath. “This is fucking bullshit. Why the fuck doesn’t she have a manager, she doesn’t know shit.”
“Bro, you need to chill out,” said Tommy. “Stephanie has to report you, you can’t take it personally.”
“But it is personal,” said Lazar. “Nobody else’s pranks are getting shut down—everyone just hates my lawns.”
“It couldn’t be that,” he lied. “I’m sure your—uh—your lawn shower was lovely.”
“Thank you,” said Lazar. “At least someone here isn’t fucking biased. You gotta talk to Stephanie for me.”
He snorted. “You’d have better luck with the president,” said Tommy.
“Fucking bet. Stephanie had to answer to the president—everyone does. Come on, you gotta show me where his office is.
Tommy took it in his stride. “You’re not even wearing shoes,” said Tommy. “And it’s also night time? He’ll be at his office tomorrow.” It was more productive than hounding Stephanie, and Sugamon would love talking to a new specimen.
Lazar faltered, but the steel in his eyes remained. “I’ll be there at dawn.”
Then, he returned to his room, slamming the door shut behind him.
All Tommy could do was laugh. “Never change, Lazar. Never change.”
Notes:
For the snippets from Tommy’s ethics class I literally googled “utilitarianism J S Mills site:reddit.com” and then I copy pasted messages directly from this thread:
https://www.reddit.com/r/philosophy/comments/23ywkn/john_mill_and_utilitarianism/I am late. Unfortunately I don’t have the same excuse as last time, but I can pretty reliably point at my 6 hour daily average time spent on my phone. I had my first Auslan class yesterday and it went super well!!
But honestly shout out to the silent readers. Shout out to everyone who left kudos but is too shy to comment and to all the guest kudos and everyone who has a private bookmark. I think you guys are really cool and I’m so glad you’ve been enjoying this fic <33333
Chapter 24: She’s butter this way
Summary:
Tommy masks up to make a big bench. It's the most normal part of his day, especially after he meets a former mascot.
Wordcount: 2.4k
Estimated reading time: 10 minutes
Date published: February 4, 2025
Notes:
So it turns out adulting actually does take up a lot of space. Fighting work and my Auslan course to fit in my third job (writing the funniest fic to ever exist) As I'm posting this it's 11:49pm but that STILL COUNTS AS TUESDAY LET'S GOOOO
In other news my course is getting into the fun stuff, and man I have so much to learn. It turns out that for some questions in Auslan you raise your eyebrows but for others you furrow. It has something to do with open and closed questions but I still haven’t got my head around it ahaha I’ve got so much practise to do.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Big bench.”
Tommy turned to the newcomer, raising an eyebrow behind his mask. “What?” he signed.
“Big bench,” the person repeated. “We’re making one. Can you help us.”
“Alright,” he signed, following them outside. His bracelet had started burning ten minutes ago, and the big bench was probably the reason why.
A group of dudes were gathered on the lawns—most of them in their ass-ball uniforms—whatever the Americans called the fucking sport.
“Big bench,” they said to each other, solemnly. “Big bench.”
“Big bench,” Tommy signed, miming the shape of the bench. He followed the group to the middle of the quad, converging around the largest stretch of lawn. The group had grown during their exodus, now there was at least twenty people.
“Big bench?” said someone, pointing at the stretch of lawn. It wasn’t Lazar’s, thankfully. He would be spewing if so many people stepped on his lawn.
“Big bench,” another affirmed, and the group broke out into cheers. They repeated big bench over and over like a tribal call, splitting away from the lawn and spreading across the campus.
Tommy quickly followed after one of the groups, still having no clue what was going on.
The group he was following came to a stop in front of the sports centre, an intense argument of big bench breaking out between them. They approached the nearest picnic table, each grabbing a corner.
Tommy hurried to join them, grabbing the furthest corner and helping them lift it up. They carried it all the way to the lawn, finding two more benches when they arrived. They placed down their picnic table, two more approaching in the distance.
“Big bench,” greeted a large ass-ball player, gesturing to the picnic table.
“Big bench,” the group returned, then they set off once again, searching for another.
They had to travel much further to find the second bench, but once they did the group broke into a run, yelling “BIG BENCH!”
Tommy sprinted alongside them, rose petals gusting behind him as he wished he could join their cheers. They swarmed the unsuspecting bench and lifted it above their heads, marching it back to the others.
The quad was now filled with picnic tables, at least ten of the things littered across the walkway. The ass-ball players were gathered in the centre, muttering big bench with each other.
Tommy joined the group as an Asian football player climbed onto the closest table.
“Big benchers,” he began, in a solemn voice. “Me benchamin. Want benches, got benches.”
Cheers broke out among the group, Tommy pumping his fist.
“But Benchamin want more,” he said. “Benchamin want build.”
“Build?” the group repeated.
“Build pyra-bench!” he said, making the shape of a pyramid with his hands.
“PYRABENCH! PYRABENCH! PYRABENCH!”
The ass-ball players continued the chant as they returned to their benches, lifting them up and moving them into the centre, creating the base of the pyramid.
When the pyrabench was halfway through its construction, someone tapped Tommy on the shoulder. “Excuse me, but what’s all this?” The person in question was a white guy with sandy brown hair, cloaked in a red lanthem sweater. It wasn’t a design Tommy had seen before—it must be old.
Tommy just smirked, miming out the shape of the pyramid and mouthing big bench.
“I can see that,” he said. “My name’s Grian, I was more wondering if you were free for a bit?”
“You want help?”
“Oh, it’s just for a chat,” he said, wiggling his red nails.
…red nails with the L'Manberg shield over the top.
Holy shit, he was like Tommy. Grian was a mascot.
What? sent Clementine.
Do you know Grian?
Holy shit it’s Grian?!
“So what do you say?” said Grian.
“Yes,” he signed. “Exciting!”
“You know sign language?” said Grian. “That’s—that must be a huge help.”
Tommy nodded along, leaving the big benchers behind. “My room want go?” he signed.
Grian’s frown deepened. “Just—here, type it down,” he said, passing over his phone.
Wanna come to my room? he typed.
Clementine jumped in with Unmask soon, her excitement bleeding into the words.
“I was actually thinking of the Buttercamp.”
“What?” he signed, frowning.
Grian stopped. “You don’t know the Buttercamp? Your shadow has been letting you down. Come on, it’s by the clock tower.”
Grian took Tommy into the building on the quad’s north, Virtue Hall inscribed into the stone. They moved past the dining hall, past various offices and admins, until he finally stopped in the corner of the hallway, just before the staircase. “It’s through here,” he said, pushing a panel on the wall until it popped open, revealing a door handle.
“The secret to opening it is simple,” he said. “You have to put a hand to your heart and say the password; I solemnly swear that I am up to no—” he snorted, breaking character. “Sorry, could you imagine if the magic was wasted on that? It’s just a normal door,” he said, pulling on the handle. Just don’t let anyone see you open up the panel.”
He pushed the door open, flicking the light switch. “Welcome to the Buttercamp!”
The light sputtered to life, revealing a dusty office that had spent many years without the administration. While the shelves were lined with old books, the desk had been pushed against the wall, a shitty tv and DVD player sitting on top of it. A torn sofa sat in the centre of the room, foam spewing from holes and the seam lines like mushrooms, a tie-dye blanket thrown over the top of it.
“Home sweet dusty home,” said Grian, making himself comfortable. “You’re all good to unmask, I bet that old ghost is dying to see me. What’s your name?”
Tommy gave Grian a onceover, from the mischievous glint in his eyes to his sneakers, eventually landing on his fingernails, the L'Manberg shield etched in brilliant white. If anyone could keep a secret, it would be him.
“Tommy,” he said, voice sounding weird in the wrong body.
“Tommy! Lovely to meet you,” said Grian, holding out a hand. Tommy shook it as the petals washed over him, returning him back to his real body.
When the petals faded, Clementine was the first to speak. “Grian! You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
She swirled around him in excitement as Grian laughed. “Now you are a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “Still causing chaos?”
“When I can, when I can. How’s the architecture?”
“I love it,” said Grian. He turned to Tommy. “The entity hasn’t been bothering you too much, has she?”
“The who?” he said.
“That’s me,” said Clementine, a horrifying grin appearing on her face. “I use Clementine, now,” she added, sweetly.
“Ah, no worries,” said Grian, leaning back on the couch. “Man, I haven’t talked to another mascot in years,” he said. “How are you finding it all?”
Tommy sat beside him, poking his finger into the couch’s brittle foam. “Honestly, it’s been weird as fuck.”
“In a good way?”
He grinned. “It couldn’t be better.
Within a few minutes the two were talking so fast that Clementine was struggling to keep up, making jokes, sharing thrills and spills and even swapping tips. They compared their worst mask-up stories—it was Grian who masked up in the middle of a frat party—and then talked about the different ability tiers. He shared the secret to control the rose petal’s flow—tapping your heels together, Dorothy Oz style.
“When was the moment you know you wanted to stay?” asked Grian, one arm over the back of the mushroom couch.
Tommy shrugged. “The shield just showed up on my hands when I unmasked one time.”
“Come on, surely there’s something,” said Grian. “For me, it was the first time I went to the dining hall as Red. I was planning on just stealing some cutlery—you know, because then they couldn’t trace it back to me—but then I saw everyone’s faces light up and I knew it was for me.” He hummed “There really wasn’t a big moment for you?”
“Well, there was this lettuce eating club,” he said.
“Oh yeah?”
“It was my first time masking up by surprise, and I was pissed. But then I decided ‘fuck it, I’m going in, with costume or without.’ ”
“I wish I thought of a lettuce eating club, that sounds like a blast.”
“It tastes fucking awful,” said Tommy. “But I could hook you up with an invitation, if you know what I mean.”
Grian laughed, the conversation flowing between them again. No matter what Tommy brought up, Grian recognised it instantly, firing back with his own stories. Tommy was bubbling with ideas about how to use his rose petals, and Grian gave him some helpful pointers.
Clementine kept butting in with insults and bad jokes, until even Grian was hitting his limit. “You know what? I forgot how annoying you can be,” he said.
“Never make that mistake again,” she said.
Silence lapsed between them, Tommy clearing his throat. “So when you were—uh—finished mascoting, how did you choose the next one?”
“I didn’t know who it was, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Grian. “The magic gives you—it just gives you the right feeling, I guess. It’s hard to explain.”
“No, you’re supposed to say that you knew it was me since the moment we met eyes.”
“I told you, I graduated in 2019. You met my predecessor, not me.”
“So what do you know about them?” said Tommy. “I only ever saw her once, and she didn’t say a word to me.”
Grian shrugged. “I didn’t see them at all. I was just walking through the dorms when I saw a pile of laundry and—as I said, it felt right. Why don’t you ask Clementine about it, she would actually know them.”
“Nope, find out the hard way,” she said.
Tommy groaned. “I hate you.”
He laughed again, the sound echoing from the walls. “Guess you’ll have to wait until you graduate.”
“But that’s fucking years away,” said Tommy. “I only got here a month ago and somehow we’re in the second fucking semester.”
“Just make sure you enjoy yourself,” said Grian. “Oh, and don’t skip classes, those are important.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “And practise self care?”
“Eh, where you can,” he said. “You’re an adult right now, but like a baby adult. You’ll get there eventually.”
He managed to hold his tongue about the adult comment, instead just nodding.
“Don’t worry,” said Clementine. “I’m sure Tommy will get the hang of it.” She patted Tommy on the head.
“Fuck you,” said Tommy, slapping at her intangible hands.
Grian’s phone rang, a retro ringtone that did not belong to a smartphone. What a fucking nerd.
“Hello?” his expression eased. “Yeah, I’m in the red dorms at the moment,” he said, giving Tommy a wink. “… yeah, sounds good. Meet you in ten.”
He hung up, putting his phone away. “That was my sister, Pearl,” he said. “She was a student here, too, but she never knew about the mascot stuff,” he said, a wry grin on his face.
The name Pearl was a familiar one, but Tommy knew a lot of Pearl’s. Either way, he definitely wasn’t talking about Miss Pearl Flavoured, as cool as she was.
“So you have to head off?” said Tommy.
“Wouldn’t want to leave her hanging,” he agreed. “It was lovely to meet you—I haven’t talked mascot stuff in forever.”
“Me either.”
“Keep the En—I mean, Clementine on her toes for me,” said Grian, getting to his feet. “The house is in good hands.”
“The best of hands,” Tommy affirmed, as Grian left.
Silence rested in the room.
Clementine sighed. “You really need to work on your cockiness.”
When Tommy sat down in Jack’s dorm for some mario kart, he expected to play a grand prix or two. After two devastating losses and five more people joining, they somehow agreed to play every single track. By the time Tommy made it to his dorm it was almost one in the morning, the hallways strangely silent. He took a detour at the vending machine to pick up his dinner—a packet of crisps—until he made it to his dorm, inputting the code with chip-dusted fingers.
The bathroom light was turned on.
Tommy frowned, glancing inside to find none other than Shubble; wrapped in a dressing gown and laying on the tiled floor.
“Holy shit, are you hurt?” he said.
Shubble flinched, head swinging towards him. Didn’t she hear him come in? “Hurt? Of course not,” she said, resting her hands across her ribs.
Tommy stopped. Blinked. “Then why are you on the floor?”
“To think.”
“To think,” Tommy repeated, taking in the bathroom. The vanity hung open, nail polishes spread around the edge of the sink. Shubble’s gloves sat on the edge, the fingertips darkening as they slowly soaked the puddles of water.
Out of all the colours Shubble could have chosen for her fingers, she’d gone for a shitty brown, the exact shade of a Minecraft oak log.
“I wasn’t planning to like it,” said Shubble, quietly.
“Are you talking about the bathroom floor or your taste in nail polish?” said Tommy.
Shubble blinked, her brow furrowing ever so slightly. “The—the floor. It’s relaxing, you know?” She eyed Tommy’s crisps. “Is that your dinner?”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” said Tommy. “We haven’t talked all week and then I find you on the bathroom floor? What’s going on?”
Shubble sighed, sitting herself up and leaning against the shower screen. She met Tommy’s eyes, then opened her mouth. She closed it again. On the second attempt, she had more success. “I’m having a breakdown.”
He waited for her to continue. And waited.
“I fucking got that much, tell me what’s going on.”
She dropped her gaze.
“Is it because of the prank? Your committee bullshit?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she said. “I still can’t say why—this is more than the prank, Tom, it’s—” She cut herself off. “I think I’m happy.”
Shubble’s eyes sparkled despite the bags beneath them, her brown hair wet and clinging to her skin. Wait a second, she was still. Her hands sat loosely on her lap, her leg wasn’t even bouncing. Shubble was never still. She chewed on her lip when she was reading, her hands were always moving, always doodling or crocheting or tearing at her skin. Just thinking wasn’t enough, she was always doing more.
But she was still. Relaxed. Happy.
“Nobody can be happy on the bathroom floor,” he muttered. “Let alone a college bathroom.”
He let her laugh it off. He let her change the subject and leave the bathroom behind.
Shubble was happy. What else mattered?
Notes:
I do NOT know enough about Grian to be adding him in for a cameo lmao, I went begging for information so I could put in fun references and @malt-rants-and-stuff absolutely DELIVERED, so thank them for me <33
I’m slowly catching up with where I want to be with chapters. This week I got my screen time down from 6 and a half to 5 hours but then I got hit with three different freight trains. This made me more productive for some reason it just comes with more crying. Anyways the only thing getting me through this chapter was Benchamin. I giggle every time I read the name.
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 25: The Worst Dress Yet
Summary:
We've got pranks! We've got benchtrio fluff! We've got ugly outfits! We've got political intrigue! We've got Benchamin!!! This chapter truly has it all
Wordcount: 4.9k
Estimated reading time: 20 minutes
Date published: February 12th, 2025
Notes:
While writing this chapter I learned that irl mascots at american universities have their identities kept secret and do you know how insane that it???? Sure I've written 80k about mascots but like in my head it's the same as Miraculous Ladybuy??? What do you mean there's real human beings who are having identity tease shenanigans with their university sactioned fursona???
Also, I’m writing about a football game because I wanted to bring back Benchamin and WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT HAPPENS TO BE THE SAME WEEK AS THE SUPERBOWL???
Anyways, this chapter is late and unedited. I won't have time to edit it properly until Friday I just go rid of the squiggly red lines. If you see typos point and laugh in the comments.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sometimes, a single day carries the weight of an entire week, a single day manages failure, triumph, anguish, pride, the gaining of knowledge and the gaining of bitches.
And for Tommy? His day was all of those things.
Well, except the getting bitches part.
The first thing he did when he awoke was check the wind, first on his phone and then glancing out the window. L'Manberg’s trees were completely still, perfect.
“This is my moment, Clementine,” said Tommy, already heading out the door. Didn’t matter that he was still in his pyjamas, especially not when there were pranks afoot. “You’ve gotta concentrate for the tute,” he said, as he made his way down the hallway. “We’re still balls-deep in the isolation of female writers and it’s going in one ear and out the fucking other.” He stepped into the elevator, letting the doors close behind him. “Mask up.”
“I’ll get Ranboo and Tubbo to go over it with you,” she said, as the petals rushed over him.
Today, Tommy paid careful attention to his outfit. While he couldn’t pull off the original suit and striped shirt, but surely he could make a red version of the outfit. Tommy concentrated on a red-striped shirt and a maroon suit jacket, it would have to blend in with the trail but he’d make do. Oh, and a pair of sunglasses. He couldn’t forget the sunglasses.
When the petals finally faded, he found the suit jacket had made it, just as dark as he was hoping. His shirt wasn’t quite right, but hopefully the rest of the prank would tie it together. All in all, it was recognisable as a copy of the original.
That’s to say, ugly as shit.
Clementine emerged, Tommy wincing when he saw her ruffled hair. Did he really look like that when he first woke up?
Clementine blinked, her nose wrinkling when she saw Tommy’s outfit.
“Handsome,” he signed, quickly.
She shook her head. “I call police. F-A-S-H-I-O-N police.”
He rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright. Before class brush hair.”
He tapped his heels together, stopping the flow of rose petals as the elevator lowered. The earlier he got his prank done, the better, he wanted it to be the first thing everyone saw when they awoke, too groggy to process until it was too late. But where to do it…
Tommy caught his gaze in the mirror, getting distracted. His hair was bright red and nearly shaved off, standing upright with copious amounts of gel. It only stood out from his pasty skin further, his usual facemask replaced with a pair of black sunglasses. Well, not quite black, but a dark enough red that it looked that way from a distance.
The elevator opened, Tommy marching between the still-sleepy dorms until he hit the crisp morning air, heels clacking on the dewy paving. Most foot traffic in the mornings went past the dining hall—whether to get a meal or even just get to class. So Tommy made his way to the northern quad, only running into two other students on his way.
A large stretch of paving sat between the grassy lawns and Virtue Hall’s entrance, the perfect shape for Tommy’s plans. He tapped his heels together and started walking.
Not just walking willy-fucking-nilly, Tommy was walking with intention. Like one of those labyrinths where you walk really slow and think about cancer or some shit. Tommy’s labyrinth was nothing of the sort. His was a mental puzzle instead of a physical one. He tapped and re-tapped his heels at planned intervals, making connected arcs and lines, more commonly known as letters. Tommy’s labyrinth had been laid over and over for almost twenty years, each time with the same results.
Someone walked past and snickered—he had only written two words, he’d hardly started his masterpiece. He clacked his heels again and again as he started the next word, then the next.
The final word was the simplest, two humble letters—and coincidentally, the title of the greatest movie ever made. Tommy could never forget how to spell up.
He clacked his heels to stop the petals a final time, stepping back to admire his creating, his calligraphy, his auteurship, his—
“A goshdarn rickroll?”
Tommy swung around, finding none other than Ranboo. Just play it cool. “Yes,” he quickly signed, meeting Ranboo’s grey eyes.
His eyebrows furrowed, Tommy freezing in place. Ranboo couldn’t recognise him—he couldn’t.
“What are you wearing?” he said.
Tommy beamed. “R-I-C-K A-S-T-L-E-Y” he fingerspelled.
Ranboo stopped. “You’re gonna have to slow down for me, I only just woke up.”
“R—” Tommy stopped. “Never mind. Watch me.” He did his best impression of the dance from the music video, until the horror dawned on Ranboo’s face.
“That’s awful,” he whispered. “I—I need to tell my friends about this. Do you mind if I—” he mimed taking a picture. “Photos welcome,” Tommy signed, nodding as he did so.
“Great, great,” he said, snapping a picture of Tommy’s outfit. He could not wait to get his hands on those photos.
After Ranboo left, Tommy went into the dining hall, serving himself some chips and a bowl of cereal and some juice. He made sure to sit on the long benches in the centre of the hall, where everyone could come in and see his horrid outfit. He still wanted to be discoverable after people found his prank, but standing around waiting for people to notice would ruin its impact.
Sure enough, people came up to him by the droves, some scolding him in mock-anger, some to glare and others to share their pride. No matter which reaction, they asked to take pictures, and Tommy continued to perform that ugly dance. It was the sort of dance that could ruin any serious career when it resurfaced. Between conversations Tommy sipped his pumpkin juice, having to put it down every time he started singing again.
When the dining hall started to empty, Tommy returned towards the dorms, only taking a moment to admire his rose-petal letters. He could unmask once he was back in the dorms, the longer he could show off his awful outfit, the better.
Tommy didn’t make it back to the dorms. A decent gathering sat outside the entrance, some of them wearing matching pink shirts and holding clipboards. The most dangerous type of students.
One of them locked eyes on Tommy. “Red! Do you think student wellbeing is important?”
It was a stupid question, but the simple opening compelled him. “What do you think a student’s priorities should really be?” she continued. “I think finances, grades and mental health seem reasonable, don’t you?”
When Tommy nodded, she continued. “Notice how that doesn’t include other students? The mental health of another student should never be your priority—and it especially shouldn’t be at the cost of your own health.”
He nodded again, still unsure where the conversation was going. Red was known for listening, though, his job was to listen to all sorts of complaints.
“If students are struggling to meet those priorities, they should have access to counsellors. Counsellors that are not other students, don’t you think?”
“Yes, yes,” signed Tommy, pretending he wasn’t a student himself. “Important.”
“And moreso, if they are taking on these extra roles, they should get paid for it. Do you agree?”
Tommy gave a firm thumbs-up, nodding his head.
“Great! We’re trying to abolish RACS, could we get you to sign our petition?”
The clipboard was shoved into Tommy’s face, a pen pushing into his hand.
He froze. Was he supposed to invent a signature for Red? Did Red even count as a student? He couldn’t go around signing with his legal signature—what the fuck was he even signing? “Sorry, I don’t—”
“Your signature would mean so much to us,” she said. “And you—you could ask the other mascots to sign, too!”
He blinked, taking a step back. How could he turn her down when she didn’t know Auslan? “Student help important but—” he began, but Clipboarder spoke over the top of him.
“With your support we can get the rest of the house too sign, too—Do you want your own clipboard?”
“No, no. Want help-you but—”
“Hey Red, how are you?”
Tommy swerved to Quackity, cutting off his signing and giving a wave.
“Oh, Quackity!” said Clipboarder. “Red is gonna sign the petition for us.”
Tommy shook his head, taking a step back. “Can’t.”
“Unfortunately, mascots don’t count towards the student body population,” he hummed. “It’s great you want to help, Red, but we can’t go chasing for signatures any more than we’d get one from the chancellor.”
“Thank you,” he signed, a small gesture that Clipboarder wouldn’t notice.
“You know what? Let’s continue this conversation in my office, Red.”
“Let’s go,” Tommy agreed, nodding along. Quackity definitely didn’t have an office, but he confidently followed him regardless, the two moving for the elevator.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do,” said Quackity, lifting the lid of the crock pot, the scent of tomato soup drifting across the elevator. Fuck, the fourteenth wasn’t far off, what date was it?
“R-A-C-S?” he fingerspelled, making sure to do it slowly for Quackity.
“The RACS system is fucking shit, it’s already falling apart,” he said, dipping his finger in the tomato soup and swirling it around. What the fuck. “I’ve had multiple complaints from them, and plenty of my own,” he said. “But we’re going to change that. Get real counsellors for students. This petition is only the start of it. We’ve got protests planned, I’m drafting up some recommendations—we even have a man on the inside,” he said, brown eyes alight.
The elevator doors opened, Quackity quietening. “We’ll continue in my office.” He brought his finger out of the soup, licking it clean as they made their way across the third floor. Quackity ignored the Nevada staircase in favour for opening a random door, the normal dorm furniture replaced with a large desk and two chairs. One of which was a rickety wooden chair and the other was clearly a loveseat from the recreation room. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a shopping cart, bereft of its wheels and filled with papers and books.
“Please, take a seat,” said Quackity, gesturing to the loveseat. Tommy did so, the original velvet worn away until only the base colour of fabric remained.
Quackity made himself comfortable on the wooden chair. “As I was saying, I have a man on the inside,” he eased backwards, resting his feet on the desk as the chair creaked. “Next time the RACS committee have a meeting he can get one of us in there—but the next meeting isn’t for a month.” He smirked. “We’re going to… move it up in the agenda, so to speak.”
Tommy’s hands hesitated. They needed proper counsellors, but Quackity was giving him more questions than answers.
“You’re a very public figure, I’m not gonna compromise you and make you pick a side,” said Quackity. “At the end of the day, we’re both helping the Red house. You can work to help student disputes—and ease up the RACS officer’s workloads—while I make the systems better for everyone.”
“Idea like,” Tommy signed, nodding along.
“That being said,” Quackity began. “Do you want to watch me rock Sugamon’s shit?”
Quackity gave Tommy the time and the place, but he refused to say what shit he was pulling, or even how it rocked. He said it would ruin Tommy’s act, even though he was a great actor. He’d kept his own identity hidden for months—from Shubble, of all roommates—but he couldn’t tell Quackity about any of that. All Quackity said was that it would go down at the afternoon’s ass-ball game. Sugamon would be sitting in the crowd, and Tommy would be ready to witness the downfall.
By the time Quackity was done with him, it was only an hour until the game began. Unmasking for such a small amount of time would do more harm than good, he couldn’t slip in for just an hour of classes while Clementine was trying to fill him in. Instead, Tommy just dick-shitted around the campus until it was time.
He followed the flow of students into the stadium, stopping for photos intermittently—all due to his natural charisma, of course. Nothing to do with his poor Rick Astley cosplay, of course.
Once inside, he located Sugamon with a group of old people, moving away from the general flow and towards one of the three private boxes. They were too rich to be students—these must be some sort of sponsors. There was a special word for college sponsors, but Tommy couldn’t remember it no matter how many times Clementine told him.
He moved towards them, Sugamon’s eyes lighting up as he approached. “Ah and here is the uh—well-dressed red house mascot. Miss Red, a pleasure.”
Tommy inclined his head, pressing a hand to his chest. “Nice to meet you,” he singed, making the movements slow and elegant. Sue him, these guys definitely didn’t know sign language.
The donors hummed as he did so.
“Red and the other mascots are well-versed in sign language,” Sugamon said, to the ah’s of his audience. “Sign language is the most recent edition to L'Manberg’s plethora of additional languages—and a very welcome one, in my opinion. Will you be joining us in the presidential box, Miss Red?”
Tommy glanced at the people behind Sugamon, all of them at least twice his age. How to phrase it…
“Me lot’s-of people want meet,” he signed. “See you later?”
“Of course, we can’t hog all your time,” said Sugamon. Tommy doubted he understood the signing, but he wasn’t going to call it out in front of the sponsors. Instead, he gave an elegant curtsey—the first he’d done in months—and made his way back towards the crowds. He didn’t go too far, sticking close enough that he’d see if Quackity started heading in that direction.
Ass-ball was actually pretty boring. Sure, when it was moving it was faster than football, but there were so many breaks. Tommy spotted Benchamin out on the field, his grin wide as ever as he tossed the weirdly-shaped ball. When the time was paused, they had a strange ritual where they wrapped their arms around each other, creating a bench-like formation. Tommy pumped his fist when L'Manberg scored, high-fiving the people around him. Sugamon still hadn’t left his box, and Tommy caught a tray of glasses and a bottle of wine getting carried in by a staff member. Sure, alcohol was cool, but not worth it when he’d have to mingle with those rich bitches.
During a particularly dry patch of the game, Tommy went for a wander around the stadium, getting more photos and completely genuine compliments of his outfit. He spotted a bright shade of yellow in the crowd, locking eyes with a fellow mascot. Not just Yellow, but Blue, too, now that he was looking. They both waved at him, and Tommy made his way over.
“Why both-you here?” he signed, as he got closer.
Yellow and Blue exchanged a look. “You feel burn?” signed Blue, raising her eyebrows.
“Burn?” Tommy repeated, racking his brain for answers. Oh, the mascot bracelet. “Understand! Me—” he tapped his sunglasses. “Long mask,” he signed, tapping his mask again.
“Why long?” signed Yellow.
“P-R-A-N-K.” He smirked. “How are you?”
“Good—”
“—Alright,” signed Blue, frowning.
“Why?” signed Tommy, frowning. “You okay?”
“Don’t-have T-R-E-U-L”
“…Again?”
“Don’t-have T-R-A-I-L,” Blue repeated, slower this time. At the end she pointed at Tommy’s rose petals, then Yellow’s glitter.
Yellow made an L on her forehead.
“No!” signed Tommy, smacking it away. “Rude!” even as Blue huffed.
“Say sorry,” he demanded.
“B sorry for loser,” Yellow signed, making the L once again.
Blue turned away, raising a hand, before the three broke out into silent huffs once again.
“I sport love,” signed Yellow. “Exciting!”
“Fun,” Blue agreed. “Lots-of photos.”
Yellow turned towards Tommy, wrinkling her nose. “Your dress what?”
Tommy smirked, doing his best impression of the dance. Blue blanched, but Yellow’s face stayed blank. He sighed, fingerspelling, “R-I-C-K A-S-T-L-E-Y.”
She covered her mouth, her shoulders dropping. Despite Yellow’s silence, he could feel her disappointment.
A manly giggle bubbled inside of him, and he stifled it with his powerful masculinity.
“Sorry, it’s ugly,” she signed, face perfectly blank.
“Handsome,” Tommy corrected. “My dress beautiful.”
“B, you say it,” signed Yellow, turning away and putting a hand on her arm.
“You like my dress?” Tommy signed, as innocent as possible, making her squirm.
Yellow smirked at her discomfort.
“I like… like new F-A-S-H-I-O-N,” she eventually signed, giving a half-hearted nod.
Tommy put a hand to his heart, signing a two-handed “Thank you.”
The three mascots talked for a little while longer, posing for photos with a group of merch-wearing students. Tommy felt like the ugly duckling of the group, with Blue and Yellow in such formal gowns. What did they think this was, a fucking graduation ceremony?
As the next half began, he split off from the mascots, making his way up and down the different stands, taking photos and conning people out of their snacks. By the time he made it back by Sugamon’s box the game was in its final quarter, and Tommy had finished off a bag of skittles. L'Manberg had a solid lead on their opposition, cheers breaking out for every point scored.
Where was Quackity? Had he conned Tommy into spending time outside and attending sport? He was here for the drama, not the ass-ball game. He leaned against a pole as he watched the time slowly tick down, wincing every time it was paused.
When it finally hit zero the crowd cheered, Tommy just as eager to join them—for a completely different reason. He headed for the president’s box, but got cut off as a wave of people moved for the exit. You know what? He could just wait at the entrance.
He found an alcove just by the gate, waving to each person who left, dishing out smiles, high-fives and poses by the dozen. This was the longest maskup session he’d done in months, his feet would kill him once he unmasked.
Blue and Yellow found a place on either side of him, waving goodbye to everyone. The energy was high among the L'Manberg students—noticeably less so for the visitors.
Tommy spotted Quackity out of the corner of his eye, leading a small group against the flow. And just as he spotted them, Sugamon appeared in the walkway, still speaking with on of the donors.
Shit, Quackity was going to bring this up in front of both of them.
He hurried after them, Blue and Yellow following.
“Go where?” signed Yellow, quickly.
Tommy pushed on, he didn’t have time to explain.
Yellow grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “Red?” she signed, using the colour instead of fingerspelling.
Quackity reached Sugamon, “President Sugamon, may we speak to you for a moment?”
Sugamon hesitated, his eyes landing on his companion.
She checked her golden wristwatch, then said, “By all means.”
Sugamon’s expression hardened. “Very well, how’s it going?”
“I have some concerns about the RACS program,” said Quackity. “The current structure is offering no support or training for RACS officers, alongside no internal structure to forward complaints and disputes. Students deserve access to proper counsellors, and a student aiming to get a discount on their tuition cannot fulfill that role.”
“We want the program disbanded now!” said the student next to him.
Quackity raised a hand. “What he’s trying to say is, myself and many other students aren’t getting their needs met with the current system. In fact, I have five hundred signatures agreeing to just that.”
Five hundred? Tommy’s jaw dropped, only able to watch as Quackity pulled a list from his pocket.
Sugamon mumbled something under his breath, running a hand through his beard. “Well, thank you for bringing this to my attention. I’ll bring this to the committee’s attention and in the next meeting we can rework the RACS framework.”
Quackity smiled. “I agree. At the next meeting a representative from the student board will put forward our list of suggested amendments and workshop with the committee about the best possible approach.
He hummed. “Any feedback you can provide will be carefully considered, but unfortunately the L'Manberg Student Support Committee is closed to the student body, due to—”
“—Actually, I have been nominated as Chancellor Schlatt’s substitute for the committee,” said Quackity, that devilish smile across his face once again.
Sugamon cut himself off, meeting Quackity’s eyes. “Very well,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you there. If you’ll excuse me, Narcissa and I have another engagement.”
“Of course,” said Quackity. “I wouldn’t want you to be late.”
Tommy exchanged a look with Blue and Yellow, checking they’d both witnessed what he had. Quackity was a force to be reckoned with.
When Tommy finally unmasked, his feet were overcome with pins and needles. He groaned, slumping against the wall of the first floor’s storage cupboard.
“That was a long maskup,” said Clementine. “What happened?”
Tommy slid to the ground, stretching out his legs. While he massaged his calves, he caught Clementine up to speed, covering everything from the success of his rickroll to Quackity’s machinations.
She let out a low whistle when he was done. “Let’s not get on his bad side.”
“What, like breaking into his room or something?” said Tommy. “If we were one of Quackity’s enemies we’d know by now.”
“Classes were intense, today,” said Clementine. “I definitely lost a mark or two for not participating. Also, did you know your comparative is due in a month’s time?”
“What, the ten-thousand word one?” said Tommy. “You’re joking. Surely you’re—shit, you’re not joking.”
“I took a bunch of notes,” she said, and Tommy reluctantly opened his laptop.
When he saw a document with three thousand words, he closed it again. “I’m not doing this today.”
“Whatever, your body your choice and all,” said Clementine.
He snorted. “That’s far less comforting when you take my body for joyrides daily, you know?”
“Next time I’ll shave off all you hair.”
Tommy barked out a laugh, the door swinging open.
Fundy poked his head in, frown lifting when he saw Tommy. “Oh, it’s you in here,” he said.
“Fuck off, I can sit where I want,” said Tommy. “This is my mind palace.”
“Mind palace?” he repeated. “Sure, the—the janitor’s closet can be your mind palace. Whatever.” He shut the door behind him, leaving Tommy to his palace.
“What a fucking bitch. I’m a normal student—the most normal student, I’m a normal guy with a normal life,” said Tommy, grinning. “But there’s something about me that no one knows yet, because I have a secret.”
“I can tell you’re trying to reference something, but it’s clearly not worth my time,” said Clementine.
Before Tommy could try and explain the entirety of the Miraculous Ladybug lore, his phone rang, a 0.5 image of Tubbo filling the screen. He accepted. “What, bitch.”
“Oh, and by the way,” said Clementine. “Tubbo wants to paint his nails so I invited him over.”
Tommy flipped her off.
“Haven’t you heard me knocking?” said Tubbo. “I thought we were having a boy’s night.”
He pulled himself upright. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there in a minute. The door code is just the room number backwards, just let yourself in.”
“Wait, where are you?”
“In my mind palace. Be there soon.”
Tommy’s door was hanging open when he arrived, and he rolled his eyes, closing it behind him. “You didn’t have to leave the door open,” he called, as he kicked off his sneakers.
“If you didn’t come I was gonna paint my nails with the first person who walked in,” said Tubbo, stretched across Tommy’s bed and scrolling through his phone. Unfortunately, he’d also brought the Book of the City of Ladies from class.
“Let me grab the colours,” he said, heading into the bathroom. He and Tubbo chatted away as Tommy brought out handful after handful of the different colours, almost dropping the red bottle when the lid wasn’t on. Shubble was always lazy with resealing things, ending up with the two of them eating stale crisps often. Mouldy ones, too, but Shubble often turned her nose at them.
“Move over,” he said, bringing the final handful.
“I’m not having any worms on my bed.”
“Fuck you,” said Tubbo, pulling himself upright.
Tommy joined him as Tubbo lined up each of the bottles. “So what colour were you thinking?” he asked.
Tubbo continued adjusting the bottles, twisting them until their writing lined up perfectly.
“Tubbo?”
He blinked. “Huh?”
“I asked you what colour you wanted,” he said. “Fucking—wait, are you due for coffee?”
“Nah, it’s only one.”
“No? Can’t you see the sun fucking setting,” said Tommy, gesturing out the window. “Fuck me, you’re about to go comatose.”
“Comatose is for decaf,” said Tubbo. “I can’t be bothered walking all the way to the café.”
“Will an iced coffee do?” said Tommy. “There’s some on this floor—but you’re paying, bitch.”
He groaned. “Fine.”
The two made their detour to the vending machine, continuing to bicker as Tubbo bought and chugged his iced coffee. Tommy found himself easing, talking to Tubbo as easily as breathing. The two often spoke without Ranboo, but it was always during classes or in the library, not just on forays to the vending machine.
Tubbo was already more alert by the time they returned, both of them getting back onto Tommy’s bed. “I’m thinking emo,” he said. “I want pure black, dark enough to make Ranboo jealous.”
Tommy hummed, glancing through the bottles. Shubble didn’t have many dark colours—that was more Katherine’s thing—but they did have an oil-slick green. “Would this do?”
“Why do you have Christmas beetle but not a normal black?”
“A what?”
“A Christmas beetle,” Tubbo repeated, pulling up a picture on his phone. “See?”
“Why the fuck do you know that?” said Tommy. “If you want emo, we’ve got that or shit-brown.”
“I’ll take the Christmas beetle,” said Tubbo. “How about you?”
“This one,” said Tommy, picking up a pinky-orange.
“Peach?” said Tubbo.
“It’s a strong, masculine peach,” he insisted. “For a strong, masculine man like myself.”
Tubbo laughed. “Let’s get started, then.” He grabbed the peach nail polish from Tommy’s hand, replacing it with the dreaded City of Ladies. “You read and I’ll paint.”
He sighed, opening to the dog-eared page and reading aloud as Tubbo began painting. “Let us suppose they did this intending to draw fools away from foolishness. It would be as if I attacked fire -- a very good and necessary element nevertheless -- because some people burnt themselves…”
When Tubbo was halfway through Tommy’s second hand, the door swung open, Shubble stepping in.
She froze at the sight of Tubbo, but quickly recovered. “Hi guys.”
“You’re early,” said Tommy. “This is Tubbo, by the way. Tubbo, this is Shubble.”
Shubble blinked, then said, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
She turned to the cupboard, pulling out a jacket and tossing her laptop bag aside.
Tommy opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Tubbo glanced at Tommy, he dodged his gaze.
“So—uh—what brings a young woman like you here at this time of night?” he said, the joke falling flat.
“Just dropping stuff off,” said Shubble. “You know that colour will only last until midnight, right?”
“Huh?”
She waved her red fingers through the air. “Magic nail polish, remember? At midnight it returns to the base colour to stop students from faking their house.”
“So I’ve only got this polish for—” He checked the time. “Five hours?”
“Seven, actually,” said Shubble, as she grabbed her gloves. “Enjoy your girl’s night, make sure you eat dinner.”
“Thanks, Mum,” said Tommy, rolling his eyes. “Don’t forget about your vegetables.
“Sure, sure,” said Shubble, moving for the door. “Later!”
Tubbo turned to him once Shubble was gone, but Tommy interrupted before he could say something stupid. “That’s Shubble for you. Busy as shit.”
“She seems nice?” said Tubbo.
“She is.”
He was still watching Tommy.
“I’m not paying you to stare, bitch. Start painting.”
He snorted, picking up the paint once again and finishing Tommy’s second hand. Once he did so, Tommy snapped the book shut. “My turn.”
“I’m not reading,” said Tubbo. “That’s not how our deal goes.”
“Well, I’m not painting your nails in fucking silence,” said Tommy, with none of the usual bite.
“Uh, I could explain how John Donne’s poems changed?” said Tubbo.
“The—The fucking metaphysics?” said Tommy.
He snorted. “Yep, you definitely need it.”
“Bitch,” said Tommy, grabbing Tubbo’s hand. “So tell me more about these physical metas.”
Tubbo broke into a passionate rant about it, Tommy nodding along like he understood as Tubbo went through how Donne’s works shifted and contradicted.
“..so due to his relationship with the church he narrowed his focus into more religious poems that were part of his sermons. Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely not,” said Tommy, moving to Tubbo’s second hand.
“Aw, I wrote some notes on it somewhere, give me a second—”
He flicked through the book, pulling out a piece of folded paper from the end. “Aha!”
Tommy took the paper from him, unfolding it to find a series of dots and dashes. “Tubbo,” he said, very slowly. “Did you write your notes in fucking morse code?”
Notes:
Never would I have thought that I'd be staying up until 2am to get this chapter out but here we are lmao. Come back in a couple days and I'll have an image of Tommy's outfit (made in microsoft paint by yours truly)
Gonna be honest here, I have not been doing well. I haven't really mentioned it here because writing this fic is my go-to escapism and I don't want to get comments like "I hope it gets easier for you soon <3" lmao. but to
Give you an idea of what's been going on, in the past two weeks my mum was diagnosed with cancer and has to start chemo, I started filling in job applications for new work, got accepted for a new position, as I was filling in the paperwork for the position I got a call about a DIFFERENT job that I hadn't even applied to, as well as studying and working for far too many hours.
You can probably guess where this is going. "Turns out being an adult has lots more responsibilities and I'm going to have to slow down uploads :(" but no. I'm not slowing down. This fic means too much to me, so I'll continue to fight for time to write it. And the thing that makes it easiest for me to write is honestly getting comments. I love seeing people's theories, I love it when people tell me their favourite jokes or share little pictures or even just the heart emojis.
Up until now I've managed to keep up the weekly uploads, and I'll do everything in my power to keep it that way, but we'll see how that ends up. As always, leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Edit: click to view Tommy's rickroll gown
[Image ID] two microsoft paint images are created. The first shows off Tommy's rickroll dress. The top half of rick astley has been cropped off and a dark maroon ballgown placed underneath, the outermost layer shaped in a downwards V with the layer below being a bright red. Instead of a face mask, Tommy wears the sunglasses from the rickroll video, which have been poorly photoshopped over his face. A chunk of his arm is missing due to poor photoshopping skills from the author. The entire image is low quality, with the individual pixels visible and you can also see the cursor has been used to select the entire outfit, creating a border around the image.
The second image is placed in the school ground, old stone buildings sitting behind a large grassy field. The three mascots stand on the lawns, both of them looking at Tommy's outfit. Yellow is wearing a ruffle dress with a V-neck, a mask painted over her eyes with the paint tool. Blue wears a navy mermaid gown that is covered in sparkles, with a large split down the leg. Her face mask is created using the paint tool, and she has been compressed too much while editing and making her look ridiculously skinny. [End ID]
Chapter 26: Tomato Wars: The Tomato Strikes Back
Summary:
Wordcount: 2.3k
Estimated reading time: 10 minutes
Date published: February 16th, 2025
Notes:
I meant to post this chapter on the 14th on tomato day but time got away from me lmao.
You'll see there's a fat youtube video at the top of this chapter that's because it's the vine that captures my mood perfectly these past weeks. I learned how to embed videos, someone kill me before I become too powerful.
anyways Shawn4651 made a new board. It's called EASY PULLED PORK and it has one pin.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tommy didn’t leave his room on Friday. Not to get breakfast, not to do his washing, nothing. Today was the fourteenth. Valentine’s day—but more importantly, tomato day. His infiltrator would be making his way inwards, trying to leave another horrid fruit on his bed. That’s right, bitch. Tommy had done his homework, he knew the taxonomical classification, he even knew about the supreme court case. It didn’t matter that they had been ruled a vegetable, his infiltrator was lawless. So Tommy kept watch. He spent the morning pecking through his English essay, then pecking through Lacy’s shoe-crisps. He would buy more on his way to class, Lacy wouldn’t strike when the dorm was occupied, regardless.
Noon came and went, the dorm still completely silent. Tommy got a text from Tubbo.
are youat the librey
Srry cant come today
I’m assassinating a tomato
?
Have fun
He talked of Clementine’s ear afterwards, the two covering everything from the looming gauntlet event to future prank ideas.
“I just want to do something in the dining room,” said Tommy. “The rickroll was creative but it’s not that funny, you know? Everyone has to go through the dining room.”
“You need a lot of organisation to get stuff in the great hall,” said Clementine. “It’s the target of all sorts of stuff, so they keep it locked tight.”
“I don’t care, I want to go big, like Benchamin,” he moved to the window, staring at the empty grass where the Pyrabench had sat. It had only lasted a day before it was ordered to be taken down, but what a grand day it was. There had been a few adventurous people who climbed to the top and tried to use it, but most people just admired it from the ground. “Let’s face it, the hardest part of the rickroll was looking so—”
“—Awful?” Clementine tried.
“—fucking irresistible,” he finished. “The dining room is the perfect targert—oh, maybe I could mess with the food or something,” he said. “Not something that would make people sick, just like, swapping the forks or something.”
“Forks are expensive,” said Clementine.
“Really? They’re pretty replaceable,” said Tommy, returning to his laptop. He flicked away his paper, googling fork. He clicked on the first image that came up, getting redirected to Amazon. “Sixty dollars for a fork?!”
Clementine looked over his shoulder. “That’s a set of twelve,” she said.
“Why are they so fucking expensive?” he said. “Surely they’re cheaper in bulk.”
He added bulk to the end of his search. “What the fuck, this one is fifty dollars for a hundred forks. Those other ones are a fucking rip-off.”
“But what are you even buying the forks for?” said Clementine.
“I’ll buy them and then resell them,” said Tommy. “Start selling twelve for sixty dollars. It’s basic Forkonomics.”
They continued to banter back and forth until Tommy’s alarm went off. On Fridays he only had one class, just an hour-long tute. He glanced around his room, as if the tomato villain was hiding behind the corner, waiting for him to leave.
You know what? He needed a name for his enemy. There was no rivalry between a hero and a nameless villain, no tension between a mask and another mask.
“I need a name,” he said. “One that starts with a T.”
“Tonk?” said Clementine.
“What kind of fucking name is Tonk?” he said.
“It’s a surname,” she said. “Wait, do people not use that one anymore?”
“I’ve never heard it in my fucking life,” said Tommy. “And Tomatonk is a shit name for a villain.”
“Tomathomas?” Clementine tried.
“Tomatony,” he exclaimed. “I know I’ve got class but we can’t let Tomatony get in.” He shoved his laptop in his bag, scanning the entire room and bathroom before he made it to the door. He opened it a sliver, as if Tomatony was waiting for him, ready to throw his tomato through the door.
The hallways were empty. Tommy quickly stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him. He jiggled the door handle, double-checking it was locked before he travelled downstairs. He only made one detour—waiting at the vending machine in the literature building’s lobby. It was the only one that stocked Cheetos. Sure, he’d already had crisps for breakfast, but he didn’t have time for the dining hall, not when Tomatony could strike at any moment. Did he know Tommy’s schedule—oh shit, was he being stalked?
Tommy made it to class with a few minutes to spare, pouring the Cheeto crumbs into his mouth as Ranboo and Tubbo showed up. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t concentrate during the tute, butchering his responses and unable to follow the conversation. He’d definitely locked the door, but what about the window? Did Tony know how to open it? His ruminations followed him even as the tute ended, turning down dinner in favour of going back to his dorm—he needed to know.
He marched back to the dorms, tapping his foot in the elevator as he glared at the crock pot. It was now half-filled with tomato soup, someone leaving a ladle in the centre of it. Tommy swore when the elevator slowed before the fourth floor, none other than Schlatt stepping in. He couldn’t help his frown as he tried to work out why the fuck he was here.
“Are you going up or down?” he asked, stepping in beside him.
“Up,” he said, breaking eye contact. Sure, he was probably meeting with Quackity, but Tommy was too busy for this shit. He had tomatoes to deal with.
“Say, is this your first year at L'Manberg?” said Schlatt.
“Yeah.” He bit back the urge to add bitch.
“I can tell. There’s too much life in your eyes,” he wheezed at his joke, slapping his knee.
When Tommy didn’t respond, he sobered. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep things interesting for ya. Enjoy your night.”
With Tomatony on the loose? He could never. The doors finally opened, Tommy giving Schlatt a nod before marching out. What a fucking weirdo. He went down the hallway with his arms shoved in his pockets, only stopping when he reached his door.
…His door that was hanging open.
“I locked it,” he said, breathless. “I fucking—Shit, Clementine, you saw me lock it.”
“Is there a tomato?” she said, hanging behind Tommy’s shoulder.
He stormed into the room, faltering at the sight of his bed. His sheets were perfectly folded, every crease smoothened so that his bed was a sea of cream, a singular tomato sitting in the centre.
“What did I do wrong?!” he snapped, moving to slam the door shut. “I locked up everything, I was only gone for—for not even an hour. Just kill me, Clementine. Smother me in my fucking sleep. Tomatony knows the door code, we’ll never be fucking safe.”
“Uh huh,” said Clementine, smirking down at him.
“Fuck off, don’t you think warfare should be banned from the university? This isn’t just a prank, this is my sanity. And you—” He spun towards the tomato. “—What the fuck are you looking at, you ugly piece of shit. Tony thinks he’s such a fuckarse with his silly little prank and you just let it fucking happen. Nobody fucking loves you, nobody even wants to eat you.”
She burst out laughing, and Tommy wanted to do nothing but strangle her. “I’m done, I’m done,” he said, crossing his arms. “I’m over that stupid piece of shit. Nobody likes tomatoes anyway. Shit vegetable.”
“You don’t sound over it.”
“I am,” he said. “There’s no reason for me to be distressed about someone leaving fucking tomatoes in my fucking room on the fourteenth of every month. Why would that bother me, Clementine?”
“Just swear revenge and get over it, can we watch a movie tonight?”
“Revenge! That’s what I need, Clementine, you’re so right.”
He grabbed the tomato and hurried back out into the hallway, climbing up the next set of stairs.
“Tommy?” she said, floating alongside him.
“I’m going to boil him alive.”
Twenty minutes of boiling later, Tommy began mashing the sullen tomato in his pot of water until it became soupy, then he turned up the heat and bouled it again. The longer he boiled it the more he could swear at it and put it in its place (the place being boiled alive while he gloated at it) After boiling for long enough it started to thicken, a charred scent filling the pan. Perfect.
Tommy switched off the stove, marching for the elevator. There was one final step for his devious plan, one final weapon that would hurt Tomatony the most.
Once the elevator doors slid closed, Tommy pushed a random button, lifting the lid of the crockpot and pouring the pureed tomato corpse in. The soup hissed, tomato-scented steam filling the elevator.
Tommy shuddered, taking a step back and snapping the lid into place.
The elevator fell silent, Tommy’s heart racing. “The deed is done,” he whispered.
He got off at the next floor, unable to stare at that tomato in good conscience. He had to kill it, the soup was unfortunate collateral damage.
“What the fuck did you do?” said Clementine. “You—You’re creating a monster.”
“Killing the monster,” Tommy corrected, playing along. “That creation is no child of mine.”
“You’ve doomed yourself.”
“I’ve created my freedom, you mean,” he said, moving to a different lift and pushing the button. “For the next thirty days, I won’t have to think about him.”
Clementine sighed. “You know, he doesn’t sound very foreboding when you keep calling him Tomatony.”
The elevator pinged.
“Fuck off, Tomatony is a very intimidating name, you just don’t—”
The doors slid open, Shubble within. She leaned against the wall, one arm around her side and the other pressing her phone to her chest.
“—oh shit, Shubble?”
She jumped, her glassy golden eyes meeting Tommy’s.
Oh.
“Oh, I didn’t see you there,” she said, swiping at her eyes. “How have you been?”
“Who do you need me to beat the shit out of?” said Tommy, stepping in.
Shubble swiped at her eyes again. “Nobody, I—” she cut herself off, sighing. “It’s nothing you can help with.”
“It never is. Tell me who’s bothering you so I can kick their asses. I’ll fucking rub them into the dirt.”
A smile ghosted her face, vanishing once again. “Where would I even start?”
“The beginning, bitch,” he said, giving her a nudge. “Or—you know—whatever part you feel like telling, if you want to be lame.”
She sighed, opening her phone to check the time.
The elevator pinged for the fourth floor.
Finally, she spoke. “We could do our laundry?”
And Tommy couldn’t help his smile.
Shubble lightened up as they emptied the laundry hamper, slowly coming out of her shell as they made it to the laundry room, commandeering a machine for themselves. Tommy lamented about his tomato stresses, leaving her wheezing with laughter and just as clueless as to how they got in. Shubble suggested changing their door code, but neither of them knew who to ask about that. When they got the machine on, silence fell between them.
Tommy was the first to break it. “So what’s been on your mind?” he said, quieter than usual.
Shubble’s shoulders visibly slumped. “I—You know I can’t say.”
“Fuck it, just be vague,” said Tommy. “Pretend you’re talking about fucking Clark Kent or some shit.”
Her head jutted up, meeting Tommy’s eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing,” she said. “I—I guess I can try it.” She took a deep breath, her hands moving once again. “I’ve been making—uh—changes with the committee. Ones I didn’t originally plan and they were going well but Jay—” she cut herself off. “But I’ve been getting resistance. My plans aren’t perfect—I know they aren’t, the point is taking steps in the right direction and everyone agrees it’s the right way, they just don’t like my way of doing it.” She sighed, leaning against the wall. “And now they’re going behind my back—and doing it in front of everyone and it just—it makes me feel like shit.”
Shubble never swore. No matter how much Tommy cussed up a storm, the closest Tommy could get out of her was a crap, or a damn it if he was particularly lucky.
“I’m going to fucking kill them,” he said. “I’ll kill them until they’re dead.”
She smirked. “I think you’d be a bit outnumbered.”
“Does it look like I give a shit? You should fucking—fucking fire them for backstabbing. Get their asses off the committee so you can be the sole dictator.”
“If only it could be that simple. It’s my job to do all of this stuff and they chose me for the position, and now they’re not letting me do it.” She smiled. “Well, I might have lied on my application, but I’ve been capable. I—I’ve been loving it.”
Tommy hummed along, not wanting to interrupt her.
“It’s not just about me. If it was just me then I could throw it all away, I could ruin everything and get prank of the year just like that.” She sighed. “But it’s not just hurting me. I—there’s too much on my shoulders.”
“And when is there not?” said Tommy. “You need a holiday. Time to play some video games and eat a bunch of unhealthy shit.”
“I’ll have to look at my schedule,” she said, the joke falling short.
Her phone started ringing, and she jumped. Tommy caught the word benefactor before Shubble pulled the phone away.
“Sorry, I—I really need to take this,” she said. “Can you finish up the laundry? I’ll be half an hour.” Then she pulled the phone to her ear, answering “Hello?” in a grumbly voice.
The door shut before Tommy could question what was going on.
By the time the machine finished, Shubble sent him a message.
Sorry something came up
I wont be back tonight
Notes:
Also!! I added the pictures of Tommy's rickroll outfit to the last chapter but I actually have a confession to make. The endnote on the last chapter was actually a rickroll. I distracted you with all the serious stuff but just look at the first word of each paragraph. All that stuff is still happening but like it's also a rickroll. Just thought I'd keep you guys updated.
Anyways, what is everyone's theories for Shubble? I've been laying out lots of clues and new information, and the reveal gets closer and closer, mwahahaha.
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 27: Secret Squash Partner
Summary:
Tommy finds new ways to use his Auslan--inside class and out.
Wordcount: 3.9k
Estimated reading time: 16 minutes
Date published: February 25th, 2025
Notes:
[Image ID] Two images of a boxer sit on the side, one wearing gloves and the other sitting down and having a drink. The text by the first boxer says "Okay ima fight adulting" and the second says "Damn adulting got hands. [End ID]
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Shubble didn’t respond to any of Tommy’s messages, no matter how long he spent insulting her. Not even when he threatened her Star Lord or whatever the fuck she named her plushie. All too soon Tommy got sucked into classes, fumbling his midterms and slowly pushing through his awful essays. After typing out page after page of bullshit, Tommy was ready to fight whoever invented writing. The weight of assignments only left his shoulders on Thursday afternoon, the biggest block of lectures complete.
Tubbo, Ranboo and Tommy meandered through the university campus, soaking up the late winter sunshine while they still could. Tubbo had gotten Ranboo rambling, and every time he trailed off then Tubbo just asked another question, encouraging him onwards. It was sickeningly sweet, so Tommy pretended he didn’t see any of it, even when Tubbo nudged his arm.
Before the Auslan class they often split off, Tubbo needing the bathroom after all his coffees while Ranboo and Tommy went looking for snacks. Tommy used it as a good excuse to slip away from Ranboo and mask up. He kept his outfit simple as usual, making sure the layers were thick enough that he wouldn’t freeze in the classroom. One advantage of his ballgown was the number of layers, it was easy to keep warm when he wore at least four of them.
Walking across the quad, he spotted Yellow emerging from the dormitories, and he gave her a wave. She hurried over, glitter spiralling out behind her and glimmering in the dull campus.
“How are you?” he signed, the two exchanging greetings.
Yellow launched into her normal enthusiastic signing, then grimaced as she mentioned classes.
“Lots of learning,” he signed back, puffing out his cheeks
By the entrance of the language and culture building, the gauntlet fountain had a flame lit at the tip, a pale gold that flickered in the cold wind.
“Fire!” signed Yellow, pointing at the fountain.
Tommy repeated it, the two hurrying around the side until they found the bronze plaque. Inscribed in the centre were two words; Midwinter Ball.
“Ball?” signed Yellow, mimicking bouncing a ball up and down.
“No, dancing,” Tommy signed. “Party.”
She frowned. “How dancing—" She paused again, hands stuttering. “P-O-I-N-T-S how give?” She finally signed.
Someone tapped Tommy’s shoulder, and he jumped, spinning around.
Blue waved sheepishly, signing, “Sorry! Me know P-O-I-N-T-S how.”
“Tell,” signed Yellow, a small puff of glitter accompanying the motion. Fucking show-off.
“Two things,” signed Blue, holding up two fingers. She tapped the first one. “P-O-I-N-T-S give for good dancing.” She held up the two fingers once again, tapping the second finger. “Best clothes,” she signed, tugging at her dress.
“Wow!” signed Yellow, shaking her hands.
“Me win dress,” Tommy signed, spinning around and throwing petals everywhere.
Blue huffed, With raised eyebrows and wide eyes, she spelled, “R-I—K A-S-T--Y?”
Tommy missed some of the letters, but still understood the message. He gasped, flipping off Blue.
Yellow huffed, shoulders shaking as she struggled to keep silent. Eventually, she signed, “Dance exciting. Need think my clothes?”
He frowned.
“Think?” Blue repeated.
“Decide, decide,” Yellow corrected, bringing the sign for think down to her other hand.
The three continued chatting as they made their way to class, making small talk about their outfits and the weather, whatever they had the vocabulary for. When Tommy sat down in Niki’s classroom, he wasn’t at all thinking about studying. He had concentrated for five hours of classes, an hour more felt impossible. He kept his hands still as Niki did her usual introduction. He followed the class’s conversation, but didn’t have it within him to join in.
“Today we have G-U-E-S-T,” she fingerspelled. She brought an upright flat hand to her chest, showing the sign for it. “Guest. My friend coming. Name C-A-L-L-A-H-A-N. Sign name Callahan.”
The class repeated the name sign.
“Callahan Deaf, everyone practise conversations.”
Tommy’s heart gave a manly flutter. Signing with someone who really knew the language—well, Niki knew Auslan, but she was Niki. It was her job to teach them, she didn’t mind if they made mistakes. Shit, Callahan would hate his signs—he used Auslan to fuck around, but Auslan was Callahan’s language. Tommy needed to lock the fuck in or he would embarrass himself—embarrass the red house.
“Why everyone scared?” Niki signed, exaggerating their faces. “No! None of that.” She swiped her hands away. “Callahan lovely,” she signed. “Excited meet everyone.”
He exchanged glances with the other mascots.
“Callahan come later,” she signed. “First fingerspelling practise.”
Tommy winced as they fingerspelled a list of words on the board. Niki often used the fingerspelling to introduce new signs, the class spelling the word and then copying the sign. He only paid half attention as he did so, going over all the Deaf etiquette he knew. Wave to get their attention, ask them to sign slowly, don’t be a fucking dick. He could manage this.
The classroom door opened just as they reached the final word, Callahan stepping into the room.
In all honesty, he was a little underwhelming. He was a white guy wearing a brown jacket, Tommy had seen twenty people just like him today alone. The only noticeable thing about his face were the blue glasses on his nose, red tape wrapped around the bridge.
“Welcome!” Niki signed, beaming.
Callahan smiled back, signing too quickly for Tommy to read.
Niki responded, the two going back and forth for a little while. He caught the word introduction, and then something about coffee?
Callahan nodded, turning to the rest of the class. He began signing at a much slower pace, enough that Tommy could make out every word. “My name C-A-L-L-A-H-A-N, sign name Callahan. Me excited meet-everyone. Me Deaf, grew-up Deaf. My work—” The last sign was unfamiliar, but he fingerspelled it afterwards. “C-O-D-I-N-G. Work coding.”
“Nice meet you,” Blue signed, and Tommy followed suit.
“Great,” signed Niki. “Today more conversation practise. University signs. Break-out threes,” she signed, miming out the groups of three in various locations. “Me Callahan watch join-in.”
Tommy turned to his fellow mascots, running through the signs in his head. University signs was their latest topic, covering everything from degree names to locations. “How you week?” he began.
Blue winced, and Yellow shuddered.
Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Assignment?”
“Yes,” signed Yellow, puffing her cheeks. “Lot’s-of assignments.”
“Lot’s mask,” Blue added, tapping her face mask. “Help students.”
Tommy tilted his head. He hadn’t masked up much, the only unplanned one being a staged intervention between a group of friends. And that didn’t count, all he was doing was sitting in the middle as they talked out their feelings. “Not me,” he signed.
“Why?”
The question was simple, but getting across his answer in Auslan? Tommy tossed aside two answers before deciding upon, “Don’t know. Your house stupid, probably.”
“Stupid?” Yellow repeated, staring at Tommy. “Everyone have… have M-I-D-T-E-R-M-S. Don’t know sign.”
“Me same,” signed Blue. “Ask Niki?”
Yellow waved for Niki’s attention, asking her just that.
She paused. “Not sure. Ask Callahan?”
Callahan? Tommy couldn’t hide his hesitance, the three of them holding still.
She rolled her eyes, then turned to Callahan, waving to get his attention. “Callahan! M-I-D-T-E-R-M sign what?”
Callahan tilted his head. “Don’t-have sign. Fingerspell.”
He nodded along. “Fingerspell,” he agreed.
“Yes,” signed Callahan, joining their group. “You-all have E-X-A-M-S?”
The three confirmed, and he frowned. “Dresses?”
“M-A-S-C-O-T-S,” Yellow explained.
Callahan repeated it, frown deepening.
They spent the next five minutes trying to explain what the mascots did, Callahan asking question after question.
“Magic help how?” he eventually asked, causing the trio to pause.
“S-E-C-R-E-T?” Blue tried.
“Understand, understand,” signed Callahan, nodding along. “Sign secret.” He tapped a flat hand to his chin, the same handshape used for the word sad.
Niki grabbed Callahan’s attention once again, bringing him over to a different group. Even as the conversation continued with the other mascots, Tommy couldn’t pull the smile from his face. Despite his overthinking, all Callahan had done was correct their signs when they fumbled, drawing them all into conversation—and even holding back laughter.
Before he knew it the class was ending, Tommy getting to his feet and catching Clementine’s gaze.
“Dinner,” she quickly signed, pointing at Ranboo and Tubbo.
Tommy nodded, shooing her away. He stepped into the chilly night, tapping his heels together and letting his petals flow once again. He’d get to the dining hall before the others, then all Clementine had to do was duck to the bathroom and they could swap.
The night life of the campus always felt different when he was masked up. Maybe it was his bright outfit, but there were always eyes on him. He wasn’t just some random student, he was something different, something rare. He dropped his usual smile and adopted a completely blank face, meeting the eyes of every person who watched him.
He made it to the North Quad building, stepping into the great hall of dining.
Warm air rushed over him as he stepped inside, voices carrying with it. Almost every table was full as people laughed ad chatted, looking at phones and textbooks and scribbles on napkins. Tommy tapped his heels together, wandering through the main hall and then the various terraces. Eventually he climbed the stairs, stepping out into the outdoor area. It was half full even in the cold weather, Tommy situating himself at the balcony. In the distance he could make out the flickering flame of the gauntlet fountain, small enough that one could mistake it for a lightbulb. The ball was a chance to earn thousands of points, enough to put him in front of Yellow—to let him get a mascot gun before she did.
The Midwinter Ball. Of course it had such a poetic-ass name, the whole thing sounded tory as fuck. Balls had bowing and dancing and fucking—fucking etiquette stuff. The shitshow he’d so far avoided, but could he still avoid it when there were points on the line? He didn’t even know how to dance.
Someone cleared their throat, Tommy spinning around.
Three students stood in front of him, one still holding their dinner tray and the other with a backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Uh, excuse me, Ma’am,” began the woman with the dinner tray. “If it’s not too forward, have you—do you have any petals left today?”
“Yes?” he signed, not breaking eye contact. “Always have.”
“We need to steal them,” said the guy.
She smacked him. “No we don’t! We—uh—I was wondering if we could—if we could borrow some of them.”
“Why?” he asked.
The girl paled, the words falling away from her.
“I think I’ll take the lead, here,” said the guy with the backpack. “I’m the wingman, here. We have a date situation where we need to turn up the heat—”
“—shut up!”
“—the romance, if you will. What’s more romantic than hundreds of red rose petals? Especially ones we don’t have to pay for.”
“But we’re asking,” the woman affirmed. “I—ugh, never mind, this is too fucking much.”
“Wait,” Tommy signed, grabbing her before she could turn away. “Help-you,” he signed, then tapped his heels together, the petals slowly drifting from the base of his gown.
“Help?” she repeated, copying the sign. “I—you mean it?”
He nodded, then spun around, releasing another burst of petals.
“Thank you!” she said, jumping in for a hug. Tommy paused, but before he could process it she was stepping back again.
The dude sighed, taking off his backpack. “Fuck it, just chuck all the petals in here. How fast can you make them appear?”
Tommy tilted his head. Kicking created a burst of petals, but then they’d go flying. He needed quantity, not distance. He leaned down, bunching his skirt together and shook it up and down. The petals fell out in a much smaller area, a small pile already developing on the ground. He dropped part of the skirt, pointing at the backpack.
The dude unzipped it and put it underneath, Tommy shaking his skirt once again. They stood and watched Tommy shake more and more, the backpack filling in just over a minute.
Tommy played off the gratitude, wishing them luck for the evening as he smoothened his dress once again. Petals swirled in the cold winds, littering the balcony as if the date was happening here.
Dining hall bathroom, sent Clementine, her voice echoing in his head.
He shivered in the cold, then tapped his heels together. Coming, bitch.
His malaise lingered over Friday and into the weekend, clinging to him in the mornings and clawing at him every time he had a moment to think. He tried to stave it off by mucking around with Tubbo, even tracking down Jack and bothering him, but the second he was by himself it returned. It got him comments from everyone—even Clementine had noticed it.
“It’s fucking stupid,” said Tommy, as he stared up at the ceiling. “I’m going on my burnout arc when I haven’t even burnt anything. Besides, I love arson. If I was burning shit it would make me feel better, not worse.”
Clementine didn’t respond, just slowly swam around the room, lying on her back and kicking her legs like she was floating down a lazy river.
“It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong,” he said. “I’ve been texting Shubble, I got my arse—ssignments in—I’m even looking at fucking ball etiquette,” he said, waving about his phone.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” said Clementine. “Maybe you’re doing too much.”
“Compared to last term?”
“I dunno,” she said, still kicking around. “Maybe you just need self-care stuff. Brains are weird.”
“Haven’t got much experience with that one, have you?” he muttered, more automatic than spiteful.
Clementine didn’t respond, so Tommy sighed, resuming the video he was watching. There were so many different ballroom dances—far too many for him to remember. Sure, a waltz was just fucking square-walking, but a foxtrot? A fucking tango?
He bounced his leg as the video continued, mind drifting off as he glanced at Shubble’s bed. He’d gotten radio silence for a week, now—it took days for her to even read his texts.
An ad started playing, and he switched his phone off, groaning. “Fucking shit video anyway,” he said. “Shubble is ignoring me—me, her brother. How the fuck am I supposed to know if she’s okay?”
“She’s twenty,” said Clementine. “She can take care of herself—more than you, anyway.”
“Oh fuck off, I’m sorry for caring about her health and being a supportive friend. Sorry that I expect the same from her—or for her to at least tell me if she’s feeling bad. Who’s going to help her?”
“Who are her friends?” asked Clementine. “Is she keeping in contact with them?”
Tommy opened up his abysmal contacts, scrolling through the list. “Fuck-all I know—why would I have their numbers?”
He paused on Quackity’s contact. He and Shubble were… probably friends. It was either that or an intense hatred, but either way they knew a lot about each other. He spent approximately ten seconds composing a heartfelt and informative message, ignoring the typos and clicking send. If anyone could track down Shubble, it would be him.
He watched as the blue bar slowly travelled across the screen, the message going through.
His first moment of productivity for the day—he had to ride this high as long as he could.
“Clementine, I’ve gotta learn how to dance.” He searched waltz music and clicked on the first video that came up. He stood, them mimed holding a partner and stepping around and around in a square, trying to time it to the music.
Clementine stopped. “What the fuck do you call that?”
“Bitch.”
“You cannot learn to waltz by yourself.”
He stepped about in a circle once again, and when he faced Clementine once more he flipped her off. “Watch me.”
He spun around again, improvising a couple steps and making her wince.
“That’s it,” she said. “I’m holding an intervention. Follow me.”
She moved through Tommy’s door, not returning despite his protests. Not even when he snapped the mascot bracelet against his wrist.
He reluctantly opened the door, finding Clementine right outside. “Come on, come on,” she said. “I’m teaching you to dance, but we can’t do it here.”
“What, are you gonna take me to the secret red house ballroom?” said Tommy.
She quirked a grin. “It’s closed for renovations. The squash courts don’t get used on the weekends, though.”
Tommy followed Clementine to the sports centre, going up a random hallway and through a squeaky door. On the other side there were two squash courts, a row of bleachers sitting on the opposite wall. Clementine showed him where the lights were, and even how to connect his phone to the sound system. What squash court needed surround sound?
After choosing a song and getting the music flowing, she lowered herself to his eye level. “Alright, now get your costume on.”
“You’re not wearing my trackpants,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“You can’t learn without a partner,” she said. The waltz music swelled, and she brought her feet firmly to the ground. “Come on, mask up.”
The magical petals appeared, slowly wrapping around Tommy. “Fuck you,” he groaned, as they rushed over him.
When he emerged his dress was lighter than usual, sitting at the ground but no longer trailing behind him. Clementine emerged a moment later, running a hand through her hair and straightening it. She rolled back her shoulders, then brought one arm in front of her.
Tommy gave her a look.
“Ready?” she lazily signed, using one hand instead of two.
Tommy stepped forward, pressing one hand against Clementine’s as she wrapped her arm around his waist.
She tapped his back three times, mouthing one, two three.
He nodded, and they began, Tommy stepping back, then to the side, then brought his feet together. Before he could think Clementine was pulling him forward, and they repeated the movement, Clementine still mouthing one, two, three.
On their fourth rotation, Tommy stepped back with the wrong foot, Clementine stepping into his dress and sending them both stumbling. He fought to catch himself, gripping Clementine tighter.
She huffed, suppressing her normal laugh as she stepped back again, straightening the front of Tommy’s dress.
“Bitch,” he signed, shooing her away and straightening it himself.
“You first right,” she signed, tapping her right forearm. “Right two three, left two three,” she signed, moving the handshapes to each corner of the box.
He copied the signs, then raised his arms, the two stepping back into place. Clementine tapped his back, and they went around once again, Tommy mouthing left and right instead of the timing. After a couple rounds, Clementine pushed him faster, moving with every beat in the music instead of every second. He scrambled to keep up, devoting his full concentration to hitting each step. Eventually they found a rhythm, Tommy lifting his gaze from his feet and meeting Clementine’s blue eyes. His blue eyes, lit with a mirth he hadn’t managed all weekend.
She winked at him, then stepped back, lifting his arm and twirling him around. Tommy followed the motion, falling back into the waltz as soon as it was done. He couldn’t help the gentle smile on his face, and at the end of the next box Clementine swirled him around again.
Clementine pulled her usual smirk.
He stuck out his tongue.
She rolled her eyes, then let go, stepping back. “When finish. Music finished stop,” she signed, clunkily.
She stepped up to Tommy again, then paused. “Left, two, three, four,” she signed, bringing the final sign away from the usual pattern. Then she turned, demonstrating the pattern herself. She did the normal box, then slid to the side, turning her body outwards and extending an arm. Then she stepped away, still holding her imaginary partner’s arm and taking a bow. “Understand?” she signed.
Tommy just made the so-so gesture, and she rolled her eyes.
“Come-here, practise,” she signed, then she repeated, “Left, two three four.”
“Five six seven,” Tommy added, Clementine slapping his hands.
They stepped together again, moving through the box and taking the extra step to the side. Clementine stopped him and made him lunge instead of step, leaning into her further. Clementine held him there, then push his shoulder away from her chest, grabbing his arm and extending it outwards. Oh, he looked so fucking sexy right now, he just knew it.
With her free hand, she made a twirling motion, then she pulled Tommy out into a spin, keeping close hold of his hand.
He curtseyed on cue, then lowered Clementine’s hand.
“Lovely,” she signed, a genuine smile on her face.
He pumped his fist to Clementine’s disdain. He flexed, kissing his biceps to bother her further.
The next song on the playlist started, and he stepped closer, ready to go again. He was going to destroy the other mascots—he was the best dancer in the entire house. The university, even.
Just as Clementine stepped closer, there was a squeak from the door.
He froze, but Clementine was already darting away, diving beneath the bleachers. He turned as a figure appeared in the entryway, clothed from head to toe in sapphire.
“R?” signed Blue, stepping onto the squash court.
“Yes,” he managed to sign, not daring to move. Nothing to hint there was someone else with him—if Blue saw Clementine—saw that she wasn’t speaking—she’d connect the dots straight away.
“What D-O?” she signed.
Were there gaps in the bleachers? Fuck, it was too late to check. “Nothing,” he signed. Wait, he needed to keep the attention on him. “Dance practise,” he recovered. “For winter party.”
Blue raised her eyebrows. “Learning?”
“Y—” he cut himself off, then continued, signing faster. “Yes, yes.”
She stepped across the courts, her heels echoing on the wooden floors. The music rose in the background, strings and brass melding together as Blue closed the space between them, stopping only an arms-width away.
The refrain in the song began. She raised her arms, a twinkle in her eyes.
Tommy smiled, stepping into position. He tapped her hand with a one two three, and they were off.
Off with a stumble as they decided which direction they were moving, but within a few steps they found their rhythm, moving round and round and round. Thank fuck for his practise with Clementine, Blue went through the steps as easy as breathing, adding flourishes and spins, where all Tommy had to do was follow. The reprise began, the music rising as they moved faster and faster, pulling closer to each other.
The final note sounded, and they slowed, taking that fourth step to the side, Tommy leaning into Blue and outstretching his arm.
The squash court fell silent, and Tommy met Blue’s creased eyes. He moved out in a slow twirl, the two curtseying in time. Blue’s trail sat crumpled behind her, her shoulders rising and falling as she caught her breath.
Tommy had never seen anyone look so stunning, so human.
The next song began with a different rhythm, Blue’s eyes lighting up. “You know F-O-X-T-R-O-T?”
He shook his head, refusing to look at the bleachers. He should get Blue out of here, give Clementine a chance to escape.
Blue flicked her hands aside, signing, “Learn! Come on,” she beckoned him closer.
Tommy could never say no to a beautiful woman. Clementine could wait till the end of the song. Or the next.
Or maybe the one after. She would be fine.
Notes:
Started a new job and it didn't leave me in tears for multiple days!!! I transitioned into doing 20 hours a week and it didn't cause half a month of emotional distress!! Hopefully this means I have more time for uploads but we'll see. Looking at the plot ahead and man I've gotta pull myself together if I'm going to pull this off. Anyways my next Auslan class is starting in ten minutes hope everyone enjoyed <3333
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 28: Would you rather have unlimited friendship but no bagels, or unlimited bagels with no bagels
Summary:
Quackity always holds his cards close, letting nobody near lest they sabotage him. The only exception was Shubble, the calculated over-achiever who had almost gotten them both expelled. The two spend a night together.
Wordcount: 2.8k
Estimated reading time: 11 minutes
Date published: March 8th, 2025
Notes:
We're all going to pretend this chapter was posted on the first of March. The first part of this kicked me in the butt but then I shat out the second half in a single evening. Unfortunately this chapter doesn't include the winter ball but I can promise it's coming soon!! We'll get more waltz montages eventually <3
Anyways Shawn4651 has been going crazy recently. Since I last updated he's created EIGHT new boards:
VELVETING MEAT "STIR FRY"
ROYAL ICING
WALDORF ASTORIA "RED VELVET CAKE" ..
RED VELVET ORIGINAL
RED VELVET CAKE
PULLED PORK "BEST"
PULLED PORK
and there's one more board that was just created today, and the scream I scrumpt when I saw it:
WEDDING ARCH
guys Shawn is hosting a wedding I'm losing my mind
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Shubble is fucking eigo ring me and it’s been a whole week and shit do you gotta mubtervene man
Has she talked to you
She’s ben itniring me
Ignoring*
Tommy's message came through at lunch time, but Quackity didn’t get a chance to read it until the early evening. He was caught in a meeting with the L'Manberg Student Support Committee—for four hours. Four hours of back-and-forth about how to fix the fucking RACS and somehow no solution.
He read through the message again, trying to decipher the various typos. As usual, he hadn’t heard from Shubble in over a month, but ignoring Tommy? He quickly texted back.
I’m coming over
His day had been long, but he never spoke with Shubble while it was light. Quackity gathered the papers from his desk, separating the ones he’d need tomorrow from the ones he’d need next week, sorting them into his trolley. There wasn’t any other furniture to organise, so he left his office, locking it up for the night. The RACS officer for this floor—Helena was her name—was insistent on making sure each dorm was up to code, writing up each infraction. His office had incurred several, but since he was technically a resident of the fourth floor, she couldn’t report him. A silver lining among the countless issues the Nevada residents.
He enjoyed his walks through the college, often choosing the scenic route rather than the fastest one. He wasn’t stupid enough to abstain from the elevators, but the people he met on his walks were far different to the ones that showed up at his office.
His phone buzzed again—another message from Tommy. His messages came through Quackity’s do not disturb at Shubble’s behest, he promised her he’d keep an eye on Tommy. She knew right from the beginning how much time that prank of hers would take—and things certainly hadn’t gone to plan. After all, she said it was being revealed in February.
He reluctantly pulled out his phone again.
She’s not here rn try again in four fuckig hours
Quackity rolled his eyes. It was already ten, he couldn’t be waiting that long. Once he messaged Shubble she’d drop everything and run. It was the same when she messaged him.
He made his way to the fifth floor, knocking on Shubble’s door, staring at the tiny flecks of purple paint on the wood. Those had been there since they were both freshman.
Tommy opened the door with a disgruntled look, but Quackity didn’t take it personally. He’d only seen him look pleasant in photos from Shubble, she was the one to bring him out of his shell.
“You’re wasting your time,” he said.
“I know what I’m doing.”
He rolled his eyes, but opened the door further.
Quackity let himself in, getting comfortable on Shubble’s plant-themed bedspread, resting an elbow on her mushroom-pattern pillow. “I’ll get through some emails while I wait.”
From an outsider’s perspective, Tommy’s face would have looked like pure disgust, but Quackity knew it was nothing but mild annoyance.
Tommy returned to his bed, putting in his earphones. He continued to mutter under his breath, Quackity only catching the end of it. “—fucking bootlickers ‘I’m going to check my emails’ my ass. Give it a fucking break.”
He allowed a smile to twitch across his lips, turning to his own phone. The first port of call was to send Shubble a text.
We’re doing bagels tonight. I’m waiting for you.
The message sent through right away, and once Shubble read it she’d come running. Then, he turned to his emails, wincing at the fifteen new ones. He wouldn’t reply to all of them, but at the very least he could read them through. Three were complaints from random students—there was another response to the RACS officer survey, an update on the student board’s remaining budget and a few from the other board members. He checked his calendar for tomorrow, then cast aside the budget email, focusing on the reports about immigrant students. Most of them were information-dense, needing him to read and rereading until he comprehended.
He shuddered when he received a reminder about his open office hours. It was his least favourite duty—Sugamon always raved about it, but he was insane. Every week students rolled up with the same complaints, and he was forced to listen and give the usual generic response. Schlatt once confided that nothing brings out stupidity like a podium, and Quackity was inclined to agree.
When it hit 11:30, Tommy began grumbling again, pulling out his earphones.
Quackity glanced up, but Tommy was already out of bed and moving for the cupboard. “I told you it was a waste of time,” he said, spearing Quackity a glare as he grabbed a pair of boxers and a singlet. “No wonder Shubble is fucking you, you’re as stubborn a bitch as her.”
It was refreshing seeing Tommy like this. When they met out in public he was performative, going for laughs above all else, but in his own room he couldn’t be bothered. He wanted Quackity out of there and was making it perfectly clear.
Tommy went into the bathroom, starting up the shower, still talking to himself the entire time. He snapped and grunted, having an argument with thin air.
He closed his email inbox, settling back on Shubble’s bed and opening his messages once again. Shubble still hadn’t read the text—fairly typical for when she was wrapped up in her projects. So he turned to his other messages, catching up on groupchats and other trivial things.
The shower switched off, Tommy still talking to himself. He stepped out in his pyjamas, hair still dripping wet and cheeks a rosy red. His expression dropped when he saw Quackity. “Bitch.”
He threw his dirty clothes into the hamper, switching off the big light and getting back into bed. “You better not wake me up with all your shouting,” he said, resting his head on his pillow.
He reached for the bedside lamp, then hesitated. He glanced at Quackity, retracting his hand. “Stop looking at me, bitch.” He rolled over without waiting for a response, his back facing Quackity.
His breathing evened quickly, Quackity relaxing in the silence. He normally went to sleep at this time, but never on bagel nights.
A notification popped up on his phone—the minutes from the RACS committee.
Quackity scowled, opening the email and skimming through it. The meeting was supposed to review the RACS and refine what the role entailed, but it had taken so long to gather information that the chair adjourned the meeting before they could even discuss the suggested amendments. He scrolled through page after page of the reports brought in, then the countless debates about the relevancy of each piece of information. Just reading it was enough to raise his blood pressure, and he found himself opening Schlatt’s number.
*Quackity sent a screenshot*
Are u seeing this shit
Schlatt instantly reacted with a cat emoji, then a thumbs-down. He still didn’t know how to use phones, but Quackity could ask him at their next meeting.
He returned to the minutes, jaw tightening as he read further, eventually reaching the adjournment point. He switched off his phone, letting it fall onto the bed. He let his gaze drift around the room, catching on Shubble’s bookshelf. It was filled with books and knick-knacks, plants shoved wherever there was room. On the highest shelf there was a small terrarium, a piece of porcelain stabbed in the middle.
He'd recognise that shard anywhere—of course Shubble was so sentimental. He’d have to tease her about it, of course. How long had it been since they argued about who caused the incident?
Quackity’s first year at university had descended into a fierce rivalry with the woman on the fifth floor. At first they started small—water balloons and unflattering photos—but she persisted, refusing to back down even as he upped the stakes again and again. He broke into Shubble’s room, so she hacked his laptop. He pranked her entire floor, and she trapped his room, the smell so bad he was now living in a spare room.
He was currently in the walls of the fifth floor—doing surveillance while Shubble was at dinner. She had taken to stashing her supplies up here, unaware that Quackity had tracked them down.
The duffle bag was in its usual spot, and Quackity quickly unzipped it, the sound screaming through the silence.
A handful of firecrackers sat inside.
Quackity’s heart roared in his ears, mind racing to work out what prank needed firecrackers.
The timer on his phone went off—shit, he needed to get out. He shoved the fireworks into his hoodie and hurried back, squeezing between walls and pipes in a blind rush. There was no good reason for Shubble to have those fireworks, he had to keep them out of her hands.
He popped open a wall panel and was just stepping onto the toilet when the door swung open.
Quackity froze, Shubble staring at him.
The next couple seconds flew past him. Shubble lunged for the firecracker sticking out of his pocket, and Quackity dived out of the way, more firecrackers clattering to the ground. Shubble tripped on one, stumbling across the room as Quackity scrambled to pick them up.
Somehow, one began sparking.
Shubble met his eyes, and they moved. She dived for the lit firework, Quackity opening the toilet as Shubble threw it in. They scrambled to get the other crackers away from it, Shubble covering the majority with her body when it went off.
The toilet shattered, and the rest was history.
Quackity was ripped from his nostalgia by a click at the door—it was 12:40, Tommy wasn’t kidding about later.
The door eased open, Shubble jumping when she spotted Quackity.
She huffed, lowering her shoulders. “You haven’t done that for a while.”
“You haven’t gone radio silent for a while,” he replied. “Are you ready for bagels?”
Shubble’s eyes flickered as she calculated her next move. “I’ll change into something comfy.” She grabbed a handful of clothes and stepped into the bathroom, emerging in a green cold-shoulder top and some old trackpants. She also wore a pair of black gloves, just slightly too short for her wrists.
She held out an arm to Quackity. “Let’s get this over with.”
Quackity accepted. “It’s going to be awful.”
The two walked arm-in-arm to the L'Manberg McPuffy’s, the place perfectly silent. While their first ever midnight talk had been over bagels, the campus bagel shop had long since shut down, limiting their options significantly.
Niki walked up to the front counter, a frown knitted across her brow. “Were you two ready to order?”
“Niki! What a lovely surprise.” He turned to Shubble. “She’s in charge of the Auslan class.”
“Oh, my brother is part of that,” she said. “Is the Auslan part of a bachelor’s degree?”
She blinked. “We don’t have—I’m not a—I’m not a teacher,” Niki said, scrambling for words.
She carried none of the confidence of the Auslan classes, so Quackity picked up the slack. “It’s just a community class, but the pest part is that it’s free.”
Shubble hummed, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Well, I think you should get paid,” she said. “Especially if you’ve managed to teach this guy.”
Niki stiffened, her retail smile fading.
“We’ll keep it simple tonight,” said Quackity, changing the subject. “Two Captain’s combos, one with a vanilla matcha latte and the other with a cola.”
Niki punched it in, automatically reading out the price. Shubble tapped her card before Quackity could protest, and the two found a table beside the floor-to-ceiling windows. A light hung directly over their table, bathing it in a comforting yellow light.
“You look like crap,” said Shubble.
Quackity scoffed. “Look at yourself! I reckon I’m wearing more makeup than you right now.”
Shubble stared at his face, then huffed. “I don’t think I got further than foundation this morning. You know how it is.”
Niki brought over their food, the two thanking her.
When Shubble reached for her fries her fingers tremored, a slight shake she couldn’t hold back.
He paused, midway through licking the burger sauce off his finger, examining Shubble closer. Goosebumps prickled across her exposed shoulders, but there was a redness to her cheeks—aone that couldn’t be explained by blush.
She raised an eyebrow, staring back at him. “So what’s your conclusion?”
He reached across the table, placing his clean hand against her forehead. “You’re running a fever.”
“Incorrect, it’s my period,” she said, knocking his hand away.
Quackity quickly retracted. “Right, so you’re—”
A glimmer appeared in Shubble’s eye.
He cut himself off. “—You’re fucking with me.”
She grinned. “Darn it, I almost had you, too!”
He laughed. “I haven’t lost my touch yet,” he said.
“Tommy fell for that one for years.” She took a bite of her burger.
“Is that so?” He grinned, relaxing into his chair. Despite his plan to leave politics in the office, Shubble had him using every trick he knew.
“So how are your classes going?” she asked, once she swallowed. “Still enjoying international relations?”
Quackity wrinkled his nose. “Not the biggest fan of business operations, but I’ll be done with it by the time summer hits.”
“I bet Professor Monothomas must be on your butt about your south American supply chain assignment.”
“Come on, Professor Manuel must be ready to kill you with how many times you’ve changed your thesis—is it four or five times now?”
“Three, actually.”
They glared at each other, Shubble breaking first.
“Aw man, I’ve missed this,” she sighed.
“Believe me, I’d be calling the hospital if you stopped stalking me.”
“The thesis was a low blow,” she added, taking a sip of her drink. “Straight in the chest.”
The two fell into conversation, exchanging gossip from their classes and how they felt about the midterms. Quackity kept poking at Shubble’s prank, half-questions pushed aside by Shubble each time. She kept up her air of nonchalance, and Quackity didn’t push it. He’d choose his moment.
When Shubble’s leg had stopped its bouncing and Quackity yawned between each sentence they called it quits, rising from their chairs and leaving McPuffy’s behind. They meandered through the campus, both reluctant to end their talk and return to their duties. As they walked across the damp pavement they spoke about their plans for the week—Quackity was a judge at the winter ball, while Shubble was staying home to catch up on her emails. They were both swamped with work, despite Shubble refusing to describe what her work entailed.
They lingered at each turn, but eventually made it to the elevators. Quackity made his move once they were inside.
“I can’t help but notice that March has started,” he said. “I heard you had big plans for February. Very big.”
She flinched. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“So what changed?” he asked.
The elevator stopped on the third floor, the doors opening.
“This is your stop,” said Shubble, voice steeling.
Quackity ignored her. “What could possibly get in the way when you’ve been planning your reveal for—what? Eight months?”
“Complications,” she said, golden eyes boring into his. “There’s been complications, and I won’t elaborate on that.”
She wasn’t going to budge on that point, so pushing was pointless. “Alright, I’ll keep my mouth shut. When should I expect the reveal?”
Her gaze dropped. “I can’t go handing out that information.”
Everybody knew Shubble was unreadable. She could carry secrets for decades, convince people of anything, and she did all of that in her free time. But Quackity knew Shubble. He recognised her facades, poked holes in them until she relented and gave him honesty.
Quackity knew Shubble. And he knew she was clueless. She didn’t know when her prank would be revealed, and that scared her.
The lift began to shut. Quackity put his hand in the way, the doors retracting.
He cleared his throat. “As much as I’d love to talk to you all evening, I should get going. I needed that.”
“Me too,” she said. “And I’m sorry.”
Quackity stepped out of the lift, hooking his thumb through his belt loop. “Hey, look after yourself.”
“I’ll try,” said Shubble.
The lift closed.
He forgot to ask about the terrarium.
Quackity sighed, taking the familiar path back to his dorm.
Notes:
Alright let's do the life update. I knocked back my hours working again so I'm now just doing 12 hours a week, and because of that I had time to get up to date with my Auslan classes and update this fic. I also have a contract now instead of just showing up to work and hoping the money made it to my bank account (it did :D) But yeah I've been loving work and loving Auslan and I'm feeling much better. Mum still has cancer but we caught it early, it should just be six months of chemo and then we're good :fingers crossed:
Anyway I'm counting down the chapters until Shubble's reveal you guys don't understand how obsessed I am with her character arc I've left so many incomprehensible messages to my friends.
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 29: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-92r1d5wiEs
Summary:
Tommy attends the midwinter ball, showing off his outfit (it has an amongus) then trying the punch (someone put skittles in it) and finding Lazar with an unlikely friend (FUCKING SUGAMON??) And just like the 2008 wiggles DVD You Make Me Feel Like Dancing, Tommy wants to dance the night away
Wordcount: 3.9k
Estimated reading time: 15 minutes
Date published: March 15th, 2025
Notes:
take a shot anytime someone smiles, grins or beams in this chapter
Shawn added another pin to his WEDDING ARCH board, enjoy <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tommy’s dress shoes squeaked as he ran through the campus, following the flow of people towards the Sports Centre. He’d underestimated how long it would take him to get Shubble’s suit on and was now facing the consequences. Never before did Tommy think Cinderella would be relatable to him, but he felt a spiritual communion, almost able to imagine Mouse-James-Cordon sitting on his shoulder.
Clementine zipped to his side. “Still no sign of Blue and Yellow, we’ve got time.”
He slowed. “Fuck me. Let’s never do that again.” The doorway came into view, music streaming into the sunset-bathed courtyard. Excitement hung in the air, smiles stretching across everyone’s faces. The students around him were in various levels of formal-wear, some pulling off classy dresses and curling their hair while others changed into their cleanest trackpants.
When Tommy stepped inside, his jaw dropped.
The gauntlet magic had transformed the place, making the atmosphere—well, magical. The scuffed basketball court lines had been covered over with old wooden beams, the colour of coffee and polished until they gleamed. The wood-panelled walls were hidden behind grey curtains, pillars of flowers placed at regular intervals. Those same flowers sat in bouquets on the tables around the edge of the ballroom, but the centre was free and ready for dancing.
“Tommy, game plan,” said Clementine.
He shook off his stupor, beelining for the disabled bathroom.
Three people stood in line outside of it, and Tommy swore. “What now?”
“Let’s try the squash courts,” said Clementine. “Especially behind the bleachers—they’re so comfortable, especially when you have to stay there for an hour.”
“Oh shut up, it wasn’t that long,” said Tommy, changing direction and moving upstairs.
“I used a stopwatch. I spent forty-nine minutes cramped back there while you had your little dance party.”
“Boo-fucking-hoo,” said Tommy, stepping into the squash courts. He didn’t bother turning the lights on, instead using his phone torch as he travelled around the side of the bleachers. Not beneath them, but enough that he couldn’t be seen from the entrance.
He pulled up a reference image of his dress, a notification appearing from Tubbo.
“He says he’s arrived,” said Tommy, swiping it away. “I need you to wipe the floor with him when you dance.”
“And break cover as your shadow?” said Clementine. “I’m going to make you eat shit.”
“Fuck you,” said Tommy, staring at his reference image. He needed to get the pattern right, and that involved stretching the limits of what was normally allowed. Hopefully it wasn’t too far—if it turned into a Fire Elsa dress he was killing himself.
“Mask up,” he said, closing his eyes and focusing on the snowflake design he wanted—and it better not be Mrs. Claus, either.
The magical rose petals replaced his suit with a gown that sat just above his ankles. The dress was icy white from the hem to midway up his calves, the applique shaped like thousands of snowflakes—each one with a unique shape. Well, they were probably unique, he wasn’t fucking checking. A few of the snowflakes swirled upwards over the garnet fabric, but it was mostly uninterrupted, creating the illusion of his dress being snow-dusted. His bodice had a low V-neck, a row of the applique sitting around his waist to break up the red.
Clementine emerged a few seconds after him, pulling out his phone and beginning to type.
Calm your horse I’ll be there soon
“Calm your horse?” Tommy repeated, in sign.
Clementine smirked. “He not notice,” she signed, pointing at the phone.
Tubbo started typing, but replied with only a thumbs-up emoji.
“Not notice,” she repeated, grin widening. “Me go F-I-R-E E-X-I-T,” she signed. She had to repeat the fingerspelling twice before Tommy caught it. It always took a couple minutes for his signing-brain to kick into gear.
The two split up, Tommy taking the stairs down to the ballroom. He focused on the distant strings of the orchestra, his dress swishing back and forth. He rested a hand on the stair rail as he descended, the motion finally coming to him naturally. If Tommy-From-Orientation could see him now he wouldn’t recognise him. Once he did he’d call Tommy a dickhead, but in eight months he’d travelled so far. He could even call people dickheads in Auslan.
People fell silent when he walked past them, whether in admiration or out of respect, so Tommy rolled his eyes, pressing his hand to his chest and taking exaggerated bows, until everyone laughed. He eased the atmosphere with each person he met, giving finger-guns before continuing on his way.
Tommy paused at the entrance, tapping his heels together and letting his rose petals flow. He glided across the wooden floors, relaxing as the music washed over him.
He came across a trail of golden glitter, and he followed it until he found the source. Yellow’s dress was covered in glitter, so strong that Tommy couldn’t see where the magic trail ended and the dress began.
She raised a brown hand, smiling with blinding-white teeth.
“Beautiful!” signed Tommy, his mouth hanging open.
“Thanks! Love your dress,” she signed. “B-L-U-E meet see?”
“No,” he signed. “Maybe later?”
“Soon,” signed Yellow. “Dance start one-hour.”
“Me win,” he signed, quirking a grin. He mimed out dancing, then the audience’s gasping and cheering.
Yellow didn’t scoff and argue back like she usually did. “Maybe. First want socialising.”
“Socialising!” Tommy agreed, nodding along. “See you later?”
“With B!” she signed, a gentle smile on her face.
With an hour to kill, Tommy found himself by the doorway, welcoming people as they entered. Every new entrant had the same awe-struck expression, the magic brimming through the air almost palpable.
Of course, the real magic started when Tommy inserted himself into the conversation. Whether they knew Auslan or not, he welcomed them in, complimenting their outfits and giving petal-filled swirls. He didn’t leave until he’d made every person laugh, conversation bubbling around him.
His routine was interrupted by the entrance of an unlikely pair; Lazar and Sugamon. He rushed over, ready to intervene before Lazar acted out.
But Lazar wasn’t speaking, it was Sugamon. “I remember when I first read about green spaces—it’s common sense that being around nature improves mood, but the sheer number of benefits blew me away,” said Sugamon, gesturing about with his brown fingernails. All the staff members at Lanthem had brown nail polish—and it was ugly as shit.
Lazar nodded along, raptured by the president. “Even lowering crime!” he added.
“Exactly,” he said. “Have you read Bush and Doyon’s study on green spaces and social inclusion? It’s based on Australian data but is so thought-provoking, it’s a ripper!”
Lazar snorted. “A fucking ripper? Too right, mate.”
Tommy came to a stop right in front of them, thoughts vanishing.
“Ah, Red! You look stunning as always,” said Sugamon.
Lazar looked up, his eyes landing on her. “How’s it going?”
“Good!” signed Tommy, giving a complimentary twirl. “How are you?”
“How am I?” said Sugamon. “Absolutely thrilled to be here. This night will be an excellent reprieve, especially after the stress of midterms. Yes, absolutely cruisy.”
Lazar snorted. “This place better have snacks.”
“Lazar, have you met the head of landscaping?” said Sugamon. “Gara Dennings, she’s the one who can answer your specific questions.”
“Gar Denning?” Lazar said, a frown on his face.
“Close enough! I’ll leave you two to enjoy the night.” Sugamon travelled into the crowd without another word.
“That guy’s a fucking legend,” said Lazar.
Tommy tilted his head.
“Aw, come on. Surely you know legend.”
When Tommy’s blank look continued, he shrugged. “You Americans and your fucken—legend is easy.”
“Australian S-L-A-N-G?” Tommy guessed, bringing his hands up in a pinch and dropping it again for Australia.
“Don’t know that one,” said Lazar. “I can do happy birthday, though.”
Tommy rolled his eyes, then mimed out a kangaroo jumping.
“Oh, Australian?” he said. When Tommy nodded, he grinned. “You know, that’s the funny part. Because he’s not.” He leaned back again, swaying ever so slightly.
Before Tommy could ask what the fuck he was talking about, he rolled back his shoulders. “Let’s not spoil the party on that one, ey? There’s gotta be food around here somewhere.”
He wandered away without a backward glance, a slight stumble in his step. Was he fucking high?
All Tommy could do was shake his head, unable to wipe the smile from his face. Of course it was fucking Lazar Beam.
He entertained more people as they went in, drifting towards the food around the edge of the ballroom. Punch bowls sat on each table—all non-alcoholic, of course. Such a shame when Tommy loved getting intoxicated and drinking and being drunk.
A student sat on either side of one such punch bowl, both wearing black sunglasses and folding their arms. They stared at every person who approached the bowl, stepping aside when they got close enough, giving each person a nod, to the delight of the onlookers.
Tommy moved closer, trying to work out the meaning of the display when he was pulled aside by two students—both in grey-striped button-up shirts.
“Can you help us spike the punch?” said Helena.
He took a step back before he could think, mind racing.
“No, no, not real spiking,” she clarified. “We’re using skittles.”
“Here,” said the second, holding up a bag of skittles littles. “It’s for the bit.”
He huffed, miming wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“The security guards are in on it, too,” said Helena. “Wanna be our distraction?”
Fuck yes, he did.
He spent the next twenty minutes fucking around with the punch bowl, engaging the guards in conversation while Helena snuck—AKA commando-rolled—up to the bowl, dropping skittles in with a plop. Each time they successfully landed one, the guards made a huge fuss about fishing it out with the ladle, asking bystanders if they’d seen any suspicious behaviour and even interrogating willing students. It generated laughs all around, others joining in on the distractions.
At one point the lights above them dimmed, the music swelling as a spotlight travelled to the doorway. Blue stepped into it, her dress glimmering with silver lacework, a sheer cape over her shoulders with even more beads.
Tommy straightened, trying to get a closer look.
Blue raised a slow hand, inclining her head. Where the fuck was Tommy’s entrance? Why didn’t he get a custom fucking entrance performance?
The lights faded back, the spotlight easing away. The conversations grew back around him, Blue stepping into the crowd.
He left the skittles shenanigans behind, carving a path towards Blue. He needed to see that dress in detail—it was like she was trying to out-sparkle Yellow.
When he got closer, he had to stop his eyes from widening, instead making small talk with Blue. Her bodice had a low V, lined with silver beads and crystals, the patterns continuing around and up her back, curling right up to her neck. The skirt was covered in constellations—nowhere near as busy as Tommy’s embroidery, but the empty space was captivating.
Yellow soon joined them, and Tommy caught her staring at the dress, too. She failed to hide her curiosity, nodding along to Tommy and Blue’s conversation without actually watching the signs.
Blue shifted, her dress glimmering in the light, and Yellow’s eyes widened. She took a step forward before stopping herself, closing her mouth.
He shared a look with Blue, mirth twinkling in her grey eyes.
She turned her attention towards Tommy’s dress, looking him up and down before eventually landing on his waist. “Your belt?” she signed, brow furrowed.
Tommy looked down, smirking at the line of white applique. “Amongus,” he signed, making a crewmate with his fingers. “Little amongus my belt,” he signed, showing how they were hidden between the snowflakes.
Blue’s shoulders shook in laughter, and she rolled her eyes.
“You-two ready dance?” asked Yellow, raising her eyebrows.
“Ready,” Blue repeated.
“Last-week we practised,” signed Tommy. “Me best dancer.”
“I teach-her,” Blue added.
“Best teacher,” Tommy agreed. “But me best dancer.”
“Maybe you best,” signed Yellow, a mysterious glint in her eye. “Or maybe I surprise you.”
Tommy scoffed, bringing two fists into a fighting stance and beckoning Yellow closer.
“Fighting?” signed Blue, widening her eyes. “No, no. Dancing first. Fighting later,” she signed, repeating it for emphasis.
“Dancing when?” asked Yellow. “Me waiting long time.”
“Teacher welcome first,” Blue signed.
He tilted his head. “Teacher?”
Blue did the sign higher. “Headmaster? I forgot sign. S-U-G-A-M-O-N.”
Just as she signed it, the music faded, the chatter of the crowd dying down. Their attention was drawn to a small stage sitting on the back wall, President Sugamon grabbing a microphone.
“Alright, I promise I won’t ramble,” Sugamon began, clearing his throat. “I’m here to kick off tonight’s event, but first I have some well-earned praise to give out. L'Manberg’s gauntlet events are some of the most memorable parts of the term, and have a reputation that stretches far beyond our campus,” he said. “Whether it’s for light-hearted games on the quad or stunning events like this, the magic in this university always manages to surprise me.
‘But believe it or not, the magic doesn’t arrange everything—there wouldn’t be much need for our staff if it did. No, the true magic is all the wonderful people making this event happen. From the catering team’s incredible canapes to the student orchestra’s ensemble pieces—all with only a week’s notice, too. I cannot express how proud I am of every person working behind the scenes, from creating the night’s itinerary to keeping the heater on.
“When I look around this room, I’m met with hundreds of leaders—not just dance leads, but individuals working to improve the L'Manberg community. A real leader is chosen by their people because they're strong enough to protect them—and to listen to them and to treat them with respect. And I'm not losing sight of that. Neither should you,” he said, voice softening. It was a twang he hadn’t heard before, probably from affection. Lazar would say something batshit, of course, but Sugamon wasn’t like that. His oddities were too endearing to raise any eyebrows—and he was the president, he could afford to be odd.
“Tonight all of us will get a chance to lead—and a chance to follow, too. Instead of making decisions about what to study and who to prioritise, we’ll be deciding who to dance with next, whose company to enjoy on such a lovely night. Thank you.”
He handed the microphone to the emcee, who started directing people to the edges of the room, the musicians beginning to play at a low volume.
Tommy’s heart lurched in his chest, and he shared a look with the other mascots. Blue’s eyes were darting around, but Yellow seemed perfectly relaxed.
“Go over there?” she signed, a single hooked finger pointing towards the centre of the ballroom.
You know what? He’d had enough of mascoting. He was feeling tired—no, sick. It was the spiked punch bowl—he was roofied, this was a medical emergency. “Easy,” he found himself signing. “Quick dance quick win. Me winner.”
“Dance before decide,” signed Yellow. “Come, come.”
He followed Blue and Yellow to the edge of the ballroom floor, his heart roaring in his ears. He hardly dared to breathe as he watched the other dancers step forward—three from each house. He caught eyes with Clementine, standing with the crowd on the opposite side of the ballroom. She stared directly at Tommy, ignoring everyone else around them.
“Support-you,” she signed, mouth set in a thin line. “Have seven words. Will use seven words.”
Tommy managed the slightest incline of his head, before his view was interrupted by his partner stepping into place. He was a young man in a classic tailcoat, a budding rose sitting in his shirt pocket. The other dancers lined up on either side of them, the women in one row and the men in the other.
The ensemble began another song, strings rising and falling in a regular pattern. The pair at the end of each line joined hands, stepping in time onto the floor. Tommy’s hands began to shake.
Head straight, sent Clementine.
He flinched, locking his head straight forward, into the blue eyes of his partner.
The next pairs began walking, but Tommy didn’t dare look away.
His partner inclined his head the slightest amount, then held his hand out to Tommy. He accepted, the two turning and walking onto the dance floor. Tommy stared at the crowd, watching his partner from the corner of his eye.
They moved at a slow, rhythmic pace until the pairs were arranged in a circle, the men in the middle and the women at the outside. All the men dropped their partner’s hands on cue, stepping into a bow.
Okay, just like the videos he watched on youtube. At the next beat, he gave a slow, elegant curtsey, the other women doing it, too.
He rose again, keeping his back ramrod straight. His partner stepped inwards, and Tommy saw a blur from the corner of his eyes, the other pairs moving into position. Tommy closed the gap between him and his partner, letting him guide the placement of his hands.
His hands were coated with sweat, but he forced his feet into the proper dancing position, letting an empty smile stretch across his lips.
The music swelled, and Tommy took a deep breath. His partner squeezed his hand, and they were off.
They swayed around the ballroom, Tommy devoting all his concentration to counting the beats in his head. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. They weren’t travelling in a simple square but a wide circle around the dance floor, his dress flaring out behind him. His partner guided him through each turn, pulling his arm just before they swung into the movement, the music rising to a high, the violins playing the same note three times.
Swap! sent Clementine, as his partner let go of his arm.
Tommy twirled out blindly, his heart racing, but his loose hand was caught by another, pulling him into his chest. Holy fuck. His new partner took off again, Tommy stumbling as he tried to keep up. He quickly found his rhythm, head still reeling from the partner change.
His new partner was taller, keeping a firmer grip on his arm as they went around. It helped Tommy keep his back straight, picking up the pattern faster this time. He made sure his smile was still wide, his heart racing not just from fear but from physical exertion. This wasn’t the slow waltz he practised with Clementine—it even paled with Blue’s speed. Hopefully she was struggling, too.
Swap! Clementine sent again, as the violins repeated their note. Tommy twirled outwards, this time ready for the new hand to pull him in. He continued around and around, Clementine giving him cues just before they happened, Tommy finally growing confident in the pattern. Glitter and rose petals mingled on the floor, the mascot’s glittery dresses throwing light across the room.
As Tommy danced, his wrist began to tingle, a prickly sensation like when his mascot bracelet burned. He stole a glance at his wrist, spotting his house points number gently increase. He was doing it—he was earning points.
The violins began their three notes, Clementine sending her prompt.
Sw—
The message was cut short, but Tommy spun around regardless, grabbing hands with his new partner. Clementine had used her seven words, Tommy was on his own.
Swap? he sent, as he made his next spin. I’ve got it covered. This time, his smile was genuine, the music swelling until it echoed through the room.
He was back with his original partner, the two moving with confidence. His partner squeezed his hand as the violins began again, and Tommy spun out.
The violins sounded a fourth time, his partner keeping a tight grip of his hand.
Tommy panicked, spinning back inwards. They took one final step, then moved into a lunge, Tommy gripping his partner with far too much force.
The music faded out, and he eased back into a standing position. They stepped out to do their bows, applause breaking out across the ballroom. Holy shit, he did it.
He curtseyed long and low, his smile as wide as ever. The applause continued as they made their way off the floor, Blue and Yellow both puffing.
The lights faded back on, the presenter stepping onto the small stage and explaining the judging process. Tommy turned to Blue and Yellow, asking how they felt.
The three gushed about the dance, whatever the presenter saying going right over his head. Blue excitedly described a spin she pulled off, Yellow jumping in for a hug before quickly pulling back, beaming once again.
One of the judges walked a piece of paper to the stage, the crowd falling silent. Tommy found the three other red dancers, sticking close to his partner as the emcee accepted the envelope.
“Tonight we had three houses dancing, but there can only be one winner,” he said. He opened the envelope. “And that winner is the Blue house!”
Blue covered her mouth, then climbed to the stage with the other blue house dancers. They accepted flowers from the host, Blue stepping forward. She looked at the person beside her, signing a quick, “Interpret?”
He nodded, stepping up to the microphone.
“Thank you everyone,” signed Blue, her partner repeating the words aloud. “This night beautiful, beautiful people beautiful music. Thank you music, thank you teachers. She looked over to where Tommy and Yellow stood. “Thank you red house, thank you yellow house. Love dancing with you-two.” She nodded, then turned to the rest of the audience. “Thank you everyone. Thank you, thank you,” she signed, using two hands to emphasise the motion.
They applauded again as Blue stepped back, sharing a quiet word with the other blue house dancers.
The emcee smiled. “And now I’d like to open the floor for the victor’s dance, cue the music!”
Blue smiled again, passing aside her flowers as she and her partner rushed out to the dance floor.
This song had a slower pace, but the extra room allowed for Blue to glide around and around, twisting in close to her partner before swinging away again. The two had such wide grins, chuckling to each other and teasing as they went round and around.
The music swelled, Blue tossing back her head as she was lifted into the air, her cape flying out behind her. When she hit the ground something shifted, mist billowing from the bottom of her dress.
Gasps sounded from the crowd, Yellow grabbing Tommy’s hand and squeezing.
Blue continued to dance, the mist flowing out behind her dress covering the rose petals and glitter on the floor. She twirled around, the mist swirling outwards and making Tommy’s jaw drop. Blue had finally gotten her trail—and it was perfect.
Yellow grabbed his other hand, pulling him onto the dance floor with a bounce in her step. Tommy pulled her close, others rushing in with their own partners until the whole hall was a blur of dresses and laughter.
That night, Tommy dreamed of twirling beneath the stars.
Notes:
The first part of this chapter killed me, it took sooo long to write. Yesterday I went "Okay I'm going to type up the whole chapter" and then I spent seven whole hours trying to do just that and had an awful time. Today I carved out 7 more hours and got twice as much done, AND listened to the story with text to speech AND got it posted. I planned to get it all done on Friday night but my brain just wasn't having it lmao.
Okay sit down I'm going to give you a piece of writing advice--and just creating advice, in general. Notice how in the paragraph above I didn't go "it took me TWO HOURS to write 100 words"? That was on purpose. I once read that you should never say how long a piece of art took you, and the more I write the more I agree with it. There's two reasons for this. The first is that people don't deserve to know if this is your full effort or just a quick hour-long session. That's none of their business, they either like the finished product or they don't.
The second thing is that when I started writing, I could work for five hours and get 200 words. But now? On a good day I can get that same amount in around fifteen minutes--and it'll be a far higher quality, too. But when I was thirteen and pouring hours and hours into these various scenes, if my favourite author said "haha I wrote this whole 5k today when I had some spare time :P" It would have made me feel awful, like I wasn't a real writer. The truth is that the amount of time spent on a piece isn't directly proportional to quality.
How long did this chapter take for me to write? None of your business. It could have been two hours, it could have been twenty, you don't get to know. As my writing improves I'll be able to create this level of quality faster, and I'll start adding on extra levels.I cannot for the life of me find where I originally heard the tip--it's not even in my writing advice archive. When I tell you I've seen and downloaded every piece of writing advice on pinterest I meant it. I have thousands of images downloaded and sorted into categories on my computer (long before the advent of board sections, I've been doing this since 2019)
Anyways that's my yapping about nothing done, leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 30: Tomato Wars: Return of the Tony
Summary:
Tommy lays a trap for Tomatony, it goes as well as you'd expect. Then he gets stalked by the president (not clickbait)
Wordcount: 2.4k
Estimated reading time: 9 minutes
Date published: March 22nd, 2025
Notes:
Congratulations, you've been reading for 100k words! ☜(ﾟヮﾟ☜)
We're all going to pretend this chapter was released on the fourteenth. I've officially fallen one week behind my scheduled uploads so now I'm frantically shuffling things around, but I've finally found a routine where I can get consistent uploads, yippee!! Look at me posting this chapter before 11pm yippee!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday the fourteenth.
The date meant nothing to most people—perhaps a butchered Friday the thirteenth reference, but nothing more. But to Tommy it was groundhog day. He wasn’t leaving for a single minute, not when Tomatony would surely arrive.
He’d have no choice but to face Tommy man-to-man. No more masks, no more tricks, he’d have to knock on the door or not show up at all.
Tommy spent the morning finishing off Crime and Punishment—the last assigned reading for Philza’s class. He’d skipped ahead from where he and Tubbo got to in their last reading session, but they would just reread it later.
When he got sick of Raskolnikov’s couch, he opened his document of prank ideas, untouched from before the midterm rush. “Okay, we need to get serious,” said Tommy. “Clementine?”
“Huh?” she said, appearing at his side.
“We’ve gotta start planning pranks—and planning them properly.”
She cracked her knuckles, leaning up to the laptop screen. “Hell yeah, what are we thinking?”
“I don’t have the budget to do object pranks,” said Tommy. “So that rules off the tinfoil library and the laser stairs, but I need to do something big—and before finals come.”
“How are the materials looking?”
Tommy pulled a cardboard box out from beneath the desk. “Duct tape, sharpies, noise maker, silly string—” he dug deeper, everything cluttering against each other. “Food colouring, zip ties, and glitter.”
She hummed. “None of those can really work for a big prank.”
“I can duct tape something whenever I fucking want, but Red can do better,” he agreed. “Have there been any good pranks done with zip ties?”
She lifted into the air, reclining back and putting a finger to her chin. “Not that I remember—there’s been small things—like tying chairs to tables—but nothing big. Got any ideas?”
“I could do a sculpture or something—I’d need a shit-ton more, of course.”
“A sculpture, right,” she said. “Any idea of what it’ll be? There’s been many sculptures over the years—most of them dicks.”
“…Never mind, then.”
Clementine rolled forward until she sat in front of the box. “What’s the food dye for? Are you gonna spike the fountains?”
“Ooh—has that been done yet?”
“It happens every other year or so,” she said. “Gets kids suspended and forking the damage bill.”
“I actually had a different idea in mind,” he said. “Do you ever wonder how much food is made daily in the dining hall?” he said. “I did the math on it when I couldn’t stand Philza’s lecture, and it’s a fucking lot.”
“Well, most students eat there every day.”
“But imagine if we tampered with it—not poisoning it or anything stupid, but something to make people chuckle. Chuckles are fucking overrated but I’ll be dishing them out—it’ll even improve the house spirit,” he said, flicking at his bracelet.
Clementine flinched, then glared at him. “How so?”
“What’s more red house than red fucking food? Food that everyone has to eat, because it’s all red.” He slapped the bottle of food colouring, liquid sloshing inside. “That’s where this bad boy comes in.”
“I like it,” said Clementine. “Let’s get this planned.”
The two spent the next hour hashing out all sorts of details; the layout of the food court, Tommy’s performance, the amount of dye needed to cover an entire mealtime, which mealtime they wanted to target, and so much more. Tommy typed out his notes as he went, putting their questions at the bottom of the document. The two most pressing ones were labelled allergies and entry.
“I could put up signs saying the type of dye used,” said Tommy. “But it does ruin the mystique.”
“Maybe we could make it part of the performance, get someone to hand out flyers?”
“But there might be nobody allergic—it’s a rare fucking allergy. And the people who do have it clearly aren’t going to try and eat bright red porridge.”
“Yeah, and just let them starve? Where else are they going to eat—McPuffy’s is full of Red 40.”
He groaned. “I’ll send out a fucking survey, put a bouncer at the door, I don’t know!”
He grabbed his first snack of the day—that’s right, bitch, he stocked up. Tommy wasn’t leaving for anything, he was prepared for whatever Tomatony had planned.
His conversation with Clementine petered out as they got caught on what they didn’t know, still too many questions for Tommy to solidify any plans. His concentration slowly faded as there was no sign of Tomatony. He double-checked the room before ducking to the toilet, then triple-checked it when he came back out.
But there was nothing, not until late in the afternoon when every student grew rowdy.
There was a scrape above him, something firm bouncing off his head. A tomato.
The roof. Of course they were coming from the roof—how the fuck would he have guessed? Tommy snapped upwards, a ceiling panel slamming shut above him. “Oi!”
He stumbled onto the bed and reached for the roof, shoving at the panel. “GET BACK HERE, BITCH!”
Tony didn’t respond, shuffling and thumping somewhere above him.
“FUCK YOU!” He jumped from the bed, grabbing Shubble’s chair and balancing it on his mattress. No time for safety, this was his chance. He climbed on top, sticking his head through the roof.
The dusty air was pitch-black, Tommy spinning around hopelessly as his heart roared. “Can you see him?”
“Use your phone torch,” said Clementine. He didn’t bother to check where she was, just whipped out his phone and illuminated the crawlspace. Dust filled the air, the harsh white light casting strong shadows over the support beams. The space was only a foot or so high, stretching out until it hit the walls where it dropped into darkness, exits spreading in all directions.
Tony was gone.
Tommy failed, once again. He lowered himself from the chair, shuffling the ceiling panel back into place. He returned the chair to the desk, then himself to his bedside.
The tomato sat on his pillow.
Clementine’s lips were pressed together, eyes blown wide. When she noticed his gaze, she burst out laughing, a boisterous sound that should have bounced off the walls but instead travelled on and on.
Good. “Fuck you and your stupid fucking ghost ass,” he muttered. “You could have at least warned me, you can fucking look through walls.”
“And ruin the fun?”
“That was not fun—”
“—For you, maybe. I had a great time.”
“—Fuck you. I’m quitting.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m dropping out, I’m moving back to the UK where the food actually tastes like fucking food.”
“Guess I better look for the next mascot—hey, there’s this guy called Tony, he’s got good potential.”
Tommy rolled his eyes, refusing to take the bait. Maybe he could bother Ranboo, instead.
While Tubbo would laugh at him and tell him to suck it up, he could bitch to Ranboo all night without getting any of that.
He took a bite of the tomato, then shuddered, spitting it in the bin. The rest of the tomato followed. Fucking disgusting fruity-ass piece of shit. He wasn’t waiting in here a moment longer.
Clementine winced when he slammed the door. “It’s not that bad,” she said. “I mean, you knew he was coming and he sure did come.”
“Enough gloating,” said Tommy, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Who can blame you for not looking up? People never do.”
“Fuck off, how was I supposed to know to watch out for my fucking ceiling—nobody is going around like ‘Fuck! There’s a roof here—” He looked up, then fake-flinched. “HOLY SHIT, THERE’S ONE HERE, TOO!”
The people around him jumped, but Tommy continued without a second thought. “So actually fuck you, fuck your mother and fuck your fucking tomatoes.”
Clementine wheezed as Tommy made his way outside, Tommy allowing himself a smile.
“You should put ketchup on the dining hall food,” she eventually said. “Team up with Tony.”
“Fuck no,” said Tommy. “Team up with my nemesis? I’d rather kill myself.”
“Well yeah, but he’s not Red’s nemesis. It doesn’t solve the allergy question, but I think he would be down for it.”
“I should be allergic to tomatoes—then I could call Tony fucking atheist.”
“You mean ableist,” said Clementine. “Atheist is for people who aren’t religious.”
“Fuck off.”
He stormed around the edge of the quad towards the Blue dormitories, so fast that he slammed into another person.
They both stumbled, a nasal Australian tone greeting him. “Are you okay?”
He jumped back. “Watch where you’re—”
President Sugamon met his eyes.
“—I’m fine, I’m fine,” he muttered.
“What, not going to cuss out the president?” said Clementine.
The president froze, then cleared his throat. “Good—I—good. Did—were you looking for a chat?” he said.
“No,” he replied.
Sugamon adjusted his coat, the same colour as his brown nails.
“Why are the professor nails so fucking ugly?” he said, before he could think.
“I’m sorry?”
“Why brown? S’fucking ugly, if you ask me. You could have gone with a white—even green would have looked better.”
Sugamon swallowed. “Well, unfortunately we have very little influence on the magic of the university. To change something like that you’d have to go much higher than me,” he chuckled. “The mascots would be a good place to start, they know far more about such magical matters.”
Well, that gave him fucking nothing.
“It’s polite to respond to people,” said Clementine, smirking.
“Aight,” he said, the pinnacle of politeness.
Neither moved, both meeting each other’s eyes before dropping away again.
The man clearly wanted something to do—and Tommy may as well get some answers while he was at it.
Sugamon stroke his beard. “Well—”
“I need to know the allergies of every student,” said Tommy.
When Sugamon blinked, he added, “It’s for my book report.”
“… Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to hand out private medical information,” said Sugamon. “However, we do run a yearly census of the student population—our wonderful librarians should be able to point you in the right direction.” He nodded. “Yes, they will have the information for…”
“My book report, yep,” said Tommy. “Fucking excellent, I’ll fuck off, now,” he said, shoving his hands back in his pockets.
Sugamon dipped his head. “Glad I could be of assistance. Enjoy your afternoon, Tommy.”
“Whatever,” he muttered, stepping into the lively blue dorms.
He made it all the way to the elevators before he processed Sugamon’s words.
“How the fuck did he know my name?”
“Who?” said Clementine.
“Sugamon,” he said, as he stepped into the lift. “I told him jackshit—he’s fucking stalking me.”
“You?” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Yikes, even I could do better than that.”
“Fuck off with your fucking victim blaming, bitch.”
Clementine just shrugged. “He could just know everyone’s names.”
“Fat fucking maybe,” he said, stepping onto Ranboo’s floor. “Have you seen how many students there are? I’m being stalked—he’s going to lock me in his presidential basement even though it’s ableist.”
“I think you mean—huh. What actually do you mean?”
“I have basement PTSD, so putting me in one is ableist as fuck. I know what fucking words mean.” He knocked on Ranboo’s door.
“Why do you have basement PTSD?”
Ranboo opened the door, rugged up in a L'Manberg hoodie and wearing constellation socks. “Oh, Tommy.”
“The president is stalking me,” he said, pushing inside without another word.
“I—guess we’re doing this, okay.”
He flopped onto Ranboo’s couch, grabbing the remote. “D’you have Netflix?”
“…Can we go back to the stalking part? What did Sugamon do?”
“he was a bitch-ass creep who used my name before I told it to him—it was proper stalking stuff. I’m talking sparkly vampire levels.” He opened up Netflix, only to get hit with the login screen. “Fuck.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” said Ranboo, closing the door. “I don’t think you have, but you don’t have any awards or—or any reason to be in the newsletter, right? I would have written it down if you did.”
He snorted. “You gonna hang it up on the fridge, too? But no, I’ve done fuck-all this year.”
Ranboo hummed, scanning through the pages of his notebook. “Oh! Does he know your sister?”
Tommy slumped, dropping the remote and groaning into a pillow. “Fuck. Of course he fucking does. It’s always Shubble, isn’t it?”
“She—She must get around a lot?” said Ranboo.
Tommy glanced up, catching Ranboo’s grey eyes. What a fucking dork.
“I mean, I haven’t actually met her but you’re always talking about how busy she is. I know Tubbo saw her but I didn’t ask him about it because I didn’t want to be rude but—but yeah!”
Ranboo and his dorky constellation socks and overly ripped jeans, a fucking vase of flowers sitting in his kitchenette.
If anyone messed with him Tommy would fucking deck them.
“Are—Are you—”
“Nice flowers,” he interrupted. “Bitch.”
He huffed. “Thanks.” He took a step closer, then hesitated.
Tommy sighed, shuffling over and patting the couch next to him. “I guess we can use my Netflix,” he said. “But we’re watching British Bakeoff.”
“Okay Tommy,” said Ranboo, sitting down.
“Don’t be such a bitch about it.”
“Okay Tommy,” he repeated, smiling.
Ranboo wasn’t big on smiling, Tommy had noticed. In every photo they took he hardly curved his lips, and he did barely that for greetings. But when he did smile properly, his whole face lit up, eyes crinkling as he gave his full attention to whatever made him so happy.
Like that one Gyattsby quote, what was it? One of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible fuckery in your favour. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.
Not that he’d ever mention that sappy shit. Especially when he could be watching Kim Joy.
Notes:
the vase of flowers in Ranboo's kitchen is actually the winner's bouquet from the winter ball, which was "given" to him by the mascot lmao.
This fic is tagged with Chekhov's Gun which is a writing tool coined by Anton Chekhov. He basically said "If you're hanging a gun on the wall in the first scene, it better go off before the story ends." With this story there are so many guns on the wall. There's guns in every chapter, guns setting up for next week and guns setting up for two year's time. You won't be ready for these twists. This is your first and final warning.
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 31: Pranks and U-Turns
Summary:
Tommy searches for information for his next prank, bumping into old friends along the way.
Wordcount: 2.1k
Estimated reading time: 8 minutes
Date published: March 29th, 2025
Notes:
As I'm posting this chapter the fic has 2,027 views which is really cool because it's part of my favourite date which is May 7 2027.
This chapter is not edited because I got absolutely wiped out, it took me long enough as it is to type this out.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tommy sat in a deserted corner of the library, leafing through the index of the L'Manberg 2023 Census. They hadn’t released the 2024 one yet, but hopefully it had some indication of food allergies. Allergy wasn’t listed in the index, but Tommy had tried every other phrase he could think of. A for accommodations, D for diet, even H for health. But there was no such luck.
The librarian on duty had also found him a study on student health, but he needed one about L'Manberg students.
He checked the final entry in the index, then groaned, slamming the book shut. “I could be playing mario kart right now.”
“Where’s that red house morale of yours?” said Clementine. “Would Red give up?”
“Red would say fuck you, ugly bitch,” he said, signing as he did so. “Trust me, I know the chick myself.”
“I’ll cancel your mascot magic.” She clicked her fingers. “Boom, magic gone. Go back to writing your own footnotes.”
“Ha-fucking-ha,” said Tommy, slumping further into his chair.
Clementine’s form faded, he voice growing fainter. “Wait, what did you say? I can’t… your voice…”
He twanged his mascot bracelet, Clementine snapping back to reality.
“Rude,” she said.
“Sugamon was just fobbing us off,” said Tommy, pointing at his books. “He just wanted us to get off his ass while he has his sponsor parties.
“And what are you going to do about it?” said Clementine. “Invite yourself?”
“I just might have to,” he said, peeling himself out of his chair. “But whatever I’m doing, it’s not happening here.”
He took his books to the returns shelf, giving the librarian a nod when he left. Unfortunately, he didn’t know where Sugamon’s sponsor parties were hosted, so he found himself lingering across the campus, eventually ending up at the gauntlet fountain. The cup at the top no longer held a plume of flame, the water gently flowing from top to bottom.
The Red house had fallen since he last checked—closer in score to the Blue house rather than the Yellow. Well, their score hadn’t changed too much, but Blue had shot right up after winning the ballroom dancing.
“Ooh, Yellow has her synergetic level-up,” said Clementine.
“IS THAT THE FUCKING GUN ONE?” he said, looking at the Yellow total once again.
“Yeah—well, it’s probably not a gun, who knows what it could be,” she said. “I think last time it was… oh, it was magical concealer. She’d brush anything with it and it would disappear.”
He let out a low whistle. “Not as good as a gun, but I’d take that shit any day.”
“You’re only a week or so off yourself, you know,” she said. “You and Blue both are.”
“Holy shit.” He pulled out his phone, mucking around until he found the academic calendar.
“Watcha checking?”
“How many weeks we have left,” said Tommy, counting on his fingers. “Seven… Surely that’s enough to catch up to Yellow.”
“You’d have to be pretty lucky,” said Clementine, weaving around the fountain. “Seven weeks is a lot of participation points, but you have to remember that the other houses will get just as many. The scoreboard mainly shifts during gauntlet events.”
“Mainly?” he said. “Come on, give me the dirty tricks.”
“Well, unless you plan on burning down the dormitories, you’re not gonna have any luck,” she said. “One year nearly all the Yellow students had to be relocated to temporary accommodation, and the retention rate plummeted.”
“Oh, I know,” said Tommy. “I’ll open up another university in the city, except this one is called L’Yellowburg, and everything is bright yellow. Then everyone will transfer and the red house will shoot to the top.’
Clementine paused in her circling, giving him a look.
“It’s literally foolproof.”
A woman walked past the fountain, then did a double take. “Tommy?”
He’d recognise that silky-soft voice anywhere, it was none other than Katherine Elizabeth. Her dark hair was far longer than when he last saw her, but she was just as buff—still trying to make him jealous.
“Why the fuck are you here?” he said, before he could think.
“My botany course is here for the next month!” said Katherine. “L'Manberg and Empires are combining their botany program this year and everything.”
“Holy shit, does Shubble know?”
She giggled. “Yeah, we had a long talk last night. She mentioned that you were here, but I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
“You’re lucky you managed to catch her,” he grumbled. “She’s up in her ass in some prank shit, and shes been a right bitch about it.”
Katherine’s lips parted, a frown flickering across her face. “She isn’t talking to you?”
Wind brushed through the campus, tugging at Katherine’s skirt. Tommy’s silence said it all.
“Things are worse than I thought,” she said. “She asked me to help her—and I will—but she definitely didn’t tell me that.”
“Tell her to get her shit together,” said Tommy. “She can’t say no to you.”
“I’ll help carry the load,” she said, softly. She nodded, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “But how about you? What pranks have you done this year?”
“You know me, I’m always pranking it up,” he said. “They call me Tommy Ass-Shit Innit, because I’m funny as shit.”
Katherine stifled a laugh—she always tried to hide her sense of humour.
“I was just getting ready for my next one, I’m gonna—”
He cut himself off. Tommy didn’t have any involvement in the prank, it was all Red.
“—Well, I shouldn’t go revealing my secrets,” he said.
“Ooh, mysterious,” said Katherine. “Are there any you can tell me about?”
“Well, at the start of the semester I helped build—” Nope, he couldn’t mention the big bench. “I impersonated—” Not the Jack cosplay. Fuck, what had he done?”
“I’m a very prankful man—so many going on that I can’t remember the ones I finished,” he stalled, trying to find something—anything. How had he done no pranks as Tommy? Not to Shubble, not to Jack, not even against—Quackity, that was it.
“I broke into this one asshole’s room and made his bed,” he said, grinning.
“Oh, that’s—that sounds interesting,” said Katherine, her eyebrows raised.
“Well, it sounds shit when I put it like that, but it was funny as fuck.”
“I believe you,” said Katherine, with an assuring look that meant fuck this guy.
“Whatever, whatever. I’ve got better pranks coming—you better watch your back.”
“Good luck, then,” said Katherine, her warm smile returning. “I’ll tell Shubble to keep an eye out.”
Silence hung between them, the trickle of the fountain overlaid with the roar of distant cars.
“And don’t forget about the ass,” said Tommy. “She needs to get right out of there.”
“—You can’t blame me for fucking nothing,” said Tommy, pacing back and forth in his room. “I have done pranks, I’ve done plenty, so fuck you.”
“Can we back up for a second?” said Clementine. “Sure, you’ve been slacking on the Tommy pranks, but what about Katherine? How do you know her?”
“Went to high school with Shubble. They both wanted to go to uni together, too, but Katherine was accepted to this real fancy one.”
“And Shubble and Katherine are…”
“Fucking weirdos,” said Tommy. “I mean, what kind of friends share bras?”
Clementine choked. “Friends, right, right.”
“Back to the important shit, why didn’t you tell me I’ve only done one prank this year?”
She cleared her throat, lounging back on Tommy’s bed. “Not my problem. Red’s been doing plenty of pranks, so why should I care about what you do in your free time?”
“I hate you. Now I have to pull together some shit-ass attempt at a joke—I do not have the budget for this.”
“It’s not like you have to prank someone,” she said. “You’re doing a literature degree. It’s not your fault you don’t have free time.”
A knock at the door stopped him from retaliating.
He opened it to find Paula, her hair loose around her face and holding nothing but her phone.
“Don’t worry, I’m not here for room inspections,” she said.
He blinked. “Okay?”
“I was told I have to get all of the prank of the year nominees, and voting is opening next week, so yeah,” she said. “Anything to put forward?”
Tommy looked over his shoulder, shooting Clementine a glare and biting back an I fucking told you so.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” said Clementine.
“Well…” said Paula. “You don’t have any?”
“Nope, I haven’t done any pranks,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
It was Paula’s turn to blink. “I’m sorry, no pranks?”
“Well, not no pranks. I broke into this guy’s room—Quackity, the name is—and I made his—I messed up his shit.”
Paula relaxed. “That’s Quackity from the student council, right? He’s a tough target.”
“Yeah, yeah, he got me back for it. I knew what I was doing.”
“Okay, good. And your roommate? Uh, Shubble?”
“Oh, she’s got something big planned. Fucking huge. It hasn’t happened yet but you’ll know when it has.”
Paula nodded. “She can nominate herself once it’s completed, nominations can happen all through the voting process.”
“I’ve never voted before—is it just an online survey?”
“A ranked nomination,” said Paula. “You’ll get an email about it next week, and you can text me if you have questions. Right now I have to get through the other dorms, so—”
“Go on, then. Get out of here.”
He shut the door without waiting for a response, swinging back to Clementine. “I told you so, bitch.”
“It’s really not a big deal—voting is half the fun, anyway,” said Clementine. “It’s too late for you to try anything big—your prank will end up being during finals and trust me, that’s never fun.”
“Fuck off, I can’t be prankless, do you know how embarrassing that is?”
“You really don’t—”
“—tut-tut, I’m not a bitch. We’re getting it done tonight?”
Clementine groaned, sliding off his bed and piling on the floor. “Fine. What are we doing? Something manly and prankful?”
“The prankliest.”
Half an hour of fucking around later, Tommy had pulled together a prank. It wasn’t prankly or manly, but it was something. He’d unscrewed every sign on the fourth floor and swapped them for other ones, leading to a confusing mess of directions.
Clementine caught his eye, and he glared. “I don’t want to hear a fucking word out of you.”
She instantly started signing, so Tommy closed his eyes. You should close your eyes, too. Go to bed.
Never have I ever felt that midterms passed so quickly! I must open with a congratulations to all the students who passed and a heartfelt thank you to all the staff and faculty working behind the scenes. The second semester slog is coming to a close, all that’s left is to watch our hard work snowball into finals. For this particular newsletter, I thought it best to share some Australian slang with the college:
“Gonna chuck a U’ey.” This particular phrase is a favourite of mine, its meaning being to make a U-turn. A U-turn is a manoeuvre all drivers are familiar with, but unlike parallel parking or a hill start, there is often a feeling of shame accompanying the turn. U-turns are used to correct mistakes, when you realise you’ve missed your exit, you’re travelling the wrong direction and you’re wasting your time. But chucking a U’ey doesn’t carry any of that stigma. A U-turn become something you throw rather than make, they’re playful, casual and easily reversible. U’eys are part of the journey to find your final destination. Some students will find their destination in their time at L'Manberg, while others will chuck U’eys and change classes, courses, and even their futures. No matter which path students take, I have one piece of advice:
Give it your all.
You will make mistakes. You will start down one path, then backtrack and try something else. I spent years and years trying hundreds of paths, everything from organic chemistry to carpentry. Every single path has taught me something about myself, even as I backtracked and returned with more confidence. Midterms are difficult times, but with the guidance of the faculty, commitment of the students and the spirit of L'Manberg, anything is possible.
Up until now you’ve gained knowledge from every step back and mistake, slowly making progress in the right direction. So chuck those U’eys, and chuck everything else you have into building the life you love.
- President Shane U. Sugamon
Notes:
Yup, that's right! Prank of the year voting is beginning next week. I'll set up a google form or something--and don't worry, it'll be open until the end of the term, so more people get a chance to vote. I just think it'll be super fun and also who doesn't love polls and statistics.
In other news, the hockey season started and I got absolutely wiped out today. I played two games, got to see all my hockey friends, had a tic attack, scored an awesome goal and got a gnarly bruise on my arm. I'm not sure how hockey will affect the posting schedule at the moment but I can make this work, I've just gotta push through until the end of semester.
This chapter was a bit of a nothingburger, just getting across information we'll need for later chapters and being a bit of a placeholder while I prepare the fun stuff. Thanks to everyone for sticking around <3
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 32: Lego Piece 26047
Summary:
Tommy unlocks his final mascot ability, and discovers one of the campus's biggest secrets. Niki has been given the way out, but she can't take it
Wordcount: 3.8k
Estimated reading time: 15 minutes
Date published: April 5th, 2025
Notes:
I CAST INFODUMP ABOUT AUSLAN:
In this chapter I write a scene between Niki and Callahan, and I found it difficult for a few reasons. Both of them are fluent signers and I nowhere near that. I did lots of research to make it sound as natural as I could, but it won't sound like a proper conversation, just what I can manage with the knowledge I have at the moment. We're all going to politely pretend that it's fluent and hopefully in the future I can read back over it and see EXACTLY what mistakes I've made. Niki is faced with a difficult ethical decision, and it has a lot to do with her upbringing. Niki is a CODA (child of Deaf adult) but she doesn't consider Auslan to be her native language because she's hearing. Some CODAs will agree with this statement, and others won't. Basically, don't generalise Niki's perspective, all CODAS are raised with different amounts of exposure to the Deaf community and sign language and that's fine.Prank of the year voting is up and running!! More details in the end notes, enjoy the chapter :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Forty minutes into Phil’s lecture, Tommy’s wrist itched. Ge scratched it, but the itching only grew stronger, travelling up to his elbow. He—he knew this itch.
Tommy stood, chair clattering behind him.
Ranboo and Tubbo both glanced to him, but he just signed a quick “Toilet,” and made his way out.
Clementine stayed lazing in front of the window, so Tommy snapped the mascot bracelet.
“Ow, what was that for?” she said, at his side in an instant.
“My wrist is itchy,” he replied. “Which mean’s it’s gun time, bitch. I can feel the upgrade coming on.”
“Wait, the synergetics?” said Clementine.
“That’s the bitch.” He pushed through the fire escape door, stepping into a seldom-used staircase. Here was as good a place as any to mask up, and it would allow Clementine to stick around for a little while.
Clementine cleared her throat. “…You do realise there’s only a tiny chance you get a gun, right?”
“Not with that attitude,” he said. “I’ll just assert my natural charisma and masculinity over the magic. Mask the fuck up.”
The rose petals rushed over him, sped up by Tommy’s enthusiasm. He opened his eyes as soon as he could, scanning his ballgown for a gun holster, a secret gun pocket, even gun-themed gloves.
There was nothing.
Clementine emerged, and Tommy made a huge deal about searching for the gun, then covering his eyes.
He waited for her huffy laugh before he dropped the act, meeting her eyes.
“What new?” she signed, scanning him up and down.
Tommy paused, examining his outfit closer. The tingle at his wrist had stopped, replaced with sheer gloves that rose halfway up his biceps, in line with the top of the sleeveless dress. Both the outfit and gloves were covered in organza flowers, the 3D applique adding depth to the otherwise simple dress. His dark hair hung loose, just reaching his shoulders and framing his floral-themed mask. The outfit
His gaze returned to the gloves, something feeling fresh about them.
“New?” Clementine repeated. “Or now,” she signed, changing the motion slightly. “Don’t remember which. N-E-W what?”
“New,” Tommy repeated, showing the first sign. He paused, examining the gloves closer, trying to find what gave him that spark, the source of magic tingling through him.
Between the lacework of roses and leaves sat a keyhole, no bigger than a fingernail.
A smile spread across Tommy’s face. “I know,” he signed, bringing a thumb to his temple.
“Know? Know what? Show me!”
Tommy just headed for the door, beckoning Clementine on.
He rushed down the hallway, not checking if she was following.
Where to?
Tommy made it to the vending machine, rows of glistening cans illuminated in the artificial light, mimicking the moon’s gentle touch on a frostbitten lake.
Clementine came to a stop beside him, glancing between him and the vending machine.
He puffed out his chest. Watch and learn.
Tommy put his right glove onto the glass, grabbing the ridge on the edge and pulling at it.
Sure enough, the door popped open in an instant, swinging wide open and leaving its contents for the taking. Tommy grabbed a can of coke, cracking it open as Clementine paled.
He smirked, taking another sip before grabbing a drink for her—orange juice for a fruity bitch, it was in her name and everything.
She didn’t accept it, instead mashing together signs as fast as she could. “No key door open gloves lock?”
Tommy put his open coke back in the machine, then signed, “Me explain. When door locked, my gloves have key.” He mimed out twisting a door handle, failing to open the door. “Put gloves on.” He tried the handle again, his face lighting up when it opened. “Key,” he signed again, showing the tiny keyhole hidden on his palm.
Clementine examined the gloves closer, then let out a long, long sigh. Tommy could hear the centuries she’d endured with that single sigh, and it filled him with delight.
“Wine,” she finally signed. “Need wine.”
Tommy slapped her hands. “Young! No wine, illegal.” He handed her the orange juice again, and this time she accepted.
She cracked open the lid, chugging the entire bottle in one breath.
He rolled his eyes, grabbing his coke and shutting the vending machine door. “Go class. Teacher waiting.”
“Don’t care,” she signed, throwing her now-empty bottle into the bin.
“Friends waiting,” he signed, then acted out Ranboo and Tubbo’s reactions. “Where T-O-M-M-Y? My friend where?”
Clementine flipped him off, then adopted his signature slump, making her way down the hallway without another glance.
She paused before she turned the corner. Just… don’t get expelled, please.
Expelled? He wouldn’t get expelled. The red house was all about breaking and entering—and he should know, being the embodiment of the red spirit and all.
But no, Tommy wasn’t going to go breaking into anyone’s rooms today. He could do that without his special glove, but there were other things he couldn’t do, far more exciting things.
Like getting on the fucking roof.
Tommy wove his way through the literature building, wandering around the top floor until he found a set of stairs leading higher, a door at the top labelled maintenance only. He tried his glove against it, and it opened with a screech of metal, wind buffering at his dress and ripping rose petals from under his feet.
With his coke in hand, he made his way across the flat part of the roof, stepping from the concrete to the older part of the building, dark tiles guarding a steep slope. With the help of the mascot magic, Tommy confidently walked along the roof’s ridge, outstretching one hand to counteract the gusts of wind. The ridge split in half, but Tommy decided to scoot down until he met another ridge, an alcove sticking out from the edge of the building. He sat himself down, using the ridge behind him as a windbreak.
He'd never seen this angle of campus before, the familiar buildings littered with air ducts and vents on top of them, adding so much depth to the familiar silhouettes. Four storeys below, students walked across the campus grounds, small enough that they reminded him of one of Shubble’s miniatures—she had a major phase when she was seventeen. But they felt small, none of them spotting the red mascot on the roof.
He had another sip of his coke, the carbonation already fading, nothing to hide the cloying sweetness and slight tinge of metal.
Goosebumps prickled down his arms. He finished the can.
He…
There was nothing left for him on this roof, any sense of novelty worn away by the constant wind. He pulled himself up, relying on the mascot magic to stabilise his heels, walking across the roof and back inside. Waste of fucking time.
Once again, Niki found herself staring at her inbox, rereading the email that was sent to her a month ago, yet she still hadn’t responded.
An offer of employment with L'Manberg University. A paycheck that would allow her to actually save, but a job she was wholly unqualified for, one she could never accept.
“Hey, Niki?”
She jumped, spinning around to find Jack, leaning in the doorway of the McPuffy staff room. She could hear timers and alerts shrieking from the kitchen, fighting against the bubble of fryers and the hum of customers.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said. “I didn’t notice my break had finished.”
“I don’t give a shit about your break,” he pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Those fuckheads can wait all day. But what’s going on? Is it your shithead landlord?”
“No, something different,” she said. “Something that’s more difficult to solve, I don’t know.”
“Really?” he said, moving closer. “Shit, what is it?”
“—Here, you read it,” she said, holding out her phone.
Jack squinted at the screen, Niki waiting for him to read it, then waiting some more.
“Ayo!” he finally said. “Holy shit, you’re getting out of here.”
“I can’t say yes,” said Niki. “I’m not qualified to teach Auslan—I’m hardly qualified for volunteering, either but I can somehow do that. But—But the salary is so much.”
“Honestly? Just take it,” said Jack. “You’d make a great teacher, who cares if you haven’t got a shiny bit of paper? Just fake it till you make it.”
“It’s not like that,” she said. “Seriously, it’s not about if I can do it. It’s not right for me to take it. I’m hearing.”
“So? You’re teaching hearing people too, aren’t you?”
“It’s not my language,” she said. “And if I take it, it’s putting a Deaf person out of a job.”
“Shit, right,” said Jack. “But you still need the money.”
Niki covered her face, letting out a sigh. “It’s been a whole month and I can’t bring myself to say no. Last week I couldn’t afford fuel.”
“Shit’s fucked,” he said. “Absolutely fucked. Surely the Deaf people would understand—it’s a rock and a hard place, you know?”
“Maybe? I don’t know.”
Jack hummed. “Well, have you asked them? Not your parents, obviously, but what about friends? Callahan?”
She looked up, tilting her head.
“Come on, the worst he’ll say is fuck off,” said Jack, making the signs as he did so. “I’ll get you something to eat, too.”
“I can’t pay for lunch,” she said.
“Does it look like I give a shit about our wastage tracking?” said Jack. “Fuck them—take home a box of beef while you’re at it.”
“Excuse me!” called a voice, someone clearing their throat.
Jack rolled his eyes. “I’ll deal with it, tell Callahan I said hi.”
“I will,” said Niki, steeling herself. She set up her phone on the table, making sure it framed her face well.
Callahan picked up as soon as she rang, half his face filling the screen before he pulled his phone back, resting it on his desk.
“You working?” Niki signed, eyeing his button-up shirt.
“Don’t care,” he signed, describing the paperwork he needed to fill out, then pushing it aside. “Want chat-with-you.”
“Alright, alright. Me have job offer.”
Callahan’s eyes widened. “Job offer?” he repeated, leaning closer. “Pah!”
“Maybe,” Niki signed, letting her uncertainty wash across her face. “Can have job who? Don’t know.”
Callahan nodded along, his brow furrowed behind his red and blue glasses. “What job what?”
“Teach Auslan—not volunteer,” she signed, faster than before. “But me hearing. Not Deaf, not teacher,” she signed, emphasising the word. “University want pay-me teach Auslan—teach Auslan certificate.”
He winced. “Before you D-O certificate?”
“No,” she signed. “R-P-L? Yes, but certificates? Nothing.”
Niki hesitated, a lump building in her throat. “I volunteer teach. Like volunteer, but need money.”
“Asking-me advise-you?” Callahan signed.
She confirmed, and Callahan leaned back, putting a hand on his chin. The light of his monitors reflected into his glasses, at least three screens open to various tasks—illegal and not.
“C-O-D-A teach classes sometimes,” signed Callahan. “You know A-L-L-I-U-M M-E-L-L-O-H-I? Father O-A-K S-H-U-L-K-E-R.”
“Yes, yes,” signed Niki. “Live near my parents, when me eight play soccer with sister.”
“A-L-L-I-U-M hearing but have certificates, diploma. Maybe have N-A-A-T-I? She teach interpreting.”
“But me don’t-have.”
“You don’t-have,” Callahan agreed. “Salary how-much?”
When Niki signed the number, Callahan’s eyes widened.
“Salary!” he signed, using an alternate form that showed just how much it was. “Your money will—” He showed the amount increasing upwards, then compared it to how much he was earning. “You become my rich friend.”
Niki managed a smile, and Callahan continued.
“When we-meet for coffee you-pay. My birthday give-me boat. Expensive boat.”
She giggled. “Don’t-need boat, sail where? Ocean, rivers? You don’t have.”
“You find pool—big, wide, very deep pool—buy give-me.” He flapped his hand for a second, grabbing her attention. “You share salary.” He made a show of cutting it in half, passing half to her and keeping the other half for himself.
With a roll of her eyes, Niki accepted the portion, signing a sarcastic, “Thank you.”
Callahan paused, sitting upright. “Idea,” he signed. “Maybe me teach Auslan?”
“You?”
“Yes! Me teach Auslan, you help-me! University pay-me salary, me share give-you half.”
Niki blinked, but Callahan continued.
“You write English write paperwork, me teach classes. You want?”
He waited with raised eyebrows for Niki’s response.
A timer shrieked from the kitchen. Jack swearing as he ran to solve it, another customer walking in. The scent of oil lingered over the place, air so thick with it that she could feel it dripping down her back and curling through her lungs.
It wasn’t anything to do with baking, but it wasn’t fucking here.
“I want,” she signed, pressing her lips in a thin line. “Let’s start.”
Re: Offer of Employment
Thank you so much for the job offer! After lots of consideration, I have decided that this job isn’t right for me. I am conversational with Auslan, but hold no formal qualifications. I do not consider myself fluent, and as a hearing person Auslan is not my native language. I currently run free community classes, and cannot ethically accept a paid position.
I think it’s great that L'Manberg is embracing Auslan, but I am not the right person for this position. Instead, I would recommend Callahan, a former colleague of mine who has much more experience. I’ve attached his resume below.
Thank you for your time,
Niki Nihachu
Tommy was well and truly settled, curled beneath his blankets in boxers and a hoodie, switching off all the lights half an hour ago. Shubble was nowhere to be seen, Clementine had fucked off for the night, and his pillow whispered sweet nothings in his ear.
It had just ticked over to midnight, and all he had to do was fall asleep. Close his eyes, switch off his brain and do the unconscious thing.
It wasn’t going too well.
Maybe it was because his dinner was shit. Maybe he was holding subconscious anger at losing super smash bros to Quackity. Maybe he shouldn’t be drinking energy drinks after it got dark. Maybe all fucking three, he didn’t know.
Tommy rolled over again, running his fingers over the mascot bracelet.
He bolted upright, heart racing.
“Clementine,” he said, instantly. “I know how to get the student allergies.”
He flicked the light on as Clementine returned, popping up through the floor. “Get the what?” she said, yawning.
“The allergies,” he said. “So we can prank the dining hall?”
“I thought you were supposed to be asleep,” she said. “Can’t we do this in the morning?”
“I don’t give a shit about your people watching, I have our solution,” he said, climbing out of bed and finding his slides. “I’ll use my mascot gloves to break in and get the student data.”
Clementine blinked, then blinked again. “And where are we breaking into?”
“Dunno, the president’s office?”
She sighed. “Well, at least you know what you’re doing.”
“Organised is my middle name,” said Tommy, stepping out of the dorm. “I’ll work it out on the way.”
“Why not?” she sighed. “Why fucking not?”
Once on the ground floor, Tommy masked up, leaving Clementine to trudge back to his room as he moved across the campus. He kept his face a cold mask, eyes set straight ahead. There wasn’t time for any distractions, this was his chance. He needed to get this prank done, or it wouldn’t happen, Red needed to finish the year with a bang.
The president’s office was a quaint building set in a garden of its own, a two-storey townhouse with windows overlooking the rest of the school. The lights were all off within, Tommy walking up to the door without difficulty.
He paused when he grabbed the handle. The building would definitely have alarms, but he would just be quick. In and out before anything got set off—the magic could disarm the doors easily, surely it could to the same for the alarm system.
Well, Tommy had nothing to lose. What were they gonna do? Arrest Red? He’d just say he was doing a prank, problem solved.
He pushed the door open, breezing in like he owned the place. He moved past the admin area and up the staircase, stopping at the frosted door labelled President Shane U. Sugamon, light shining from within.
That should have been his first sign something was wrong. But he pushed in with hardly a thought, leaving him ill-prepared for what he found.
Once inside, he quickly noticed three things:
Firstly, the office was not empty. President Sugamon shot up at the sudden entrance, a bowl of salad sitting right in front of him.
Secondly, the president’s beard was fake. The long brown-and-grey beard hung loosely around his neck instead of sitting on his face, exposing baby-smooth skin and soft lips.
Thirdly, HOLY SHIT WAS THAT FUCKING SHUBBLE?
Tommy stared at Shubble—at his sister—who was sitting in the president’s office, in the president’s chair with the president’s beard. What the fuck, what the actual fucking—
She sighed, lowering herself down. “Well, I—I guess the cat is out of the bag,” she mumbled.
He stood frozen, struggling to believe his eyes. Why was she fucking here? Had she seriously fucking—
Shubble nodded to herself. “Well, there’s no other way to say it. My name is Shubble, I’m a lit student—and since the start of the year I’ve also been President Shane U. Sugamon.”
He stared at Shubble—at President Shubble, his thoughts finally catching up. And then he laughed. He laughed so hard he could hardly breathe, the mascot magic breaking.
What happened? sent Clementine, as rose petals gathered around Tommy’s ankles.
Sorry, you’ve gotta fucking see this, he sent, struggling to catch his breath.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” Shubble said, quickly. “This is my best-kept secret—not even my brother knows—you can’t let me reveal before I’m ready.”
Clementine whipped back towards him, the petals pulling away his disguise. “Bit fucking late, ey?” he said, shoving his hands back in his hoodie.
“Tommy?” said Shubble.
“How the fuck do you become a president?” said Tommy. “Sure, you can go big—but big could be—be renovating a building, not fucking—the fucking president?”
“You’re Red?”
“Is this what you’re doing every night? No wonder you’re tired when you—when you—what the fuck?” He took in her baggy outfit and brown nails, then laughed again. “What the fuck. This place is fucking mental.”
“I feel like we’re brushing over the fact that you’re the mascot,” said Shubble. “How long has this been going on?”
“How long have you been the president for? I can keep things quiet, too, bitch.”
“I—” She buried her face in her hands. “This isn’t how I thought this conversation would go.”
“How do you even become a president to begin with?”
“That’s a long story,” she said, right away.
“Shubble,” he deadpanned, looking her straight in the eye.
She slumped back in her chair. “Close the door.”
“What I fucking thought,” he said, kicking it shut with his slides, and taking a seat.
She swallowed, but didn’t say anything.
“Go on, then,” he said, shoving down his mirth. “How do you impersonate a president?”
“Well, it started in my first year,” she said. “After I called a truce with Quackity, I had all this time to fill. Hours and hours every day, and I had to do something, you know?”
“Like hobbies?” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Sort of?” she said. “I started submitting essays under a fake name—just to pass the time, you know? Some were about literature, most were about other things, stuff I’ve picked up over the years. At that point I was ready to pull an identity prank, but my plan was to receive an award from one of my lecturers. But then at the end of the year the president announced he would retire, and the timing was perfect.
“I pulled a favour to help make me some proper ID, set up a paper trail going back decades and even got references for myself, all so I could nominate for the position.” She smirked. “My plan was to bomb out during the interviews, but then I made it through the first round, and then the second, and then the campus tour. I could always end it later.”
“Jackshit that meant,” said Tommy. His sister was fucking insane. Sure, he’d said it before, but now he meant it. Now that the shock had worn off, laughter bubbled through him once again. How hadn’t he noticed? She was always painting her nails—covering the teacher brown—she even called him Tommy when he hadn’t introduced himself.
“So you really just—you got in by lying?”
“Basically, yeah,” said Shubble. “I need to see how long I can last, now. I’ve had some close calls, but nobody is suspicious of me.”
“You didn’t have your fucking beard on,” he said.
“It’s midnight!” she justified. “Nobody is in here past five—every night I check the doors are locked, too!”
“You can’t just—” Tommy stopped himself, grunting. “Sure, you can lie and fake your records, but you’re not an old man. You’re not even old, how do you get away with it?”
“I give them something more important to focus on,” said Shubble. “The Australian accent, the ugly jackets, even what I’m saying. Nobody looks deeper than the first interesting thing,” she said.
“That’s fucked up,” said Tommy. “That’s fucking—that’s gaslighting or—or something.”
“Identity fraud, mostly,” said Shubble. She beamed. “Oh! You know the name Sugamon? It’s an anagram—do you know what those are?”
“It is past midnight and you’re the fucking president, no I don’t fucking know what an anagram is.”
“It means if you swap the letters around in Sugamon it spells a new word. And well—”
She pulled out her phone, typing quickly before turning it around.
The word amongus glared back at Tommy.
Fucking amongus.
What the fuck. What the actual fuck. That was a fucking crime. He saw her fucking smirk, she knew exactly what she was doing.
“What the fuck,” he said. “You—I’m fucking suing you for that alone. That’s psychological warfare. Fuck you.”
Shubble relaxed, leaning back into her chair. “Good to know I’ve still got my touch. Man—it’s been a busy year.”
“No fucking shit,” he said. “I hate you. I’m kicking you out of the dorm. I’m not just talking about the amongus, do you know how fucked this is?”
“You don’t even know the half of it,” said Shubble.
This time, he fucking believed her. “Get started, then,” said Tommy. “I’ve only got all night.”
And start they did. They talked until they could hardly stay awake, long enough that the lettuce in Shubble’s salad browned and sagged, matching her fingernails.
Notes:
*Shoots you with chekhov’s gun*
Okay so the chapter title is lego piece 26047, because this particular piece is well...
click to view an image of it here
Yeah, it's shaped like amongus. I actually went digging through our lego collection to find it lmao, it lives on my shelf now.And finally, prank of the year voting is open! You can put your submission in here
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 33: The Shoelace Theory of Success
Summary:
Excerpts from the autobiography An Unorthodox Presidency, by Shubble Sugamon, published in 2045
Wordcount: 3.5k
Estimated reading time: 14 minutes
Date published: April 12th, 2025
Notes:
Had an autism freakout this chapter /pos
Make sure to turn your brain on before you start reading because I used big words. I was getting Fancy this chapter, I even changed my word document from Calibri to Times New Roman but this chapter is my autism baby I wrote it until I was feverish, the brainrot getting so bad that my internal monologue was reduced to rotating Shubble in my brain like the spinning fish video.
At the very top I've got a song listed, and this is THE shubble song so you gotta listen. Here's the spotify link for heathens:
https://open.spotify.com/track/392snxgncTS2SKFgz64Lj3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Video ID: the song "Finale" by AJR. End ID
Part 2: Early Years in L'Manberg
As a child I was labelled gifted—a title that I carried significant disdain towards. I received many services over the years to help with my so-called giftedness—to very limited success, as explained in the first part of this book. I attended a hundred or so therapy sessions over the following years, but none of them addressed my fatal flaw and greatest strength; my insatiability for work. The summer I spent with Xornoth created a fissure in my worldview, permanently separating it into before and after. While I was finally in a safe environment, the extra time allowed my anxiety to fester, until I was overthinking my every move. Mindfulness and other anxiety-reducing techniques were ineffective, and I was stuck in a rut until my wonderful therapist reframed the tools he was giving me. He introduced me to a theory that became my personal motto not just for anxiety, but for life:
The Shoelace Theory of Success, created by John Wooden.
As the basketball fanatics among us may know, John Wooden is the most successful coach in the University of California’s history, winning seven premierships back-to-back, and ten out of the twelve premierships in the following years. At the start of every season, Wooden would bring the entire team together and dedicate a session to tying shoelaces. Seasoned athletes that had been throwing hoops since they could walk would diligently sit, following Wooden’s instructions to smooth out every crease in their socks, tightening each layer of the laces and always finishing with a double knot. Wooden understood that success most often reaches the prepared. Those that took the time to analyse and account for smaller risks such as blisters or an untied shoe were also ready for bigger risks, ready to dive for the ball, to take that difficult hook shot, to try your luck as the shot timer hits zero.
My therapist recommended that whenever I find myself checking exits or opening my go-bag, that first I take the time to do my shoelaces. So I would find my best pair of socks, pulling them up to my ankles, tugging it over my heel until the fabric sat flush with the skin. I’d find my hiking boots, slipping them on before tightening the laces layer by layer, snug enough that my feet wouldn’t move but not tight enough to indent the laces into my feet. I was never a fan of the bunny ears technique, instead relying on the loop, swoop and pull, to the chagrin of my younger brother. By the time I’d finished the double knot and stood, the anxiety had always eased. Putting on shoes with such care made mindfulness accessible to me—after all, if I was truly in danger, I was more prepared than before to leave. This habit continued through high school and into L'Manberg, where it impacted me in more ways than one.
After getting assigned into the Red House, I wholeheartedly threw myself into the pranking culture, spending hours scoping out targets, creating inane displays and making my fellow students laugh. I was enrolled in a BA of Literature, but I spent my free time jumping between subjects, getting drawn to everything from mycology to international business. Despite feeling underwhelmed by my major, I wasn’t inclined to pick up an extra bachelor’s, instead opting to write papers in my free time. With the help of a tech-savvy friend—the name was Callahan, and he had a rather fickle relationship with the law—I published the essays and meta-analyses under a fake name, an S. U. Sugamon. The fake identity was always going to be used for a prank, but at the time my plan was to get invited to an exclusive conference and give a lecture in front of my own lecturers. It was still an ambitious goal, but nowhere close to what I actually achieved.
I filled my days with literature, pranks and meta-studies, with the pranks slowly taking over. I found myself in a prank battle with another student, by the name of Quackity Rapids. (That’s right, the beloved Chancellor had quite the rogue streak in his youth, and it can still be teased out of him with the right circumstances) Our shenanigans escalated exponentially, moving from tinfoil to laptop hacking to replacing underwear. After the firecracker incident we declared a truce over bagels, swearing to stay out of each other’s way lest we both get expelled. Quackity used the free time to join the student board, and I tried to fill the void with extra essays, to little success. My plan was still to submit these under Sugamon, but then the president of the time, Jennifer Coolidge, announced she would retire in May of 2024. Late one night I stumbled across the nomination form, and thought to myself, You know what’s funnier than fooling professor Philza? Fooling an entire recruitment committee.
I got into contact with Callahan and struck out an agreement, the two of us working day and night to create a paper trail for Shane. After a week’s grind, we had twenty-five years of academic history, eight faked referees—each number rerouting to the same person, an accredited voice actor—and a beard created by a Hollywood SFX team. Each of these things would have a small impact by themselves, but stacked together they made the difference between a clean run and a blister. I paid as much attention as possible to the laces of the operation, having no clue if everything else will fall into place.
I was prepared to bomb out the second I stepped in front of the board, but not a single member questioned my poorly Australian accent, nor how youthful my skin looked for 47, or how I refused to remove my gloves and reveal my glaring red nails. Instead, they asked about my leadership experience, my opinion on campus alcohol culture, and the recent developments of cross-institution programs. I quickly became raptured in the conversation, the two hours passing in the blink of an eye. Despite that, I was still surprised when I was invited to the next round of interviews, and then the next. It was only when I was touring campus I lived on did I truly step into the shoes of presidential candidate.
“He who refuses to embrace a unique opportunity loses the prize as surely as if he had tried and failed.”
William James
On a wind-chilled afternoon in my second year, I returned to my dorm after classes, planning on dropping off my supplies before tracking down Quackity for a much-needed bagel. I had kept an eye on my phone all day, but the call came through when I finally dropped my gaze. I scrambled for my phone, and in as gruff a voice as I could manage, I greeted the caller by name.
“Schlatt! How are you going on this windsome day?”
“I’m doing well, Shane,” said Schlatt. “And I come bearing good news; the board would like to offer you the presidency of L'Manberg University.”
The rest of the call passed in a blur. I stumbled out some sort of acceptance, making remarks on reflex alone as my brain ran a mile a minute. When I finally hung up, all I could do was stare at my hands, at the red nails that had been with me for over a year. I sat down and fixed my shoelaces. Then I left my dorm behind, travelling through the campus, taking in the twilight-soaked buildings with new eyes. Not the eyes of a freshman on their orientation tour, more akin to a graduate walking through the quad one final time. I was overtaken with the sensation that the buildings themselves were alive, sheltering and supporting students as they fed off their innovations and aspirations, pride oozing from every brick and balustrade. My arrival here was not a coincidence. The paving beneath my feet had been laid ninety years ago, swept and sprayed and maintained year after year just to carry my weight across them. The gorgeous maple trees lining the campus were mapped out and cared for, pruned into shape from the vision of a landscaper decades ago. Every element of the environment had been planned and fostered for the unknown future, and for the first time I could truly see it. Moreso, I could see how Sugamon would affect it. No matter which route I took, my impact on the campus was inevitable—for better or for worse.
Of course, I could give up the charade at any time—making it as far as I did already was sure to win prank of the year, I could reveal the act now and rock the administration to their core. I’d go down in the college history as a student hero and a faculty horror story. But as I moved across the campus, the wind cold enough to bite, a great ‘what if?’ arose within me, imagining my impact in every corner of the campus. Just as William James described it, my opportunity was a gift, one that I could never hope to experience again. Butterflies rose within me at the thought of living a double life. I’d spend my days as the president and my evenings as Shubble, balancing a literature degree with an entire campus. Besides, the worst that could happen was that I got caught, and that just added to the fun.
“Overburdened university presidents do not suffer burnout; they create it, inflicting it upon themselves by their lack of responsible work habits”
Frank Rhodes, 1998
My presidential work began far before my inauguration, I was working nine to five for weeks on end before a single student arrived. I spent around a month living as Sugamon before Shubble needed to return to university, a month that was utterly invaluable. It allowed me to calculate how much time I could dedicate to literature and other fundamentals such as eating, showering and sleeping. Within only a few weeks of the new semester, I found a sustainable rhythm, sustainable in that I could maintain it until the next holiday break, therein I would sleep for eighteen hours a night.
A typical day in my third year would look something like this:
5:00 Wake up and find the lectures from the previous day, listening to it at 2x speed to save time. Eat leftovers from last night’s dinner.
5:10 Gather the supplies for the day (Considering if Shubble has any events or just Sugamon)
5:20 Leave the dorm and enter the President’s House. (the basement of the nearby School of Business used to connect with the boiler room of the President’s House, allowing for discrete access)
5:50 Change into Sugamon’s outfit, hiding my Shubble clothes and preparing the beard for another day of use. Preparations also typically included foundation, hair styling, cologne, as well as any paperwork I would need for the day.
6:30 Leave the President’s House for a morning stroll, interacting with early risers on the way to the office.
6:50 Arrive at the office, make a coffee strong enough to last me until noon.
8:00 The first meeting and beginning of the ‘working hours’ Sneak in a lunch break and interact with more students
17:00 Eat dinner in the dining hall, bringing a doggy bag for the morning’s breakfast.
17:30 Attend evening engagement. (It could be a football match, a theatre performance, a culinary club or anything else)
21:30 Return to the President’s House, addressing quickfire emails and text messages.
22:00 Remove disguise and listen to another lecture. Get beard set up for tomorrow morning.
22:30 Work on assignments, synthesising lectures, reading texts, collecting quotes, etc.
00:30 Put on gloves and return to student accommodation.
01:00 Shower and sleep.
If anything else, this became my ideal schedule. Once sponsor events, travel and campus emergencies are factored in, I couldn’t start on my lit until past midnight, cutting into my precious resting hours. Anyone with a medical background can understand the health risks of cutting back on sleep, but any student knows it’s the most effective way to free up your time. This technique is most sustainable in the short term, but I had the advantage of being young. I still found it harder to maintain as the year continued. Not only did the structure steal from my rest, but I became socially isolated. Sugamon was constantly around people, forging friendships and connections, but I didn’t see my brother for weeks or even months at a time. He was in his first year, bright eyed and ready to enjoy all L'Manberg had to offer, but I couldn’t be there for him. It was one of my few regrets of taking up the position, especially when I couldn’t explain my extended absences.
While I tried to keep my guard up, the incessant routine wore me down, and in the final months of the year I found myself slipping. Two incidents in particular stand out to me even now, one with my brother and the other with Quackity.
One of my main challenges in my early years of presidency was improving student support systems. I was on the committee for the newly-created RACS system, and Quackity was representing the student board (as well as substituting for the Chancellor of the time). The meeting stretched for two hours before it was adjourned, tensions rising high between the different members. I was exhausted and relieved to get out, but Quackity chased me down that afternoon, looking to continue the debate. I did my best to shut down the conversation diplomatically, but Quackity persisted.
“Remember the bagel truce?” I had almost snapped, managing to cut myself off at remember.
“All you need to remember is the wellbeing reports from the current RACS officers,” Quackity said, continuing his point.
When I remained silent he took it as agreement, relaxing and discussing his proposals further.
Despite my racing heart, I had to correct him, I couldn’t let him get the wrong idea from this conversation. “I still don’t agree with your suggestion, however I would like to put this discussion on hold until we can meet with the rest of the committee. If you come across any useful information before that time, by all means email it through to the rest of us.”
Quackity was displeased with my answer, but he accepted it nonetheless, respecting my candid attitude as I almost ruined everything.
The second blunder was far more memorable. For the entire academic year, I had done everything in my power to prevent a conversation between Sugamon and my brother. If there was anyone who would see straight through my act, it would be him. I avoided Red House events, declined invitations to classes within his degree, never lingering near the red dormitories. But despite my best efforts, one day my brother ran into me—literally.
“Are you okay?” I said, turning around to find the one person on campus I could never speak to, Tommy Berry-Innit.
“Watch where you’re—” He met my eyes, cutting himself off. “—I’m fine, I’m fine.”
I was prepared for him to realise right then, for him to exclaim and for me to suppress him as quickly as I could, to stop the outburst from spreading. “Were you looking for a chat?”
“Why are the professor nails so fucking ugly?”
Somehow, he bought the disguise. He treated me with the same disgruntled voice he used for all strangers, attempting to disarm social norms as quickly as possible. I answered his question, and then he asked about the student populations. I sent him in the right direction, but utterly blew my cover.
“Glad I could be of assistance. Enjoy your afternoon, Tommy.”
The second I said it my heart dropped. Tommy had never introduced himself to me—he hardly did to anyone. As president, I prided myself on using people’s names, creating connections between students and leadership. But Tommy didn’t care for pleasantries, and in one moment I had ruined a year’s worth of progress.
By sheer luck alone, he didn’t notice.
These near-misses haunted me for months, hanging over difficult meetings and my limited hours of sleep. Every day I was tempted to rip off my disguise and reveal the truth, if only so I could sleep. But every time I considered it, I reminded myself of how far I had travelled, and how much further I could go.
“The president is the living logo of the university.”
Judith Block Mclaughlin, 1996
For every difficult conversation and late night, my labour was rewarded threefold. Over the course of the year I watched discussions in meetings bloom into cross-institutional programs, I watched reports and analyses turn into recommendations and actions, but moreso I watched as individual students flourished. When I first stepped into the position, I was unfamiliar with the distance and awe students and even faculty treated me with. I wasn’t just a person in management, I was The President, the omnipotent figure who dangled a quality education above student’s heads, ripping it away from whoever I chose. Working with and breaking through this ‘presidential aura’ was a steep learning curve, but I took much solace in Mclaughlin’s writings on the subject, practising any element I could until I found the ones that worked. During these times I felt a close solidarity with the university mascots, admiring their ability to switch between representing an entire house to having a laugh with individual students. Disarming people’s expectations became my first priority, creating connections with the community, whether it be brewing tea and coffee in the library for hardworking students, or hosting study nights in the President’s House.
As the year continued, I also learned how to use The President to my advantage. When I stood for the whole institution, people would filter all sorts of messages through me, positive, negative, and even constructive. Receiving and listening to these comments was and still is one of my most important duties. My favourite occurrence, however, was during the winter commencement ceremony. I did not recognise most of the students graduating, with them spending years at the institution while I had spent six months. However, these students didn’t view me as the new guy, oblivious to their hard work and journeys over years and even decades, they viewed me as the president of L'Manberg. Each and every one of them thanked me for all L'Manberg had done for them, parents sharing their pride in children, and the occasional child cheering on their parent. I heard about the hard work a tutor put in, the lecturer who went above and beyond to accommodate a student’s needs. It was my greatest pleasure to pass this praise onwards, acknowledging the incredible work of the faculty and show my deepest gratitude. Despite these moments of deep satisfaction, I still considered this job as temporary. I was blind to my attachment, kidding myself into being ready to leave at any given moment.
The truth came to light one fateful night in the early days of February. I had just hosted a dinner between a donor who had organised a new scholarship, and the first ever recipients of it—that is, the Minority Medical Practitioner scholarship. The goal of this dinner was to allow the donor and trustees to see the impact of the scholarship, but I myself was taken aback by the joy radiating around the room. I watched candid conversation flow back and forth between the students and the donor, talking about their experiences growing up and how it affected their learning, and their goals for working within the healthcare system. I and many others were blown away by the potential of these students, a high that I continued to ride as I went through my nightly routine.
I returned to my dorm just before midnight, a skip in my step despite the exhaustion hanging over me. I relished in what I had facilitated, letting a hot shower melt away the doubts and regrets lingering through me, hot enough that my skin stung, shampoo foam carving playful lines down my back. After scrubbing myself raw, I changed into my pyjamas, midnight striking as I hung my towel back on the rack. I watched the red paint on my nails vanish, replaced once again with a comforting russet brown.
When did brown become more comforting than red? The epiphany hit me right then and there, leaving me speechless, sitting on the bathroom floor. Was I happy being president, working hard in a way that finally satisfied me?
I relished the challenge of finding donors, in moving the board from planning to action, in building relationships with all sorts of people. For the first time in eleven years, I didn’t jump between projects to fill my waking hours, staving off discomfort with mild interest, the equivalent of scrolling through a newsfeed or browsing through a supermarket. I was satisfied.
Many times in my career I’ve reminded myself of James Wooden’s words. President Sugamon may have started as a joke, but because I was prepared I turned it into so much more.
However, it’s not the only joke I’ve prepared for.
I like your shoelaces.
Thanks, I stole them from the President.
Notes:
Thank you for reading my autism baby.
Okay guys I have another confession to make, and it's about Sugamon's name
His full name is Shane Ulysses Sugamon. Shane is a common Australian first name, Ulysses is a cunning figure from greek mythology and Sugamon is just amongus but his initials are SUS. Yes this was intentional.Reminder that prank of the year voting is open until the 5th of May, you can cast or change your vote here
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 34: Tomato Wars: The Last Tomato
Summary:
Tommy won't let Tomatony get past him again. He and Shubble discover their new dynamic, and he and Clementine finally find the student allergies.
Wordcount: 4.1k
Estimated reading time: 16 minutes
Date published: April 20th, 2025
Notes:
I was planning to get this chapter out by saturday, but my Thursday writing grind was interrupted by an executive function crash and also we had to call an ambulance for Mum LMAO. She's fine but my upload schedule isn't <3
Now that this chapter is up, I can officially say that this is the longest fic I've ever written, coming in at 118k words. Just don't look at the chapter count ahahaha. It's okay though because it's not one book it's more like three books in a trench coat. I've got around four chapters left before the first book wraps up, then I'll go on scheduled hiatus over the summer break.
Shawn4651 made a new board it's called BANANA PUDDING and it has 21 pins. He also added a pin to ROYAL ICING
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Today was a Monday. The fourteenth week of the semester, but most importantly, the fourteenth day of April. Tomato day.
Not only had Tommy pulled out of every class, pinched two meal’s worth of food from the dining hall and barricaded himself in his room, he was setting up traps. Shubble’s chair was in position on his bed, he’d locked the door—even going so far as to climb into the roof and map out every exit. When he found five of them, he returned to his prank supplies box, taking a roll of caution tape and sealing off as many as he could. Not only would it intimidate the shit out of Tomatony, but he wouldn’t be able to get in without revealing his escape route to Tommy.
“Let me go over the plan again,” said Tommy, pacing back and forth. “When the tomato arrives, we get up into the roof before Tomatony can vanish—the caution tape is gonna delay him. We follow his route until he gets out of the walls or he hits a dead end—and trust me, there are a lot of those. I corner him, and then I say the tomato monologue, which is—”
“—I am not listening to the monologue again,” said Clementine. “You’ve practised it three times today alone.”
“Fuck off, what am I supposed to do? I can’t drop my guard.”
Before Clementine could respond, a poor cover of You Spin Me Round played. It was the ringtone Tommy had so lovingly set after he found out grade-six-Tubbo was the singer. Tubbo despised him for it, which only made it funnier.
“What?” he said, as soon as he picked up.
“Where are you?” said Tubbo. “You missed Fable’s tute.”
“I’m not going to class today,” said Tommy. “Didn’t you see the group chat?”
“But what about pizza lunch?”
He shot Clementine a look—what the fuck had she gotten him into?
“I agreed to make pizzas today,” she said, quickly.
“Today is the fourteenth,” he hissed.
“I wasn’t checking the dates!”
“Wait, what did you say?” said Tubbo.
Tommy sighed. “I’m not gonna make it. I know I said yes but today is the fourteenth. I can’t.”
“Not even for pepperoni pizza?”
His stomach grumbled. “Fuck, that sounds good, you’re fucking killing me, here,” he said. “But I can’t. It’s tomato day.”
“Oh shit, are you waiting for Tony?”
“It’s a matter of extreme importance,” said Tommy. “The extremest.”
“…Can I come over?”
“I’m at war, I’m not letting you put my life in danger.”
“We could snack on my pepperoni.”
“Get your ass over here,” said Tommy, instantly. “But you better fucking bring that pepperoni.” He hung up, then sighed, leaning back on the bed. “We’re gonna eat like kings.”
Clementine curled herself up, lowering down onto Shubble’s bed. “Well, there’s some things we need to discuss—like, really need to.”
Tommy stopped. This discussion had been hanging between them since the president’s office, Tommy keeping as busy as possible to try and avoid it. Fuck, he shouldn’t have ditched his study, classes and meals.
“Is this about deleting flappy bird?” he tried.
“I already redownloaded it,” she said. “But this is serious, Tommy, it’s Red’s identity.”
“Not my fault,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s not every day you find out your sister is the fucking president in her spare time.”
“Hey, it’s not like that,” she said. “Shubble knows you’re Red and we can’t change that. However, there’s more she doesn’t know, and we’re going to keep it that way, got it?”
“What, like the upgrades?” said Tommy.
She shrugged. “They’re more superficial, I mean things like the activation words,” said Clementine. “Information that could be weaponised, something that won’t just harm you but the mascots coming after you.”
“Shubble wouldn’t—”
“—Shubble wouldn’t live a fucking double life as a president, but she is,” said Clementine, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “I let you and every other mascot find their own way to be Red, but you don’t get a choice in this, understand?”
Tommy opened his mouth, then glanced at Shubble’s unmade bed, her pillow still dented from her head. “Whatever,” he muttered. “Shubble would never take fucking advantage of me.”
Clementine exhaled, continuing in a softer tone. “We’ll keep this simple. Don’t explain anything about how the magic works. Nothing about the bracelet, nothing about unmasking, and especially nothing about shadowing,” she said. “Right now Shubble thinks it’s just you, and with a bit of luck we’ll keep it that way.”
He pulled his hands out of his pockets, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “And how the fuck are we gonna keep that a secret? She’s already seen you before—and she knew something was wrong. Just drop the act and you two can be friends and shit.”
“We can’t, okay?” she said, slumping back until her red hair splayed across Shubble’s bed.
“But you’d get along so well! You could talk about being women and—and your history lectures! Shubble loves history, I bet she—”
“—Just stop, it’s not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“Just because!” she snapped, hands balling into fists.
Clementine never snapped. Sure, sometimes their bickering would get loud, or she’d berate him for doing something stupid, but snap?
Oh shit.
She sighed, pulling herself back up and crossing her legs, hair hanging over her shoulder and covering one eye. “It’s not just about you,” she said, all the fight gone from her voice. “It’s about the others. What if Shubble uses what you say to find Blue and Yellow’s identities? What if she writes it down and someone else finds it? What if they make the next mascot’s life a living hell? What if they use it track down Grian—he’s an architect now, does he really want his days in heels brought up again? Does he want his sister to know?”
“Fuck, I get it,” he said.
She blinked. “Sorry, I—please just trust me on this one. I’m not against you here.”
Tommy sighed. Despite the cheerful weather outside, the sunlight hadn’t yet hit his room, cold lingering in the walls, shadows beaten back only by his overhead light. The room was near-spotless for all his spare time this morning, the leftover caution tape sitting on his bedside table.
“So what can I say?” he finally said.
She blinked, shoulders finally lowering. “Just… just the little things, I guess. What you did while masked up, your outfits.”
You know what? That was far better than fucking nothing. Clementine kept her stuff quiet all year, so she shouldn’t expect him to explain anything. “So just the shits and giggles?”
“The shits and giggles,” she agreed. She smirked. “I bet Shubble has some great stories from this year—I can’t believe you talked to Sugamon and didn’t even realise. Funniest shit I’ve ever seen.”
“YOU KNEW?!”
Clementine scoffed. “Of course I did. Pissed myself laughing when I first found out, but you did say your sister was insane.”
“WHY DIDN’T YOU FUCKING TELL ME?” he said, in mock anger instead of the real shit.
“Tommy, I have a lot of free time,” she said. “Most of it? Wandering around and finding what shit people are up to. That stuff is none of your business, though.”
“I am literally the mascot. I’m the prank person, what do you mean it’s not my—wait, do you know who Tomatony is?”
She smirked. “I’m not a snitch.”
He groaned, moving from the wall and back to his pacing. “Do you know how fucked that is? You’re letting me be psychologically tortured by that man. Me, the mascot, your highest priority.”
“You wish you were my—”
There was a knock at the door, Clementine cutting herself off.
“That’ll be Tubbo,” said Tommy, changing direction and heading for the door. “And a good thing, too. I’m fucking starving, I’d kill for some—” He pulled the door open.
It wasn’t Tubbo.
Tommy’s stomach and gaze dropped, and he found a single tomato sitting on the ground. Nobody nearby, not a single person to the left, or to the—
A second tomato sat at the end of the hallway. Tommy saw red.
He ran after it, finding another one at the next corner, then another and another. He chased the tomatoes in a haze, captured by the innocent red bulbs until he found a long, red hallway, something glowing at the opposite end. He stumbled initially, but was drawn to the light like a moth to flame, his stomach sinking the closer he got. Computer screens sat on a table, propped up on books and boxes, all of them playing the same video. He stepped closer, the video slowly coming into focus.
A pale hand opened door 198, placing a tomato on his bed. A bird’s eye view of Tommy’s head stepping into the bathroom, the pale hand dropping the tomato on top of his laptop bag. A studious Tommy finding a tomato. His sheets smoothened, a tomato placed on top. The flyscreen popped from the window and a tomato placed on his pillow. A tomato getting dropped from the ceiling as Tommy scrambled after it.
The video looped, playing Tommy’s failures over and over, the sequence entrancing him. No, not entranced, horrified, fixating upon the screen as his brain ran faster and faster.
He was pulled out of it by a loud crunch, followed by obnoxious lip smacking.
He spun around, Connor leaning against the wall, halfway down the hallway. “Hey, man.” He took another bite of the tomato, giving Tommy a smirk.
Fucking Connor Eats Pants. “YOU!”
“Surprise,” he said, after swallowing a bite of the tomato.
“What the fuck,” he started. “Connor, what the actual fuck? I literally bought you golden sonic, does that mean fucking anything to you?”
“Eh, it’s nothing personal,” said Connor. “I started this all far before our deal. I’m just after prank of the year, y’know?”
“I—Why are you so casual about this?” he said. “You—You’re Tomatony, you’re the source of all my problems.”
He snorted. “Tomatony was really the best you could come up with? That’s—fuck, I’m going to have to use that on my application.”
“My fear is a fucking joke to you? I’ve lived the last year in constant terror, and you’re using me for a fucking application?”
“Hey, it was only seven months,” he said. “Not a year. It’s funnier if I do seven.”
“What the fuck does seven have to do with my torture?”
“It’s something the author is doing—I don’t care about most of her bits but I realised I could add onto one of them with this prank,” he said, staring directly at the reader. He’s not supposed to look there. Please don’t do that.
“Sorry,” said Connor, turning back to Tommy. “But yeah, this is my entry for prank of the year—oh, and I’ve been recording this conversation for my clips channel, by the way.”
“Fuck off, actually just fuck off.” Tommy pushed past him, anger fuelling his footsteps as he made his way down the hallway. Now that he wasn’t so rushed, he spotted the red cellophane taped over the fluorescent lights, creating the ominous glow.
“It’s nothing personal,” he repeated. “I’ll see you at Mario Kart, alright Tommy?”
“FUCK YOU!” He marched around the corner, and Connor didn’t follow.
Clementine burst out laughing. “Oh, that was better than I could ever imagine. I fucking love Connor.”
Tommy kicked the next tomato he came across, sending it straight into the skirting board. Fuck tomatoes. Fuck his stupid fucking life.
On Friday night, Shubble made it back to the dorms by ten-thirty.
Tommy jumped when she entered. “Holy shit, you’re early.”
“Surprise!” she said. “I usually use the next couple hours for my assignments, so I asked myself, why not do them in here?”
“Hell yeah,” said Tommy, stretching out across his bed. “How goes the presidenting?”
Despite them being alone, Shubble still looked over her shoulder. “Eh, pretty busy,” she said. “I’m holding out for the end of semester—then I can drop Shubble for the summer and have some free time again.”
“Wait, when are you revealing yourself?” said Tommy. “Didn’t you say you were gonna tell people in fucking February?”
“Nah, I’m keeping it secret,” she said, curling up on her bed and pulling out her laptop. “I graduate this year, so from next year onwards I can be Sugamon and Sugamon alone.”
“She’s insane,” said Clementine.
Tommy snorted. When Shubble gave him a look, he said, “You do know you’re fucking insane, right? Like, normal people don’t throw away their entire life for a secret identity.”
“Oh yeah? You’re one to talk,” she said, her brown nails clacking across the keyboard. “Did you go out as Red today?”
“Nah, Red had her Auslan class yesterday,” said Tommy. “Besides, I still haven’t organised Red’s prank.”
Shubble paused her typing, her golden eyes lighting up. “Do I get to know about Red’s pranks before they happen?”
He glanced to Clementine, but she just shrugged. “I don’t mind. It’s your call.”
“Fuck yes I do,” he said. “I’ve been planning this one for months. Red is gonna fuck with the entire dining hall.”
He explained his entire plan to Shubble, delighting in how her face lit up. “—But I can’t, because I don’t know who’s allergic to Red Dye 40.”
“So that’s why you were asking about student allergies,” said Shubble.
“Yeah, and you fobbed me off to the fucking library.”
“If I knew what you needed it for, I would have sent you to the dining hall’s kitchen,” she said. “The staff actually making the meals know exactly what people’s allergies are.”
Tommy winced. “They sound scary.”
“They’re not. In fact, I’d even say they could be your greatest ally. If Red respects them, you’ll get them all in your court straight away.”
He hummed, not bothering to make a verbal response. Already he was planning his Saturday—if everything went well, he could get the prank done for the evening meal.
Shubble still wasn’t typing. “So what does… what does being Red feel like?”
He glanced to Clementine again, but she didn’t help him.
“I know that you look different every time, but does it take a while to get used to? It always takes me a bit to warm up into being Sugamon.”
“I noticed it the first time I masked—the first time I was Red,” said Tommy. “But honestly? All I think about now is what outfit I’m gonna wear. The magic takes care of the rest.” There. He didn’t say anything specific—and he even cut himself off before saying the activation words. Clementine never had to worry about him, secret-keeping was his middle fucking name.
“So how actually does it all work? I doubt that you secretly spent decades discovering masquerade magic—so what’s the shortcut?”
“Can’t say,” he said, instantly. “Mascot’s honour and all, y’know?”
Shubble stayed silent, but when Tommy didn’t budge, she sighed. “Alright, alright. I’m just exhausted from today—we had the final RACS committee meeting for the year, and it was exhausting. We’re finally getting an independent to analyse the data for us and make recommendations, but we’ve been arguing about this for months.”
He accepted the change in subject. “RACS… that’s the one Quackity is on, isn’t it?”
“How do you—never mind, Red knows.” She huffed. “This is going to take some getting used to.”
“Wait, doesn’t Quackity hate Sugamon’s fucking guts?”
Shubble didn’t respond.
He swallowed. “That’s… that’s fucked up. He’s your friend. You have to tell him.”
“And you’re my brother,” she said. “I didn’t tell you, either. Besides, Quackity is dangerous with information.”
“And? Friends don’t fuck each other over, what are you scared of?”
“Friends don’t make a secret identity that apparently goes against everything the other stands for,” she said. “I could have told him near the start, but it’s too late now.”
“So what if he does tell everyone?” said Tommy. “Boom, prank of the year won—and trust me, there’s this other guy that you don’t want winning.”
“Tommy, I’ve spent almost two years lying about my academic qualities, my age—I’m getting paid for this. When—if this gets out, then I’m getting expelled and sued for fraud.”
“And winning prank of the year,” said Tommy.
“Well, that too,” said Shubble. “But it’s not happening this year—I still have so much work I want to do—I love this job.”
“You’re in denial,” he said, instantly. “Shubble, you’re just fucking yourself over.”
“And? Just let me be hopeful, okay?” she said. “I know this is a mess, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
The conversation faded off. Tommy finally had his sister back—he finally knew what weighed her down, and he couldn’t do jackshit to fix it.
The next morning, Tommy masked up by the dining hall, Clementine choosing to hide in the Buttercamp rather than witness the fruits of his prank. Something about playing it safe with Shubble, but what she really meant was beat Tommy’s flappy bird high score. His tactic was simple: rizz up the kitchen staff with his red-house charm, and then get their help to dye the entire evening meal red. On this particular day, rizzing up meant being dish hog through the lunch rush, but fuck it, Tommy wasn’t a quitter.
He rolled up his dress sleeves and chucked on an apron, spending the next three hours in front of the sink, washing pot after pot as everything got prepared. Sure enough, he saw the staff’s impression of him change before his eyes, going from humour to fucking respect. The kitchen hands started conversations with him, sharing tidbits of gossip and giving him tips. None of them knew any sign language, but Tommy had taught them a handful of signs by the end of the session.
When the dishes finally stopped piling, all Tommy could do was sigh, getting through the final batch and dry his hands. The mascot magic had kept him from sweating or messing up his hair, but it didn’t do anything about the burn mark on his wrist, or the gravy he spilled on his sleeve. He grabbed a clean cloth, scrubbing at the gravy stain before it set in.
“Well, Red, it looks like you had fun,” said the head cook.
Tommy scoffed, rolling his eyes as if to say of course.
“You were pretty good at it, too. How would you feel about coming back in tomorrow? We’ve got a function for two hundred people and another set of hands would be great.”
He quickly shook his head, putting his hands behind his back.
The cook laughed. “Eh, it was worth a shot. Let’s get your prank set up then, shall we? I’ll show you the meal plan.”
The two moved to the centre of the kitchen, where the prep was already beginning for the next meal rush. “Tonight we’ve got ravioli and tortellini on the menu—we can throw the food colouring in with the pasta as it boils and mix it with the sauces, too. I can get the chips red if we defrost them before frying them—Pati, do you want to take care of that for me? I’ll whip up a red dressing for the salad bar and we can throw that over everything—is Red 40 kosher?”
Tommy gave her a thumbs up, and she cracked her knuckles. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” she said. “We’ll set aside two portion’s worth of each dish in case anyone hasn’t disclosed an allergy, but let’s make this happen!”
He tried to help the kitchen hands with their preparations, but he found himself getting in the way more than anything else. In the end he just stood on the sidelines, undoing his apron and preparing his costume. He checked his reflection in the glass door of the food warmer, adjusting his mask into a perfect position, pulling his sleeves back down and doing his best to dry the splashes of water. The kitchen grew louder, noise creeping in from the dining hall as the first arrivals found their seats. Tommy went over his entrance plan once again. Like most of Red’s pranks, it was all about the energy he brought with him. He needed humour, he needed showmanship, he needed petty things like rose petals and a themed outfit.
“Two minutes until open!” called the head chef, someone swearing from the back of the kitchen. Tommy wandered through once again, his grin increasing when he saw dish after dish, all of them a radiant red.
“Pati, Dylan, Taya, you’re on the first round of serving. And take Red with you—Dylan, tell her what to do.”
Tommy changed direction, locking eyes with the fabled Dylan.
“You carry out one of the ravioli’s,” he said. “Then you have to stand there and help serve people—are you going to stay and serve?”
He quickly nodded. Tommy wasn’t usually a suck-up, but a kitchen was a dangerous place to refuse things. It was a foreign landscape, a military operation where someone would end up dead if he questioned orders.
At the head chef’s demands, Tommy hauled out a massive pot of ravioli, hot enough that the edges burned his fingers. He just had to get it to the bain-marie on the edge of the hall, then he could swap to a far-more comfortable serving spoon. He quickened his pace, making sure to meet the eyes of all the students who passed. He imagined Yellow and Blue in the crowd, seeing Red volunteer to help in the kitchens while they just sat and ate—and ate red food, fucking take that.
A line began to form as soon as they left, but Tommy diligently followed the others, taking his spot behind the counter and getting prepared for the first plate.
The first student arrived, looking at the red ravioli and the red tortellini.
Tommy just smirked, signing, “Which?” with his free hand.
“Um—Can I have the ravioli, please?”
The next student had a similar reaction, but the news quickly travelled through the line, laughter rippling through the dining hall, accompanied by a played-up house rivalry and the shutters from cameras. Tommy fared a larger variety of responses, some students refusing to take some (and holding up the rest of the line until they did) while some Red students went all out with their patriotism. More people quickly arrived, hanging around tables just to truly see the food was red—even the salad was red, thanks to the sheer wizardy of the kitchen staff.
Tommy watched the conversations bloom between tables, the dining room’s atmosphere on-par with after a football game or the last day of finals. He got compliments, insults, but no matter what, he was the centre of the show—a spotlight that he used to highlight the kitchen staff and improve the red house morale.
…And judging by the throes of them still coming through the door, it was fucking working. But the highlight of Tommy’s night wasn’t the Red students cheering him on, or seeing the gratitude of the kitchen staff, or even trying some of the red ravioli himself.
No, his favourite part of the night was the entrance of a staff member, a Shane, Shubble Sugamon. Beard and all, she walked up to Tommy’s line, her eyes widening at the food.
“My, my, this wouldn’t happen to be your doing, Red?” she said, her voice gruff and accent foreign. Now that Tommy knew what to look for, he could see how truly awful Shubble’s impression was, but combined with the beard and ugly plaid jacket, it worked.
Tommy shook his head, signing, “Not me. Ask kitchen.”
“Someone else, you reckon?” said Shubble, stroking a hand through her beard. “How curious. I’ll keep an eye out for any other red-themed mascots, ey?”
Tommy nodded firmly. He pointed at the two dishes, signing, “Which?”
“Oh, the tortellini, please,” she said. “And please pass on my thanks to the kitchen staff, their meals are consistently the highlight of my day—even if they’re red.”
Tommy nodded, playing along with the role of president—no wonder Shubble loved her job, she was getting paid to say whatever she wanted to people. Sugamon found a seat in the centre of the hall, and Tommy watched from the corner of his eye as she interacted with the other students, remarking on the strange food choices and how the mascot said she had nothing to do with it.
Instead of doing president’s work, or going straight to their room, Shubble came to the dining hall—where the students ate—and she did it for him.
And in the warm light of the dining hall, Shubble’s brown nails looked almost red.
Notes:
Tommy, seeing his entire life flash before his eyes as the tomato video plays out:
Connor, standing behind him:
BazingaI'd like to bring everyone's attention to Sugamon's speech from the opening ceremony:
Everyone is welcome here, should they wish to come. I say to you all once again; we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. Over this academic year I hope that as a community we can foster many moments of joy and laughter, laughter to tide us through the pressure and stresses that will inevitably fall upon us. Nothing is more inspiring than seeing these student's love of learning satisfied, from our fresh-eyed high school graduates to our PhD students. That is what I live for, and I welcome this new challenge with excitement and honour. Truly, this year will be held in great regard."
Shubble has been setting all of this up since the very beginning, there's so many things bubbling under the surface that I've forgotten about but I went ALL OUT with the foreshadowing. There's so many innocent clues littered through this fic I love it.Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 35: *looks to my girlfriend* you’re like the niece I never had
Summary:
Shubble hosts a disastrous dinner party, Katherine coming to support her. Ranboo is doing just as rough, good thing Tommy is there to help him.
Wordcount: 3.4k
Estimated reading time: 14 minutes
Date published: April 25th 2025
Notes:
literally about to run out the door and go camping. This chapter hasnt been edited but i won't have service until sunday night lmao. Point and laugh at typos, have an adventure and follow the hyperlinks.
My word doc hit the word count 123,456 this chapter so I'm still riding that high
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The President’s House was a colonial cottage sitting on the edge of the campus and surrounded by roses and lawns. Two slim storeys sat in the centre of the gardens, with three windows on each floor, the very same style as when the university was first founded. In true university fashion, it was squeezed between the brutalist medical centre and a car park.
On this particular night, the bottom floor radiated light onto the dew-covered grass, nearly thirty guests beneath Shubble’s roof. With the final RACS meeting complete, Shubble had arranged a dinner between the committee members and every RACS officer in the university. After hours upon hours of debate, a casual meal with the very students they aimed to support would be just the refresher they needed before the summer break. A visceral reminder of what all those meetings were for, as well as building a sense of camaraderie between the RACS officers. So Shubble had arranged catering for the night, and prepared the mahogany dining room for the her twenty-nine guests. By the time she had everything ready her first guests started arriving, and before Shubble knew it they were all sitting down for the main course.
“I imagine your schedule will fill quickly around this time of year,” she said, her voice as gruff as she could manage it. Her throat had been ravaged from a year of misuse, to the point where she found herself warming up her voice every morning, and interspersing coffees with herbal teas.
The RACS officer across from her—Stephanie was her name—sliced some of her turkey. “Yeah, the midterms were pretty busy. I usually do RACS stuff when I’m sick of studying.”
“I don’t think I got much study done at all,” laughed Helena. “My floor had a bunch of disagreements—it was either cut into my study or cut into my sleep.”
“That is a commendable effort,” said Shubble. “I can only assume how satisfying it felt to work with your floor and find solutions.”
“Oh yeah, we got it all sorted,” she said. “It was a huge weight off my shoulders.”
Quackity took a sip of his water. “It’s incredible how quickly you built that kind of relationship,” he said. “It took me a year to get my hallmates to get along, and you managed an entire floor in half that time.”
Shubble could hear the admiration in his voice. And not just an act, it was genuine. That was Quackity’s strongest trait. He knew how to use his emotions, to add that touch of truth to whatever he was saying, so nobody saw it coming when he pulled out the rug from beneath his feet. She knew better than to lower her guard, but man was it exhausting.
It didn’t help that Quackity had already built a rapport with the RACS officers—especially the ones from the red house. Shubble hadn’t met any of them before—not even the one assigned to her floor.
“So how do you help during arguments?” said one of the blue students. “By the time I’m called in, the argument has already escalated so much.”
“A general rule of thumb is to do whatever they haven’t done,” said Helena. “Well, that doesn’t make much sense, but if they’re calling you in, it means they’ve tried everything they have thought of to resolve it. You have to work out what they haven’t tried and just run with it Sometimes that means making them use a talking stick, or creating punishments for a chore chart, and sometimes it means calling someone a fucking dickhead—” She coughed. “—I mean, a fricking idiot.”
Schlatt snorted.
“We all have our slipups,” said Shubble, winking to Helena. “I had a difficult time removing the more unsavoury Australian slang in my youth.”
“So Stephanie,” Quackity continued, a calculating glint in his eye. “How do midterms and finals play into your role? Do you hold any events?”
“Eh, when I can,” she said. “Mostly I just invite people to play cards.”
“I hosted a midterms party, said Paula. “It was mainly an excuse for free food, but a couple hours without studying was taken up by almost everyone.”
“That sounds like a great way to bring people together,” said Quackity. “I wish every floor had the opportunity to do that—I wonder what sort of budget we could put forward for it.”
And there was the moment Shubble was waiting for. Quackity was trying to divide their united front, but she just straightened in her chair, meeting his brown eyes. “Next semester we will indeed have a dedicated line in the budget for RACS officers, but we’re still finalising what that funding will look like.”
Schlatt snorted, placing his empty wine glass on the table—that was his third for the night, He’d be of no help to Shubble. “Go on, then,” he said. “What amount have you allotted? Ten thousand?”
And just like that, Shubble had been backed into a corner. “Unfortunately I can’t make any guarantees about the budget or the amount each officer will receive, I can confirm there will be an allotted budget for purchasing food, hosting social nights and other events.”
Quackity was about to open his mouth, so Shubble pushed on.
“I’m not inclined to put limits on what the budget can be used for—RACS is such a multi-faceted role, and I feel that boxing that funding into specific categories will limit what you can achieve with your respective floors.”
This conversation had come up numerous times during their meetings. How do you find the balance between giving RACS officers freedom and making sure the money is being used responsibly?
Quackity opened his mouth, then hesitated, having a mouthful of food instead.
The people around the table hummed, and Shubble’s lip twitched beneath her beard. He wouldn’t dare bring up that argument here, not when it would pit him against the RACS officers.
“How are you going to stop people from blowing it, though?” said the blue house student. “Like, what if someone uses the money for themselves?”
She froze, watching Quackity’s face fall perfectly neutral. His poker face, the only one he used when he had a chance at winning.
Schlatt wheezed, the bottle of wine in his hand slipping, and wine sloshing on the carpet.
Shubble was in for a long night.
How did it go??
Katherine’s message came through at nine-thirty, just after Shubble let out the final guests. Their empty plates were still littered across the table—crap, the catering crew had left already. She didn’t hire anyone to cover the cleanup.
This was fine—it was Friday night, and she could sneak in a nap tomorrow afternoon instead of sleeping tonight. She took a deep breath, then texted her back.
Quackity tried to split us as usual. Schlatt spilled wine and I lost the students
Katherine’s response was instant.
I’m coming over
Shubble typed out an entire refusal, then noticed the shake in her hands. She deleted the message. Instead, she stacked all thirty plates, carrying them over to the tiny kitchen and stacking them in the limited bench space.
She could ignore what Quackity said, ignore the wine stained into the pale carpet, and ignore the light leaking from beneath the bathroom door, the fan still rattling. Just focus on the hot water, finding the right amount of dish soap and a clean sponge.
She barely registered the click at the front door, only turning when the footsteps reached her kitchen.
Katherine stood in the doorway, wearing rubber gloves and holding a spray bottle. “I heard there was a wine stain?”
“Thank goodness you’re here,” she sighed, wrapping her up in a hug. Katherine’s arms wrapped around her just as tight, Shubble melting into her muscular arms.
The kitchen light flicked on, and Shubble jumped, spinning to the doorframe.
Schlatt stared at both of them, his brow quickly furrowing.
She quickly pulled away, wary of Katherine’s status as a student. “My sincere apologies!” she stuttered, dropping into her Sugamon voice. “I’m afraid I neglected to check the bathroom before closing up for the night.”
“Apology accepted,” said Schlatt, staring at Katherine. “You’re not a RACS officer.”
Schlatt had walked in on them embracing. On Sugamon embracing a random student. Time screeched to a halt, she had sent everyone home and isolated Katherine, there were no other eyewitnesses and the two were embracing in the dark.
Even as Schlatt was drunk, the situation was lighting up every red flag, and Shubble could see her career ending before it had even begun—and not from identity theft, but from improper relationships.
“My name is Katherine,” she said, confidently.
“—My niece,” she quickly tacked on. “This is my niece, Katherine.”
He didn’t move. “I wasn’t aware you had any such… relations,” he said, glancing between the two of them again.
“I’m here to help with the wine stain,” said Katherine.
“The wine stain!” she repeated, thickening her accent. “I’d have better luck finding left-handed tongs than cleaning that rug.”
She quickly nodded. “Uncle—Uncle Shane has always been hopeless with this stuff.
Shubble held her breath, brain already jumping ahead and mapping out exits, the distance between her and Schlatt and what she could use as a distraction.
“…Nice to meet you,” he finally grunted.
Katherine visibly relaxed, but Shubble held herself together.
He glanced between them, nthen sighed. “I’m too old for this. You young ones enjoy your work, I’ll retire myself for the evening.”
“Enjoy your rest,” said Shubble, still running on autopilot. “I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah, all that shit,” said Schlatt, waving a hand. He muttered to himself as he moved to the door, neither woman moving until it clicked shut.
Katherine turned to Shubble, her dark eyes as wide as saucers.
Before she could speak, Shubble pushed the spray bottle into her hands. “The wine stain,” she said, keeping her voice rough.
Shubble couldn’t risk breaking character. She couldn’t risk someone seeing.
She blinked. “Right, right,” she said, the two kneeling on the carpet.
They poured baking soda over the red patch, watching the powder thicken into a pink paste. The night was an utter disaster. She’d walked into Quackity’s trap, divided the board instead of united it, and broken her relationship with the students. They poured water over the paste, then pressed a damp cloth to it. She hadn’t even started the dishes. The bubbles in the sink were still pristine, heat slowly leeching from the water.
She met Katherine’s eyes not as a friend, as her closest confidant, but as President Sugamon.
The night was an utter disaster.
But it could have been worse. Far, far worse.
Ranboo was getting stressed about the finals. They all were, of course, but Tommy could see him getting worse. And judging by the looks Tubbo sent him in class, he was just as aware. Both of them had tried to support Ranboo, but the fucker kept insisting he was fine. Even when they had to repeat conversations to him, or when he spent more and more time hunched over his notebook.
Talking was the thing that left for him the fastest, a couple times then the two would be chatting, and Tommy would realise Ranboo had no idea what they were talking about. He called him up on it straight away, but the man just denied it, then made some bullshit about having an appointment.
He went straight to Tubbo on it, but all they could come up with was texting cheesy messages to Ranboo. (His was very mature; I really enjoy your company and just wanted to let you know that I’m here for you. Tubbo went for a more unorthodox approach, instead writing Its so hot wehn you tell me ab ur problems.) Neither got a response, both working to accommodate Ranboo as much as they could when he wasn’t talking about his fucking problems.
Tommy’s breakthrough came on Saturday morning, with a phone call from the aptly-named Boob Boy.
“Ayup,” he said, as soon as he accepted.
“Hello?” said Ranboo, his voice wobbling.
Tommy exchanged a look with Shubble. “Ranboo? Is something happening?”
“I—I just—you aren’t—aren’t busy—are you busy?”
Tommy quickly saved his document, slapping his laptop shut. “Nah, I’ve just been fucking around on Lily Platt’s Fundraiser.”
“Oh, that’s—that—I—”
“I’m not busy, bitch. What do you need help with?”
Ranboo’s jaw snapped shut. “…I’m lost,” he admitted, his voice wobbling.
Tommy was up on his feet in an instant, pushing out of his dorm as he said, “I’m coming. Don’t you dare fucking hang up on me.”
“Sorry, I—I don’t—this wasn’t supposed to—I should know my way around by—I just didn’t know who else to call.”
He stepped into the elevator, pushing for the ground floor. “Tell me what you can see.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, then shuffling around.
Silence followed, and Tommy held his tongue. The elevator doors opened on the third floor, and he grunted. “Ranboo?”
There was a gasp, followed by a loud clunk. “Oh, you—you scared me, Tommy,” said Ranboo. “Day—Daydreaming, you know? What were you saying?”
Tommy tightened his grip on the phone. “You said you were lost, and I’m coming to find you. Can you tell me what you’re seeing?”
“I—I’m inside a building,” he said.
A building. Great, that fucking narrowed it down. Tommy held his tongue again, not wanting to break Ranboo’s concentration.
“There’s—the room is full of shelves but it’s not—um—not the library? It’s too small to be the library.”
“Do you think you’re in one of the library’s study rooms?” he said, stepping out of the lift.
“I—no, the studies are—they’re comfortable, aren’t they? There’s no—no couches or chairs.”
Lots of the buildings had their own specialised libraries, every fucking building had its own basement full of who-knows-what. Tommy needed more detail. “What about the walls? Any windows or writing or some shit?”
“No—No windows, and—oh, wait, there’s a poster.”
“What does it say?”
Ranboo let out a shaky breath, but continued before Tommy had to prompt him. “L'Manberg’s Written History Club? I—I don’t know what that is.”
History? Tommy swung towards the literature and culture building. The labyrinthine basements had all sorts of records—and none of it digitised. “Probably a bunch of bullshit. Can you see any doors?”
“I—” He cut himself off, breathing shaking once again.
Tommy moved faster. “You still there?”
“Tommy?” he whispered.
“I’m still here.”
“I—I think I’m—I can’t—do you know where I am?”
Holy shit he was out of his depth. How the fuck was Ranboo surviving when it got this bad? Was he making it worse? “You called me because you were lost. I’m coming to find you.”
“You don’t—” he cut himself off, then sighed. “You said that already, didn’t you?”
“Who gives a shit,” said Tommy. “I—fuck—I mean, I’m here for you. Do deep breathing and shit.”
“Sorry,” said Ranboo, as Tommy hit the entrance of the literature and culture building. “I don’t—normally Jeff can lead me—I shouldn’t have to call you. Sorry.”
“I’m almost there,” said Tommy, searching for the stairs to the basement. “Walk around and try to find a door.”
“I—I will.”
Tommy hit the stairs, flying down them as fast as he could manage.
“I found it,” he said, quietly.
“What’s the name above the door say?”
“Eldrian Research Room,” he said.
All the air exhaled from Tommy at once. “I’m close, stay there.”
He marched through the basement, cutting through the main archives until he hit the rooms around the edge, finally spotting Ranboo in the corner, his shoulders raised up to his ears.
“There you are,” he said, Ranboo jumping at his voice.
His eyes landed on Tommy, and he finally relaxed. “H-Hey.”
“So what happened?” said Tommy. “What are you doing down here—on a fucking Saturday, too?”
His gaze dropped. “I can’t—I don’t—don’t remember.”
Tommy swallowed. “Right. Let’s—Let’s go back to your room?”
Ranboo quickly nodded, sliding in beside Tommy as the two turned around.
He lasted three steps before the silence was too much. “This basement is fucking shit—who puts concrete on the fucking walls?”
He just hummed, but Tommy continued rambling, unable to stop himself. “Like sure, it’s cheap as shit, but have you seen our tuition? Surely they can afford to at least paint it. It’s not even depression beige!”
He glanced at Ranboo again, cutting himself off. He was staring off into space, hardly following with what he said. “Ranboo, you there?”
He stopped, turning to Tommy. “I—I’m—”
“We’re going to your room,” he interrupted. “You got lost and you called me to help you,” Tommy repeated, once again.
Familiarity sparked in his eye, and Ranboo relaxed, nodding along.
The rest of the journey was much the same, Tommy giving intermittent reminders about what they were doing and where they were going. Sometimes the instructions stuck and sometimes he lost them instantly, but Tommy couldn’t fucking tell because Ranboo kept trying to hide it.
He grew more confident once they hit the Blue dorms, leading the way to his own room instead of drifting beside Tommy and second glancing everything. They finally made it inside, Tommy shutting the door with a sigh. Ranboo automatically went for his notebook on the bench, and Tommy stayed leaning against the door.
“What now?” he said.
Ranboo flinched again. “Sorry. I—Normally when I get like this I—” He glanced down at his book. “I watch gard—gardening videos.”
“Well shit, let’s get them on,” he said. “I love watching dirt and plants and mud.”
So he and Ranboo sat up on the tiny couch, Tommy throwing a blanket over the two of them as they watched lawn maintenance videos. Tommy only kept half an eye on the video, watching as Ranboo flicked through his notebook, sometimes staring at the screen and other times staring off into the distance. Whenever it happened, he not-so-subtly shifted, jolting Ranboo’s focus.
Half an hour into watching the videos, Ranboo’s shoulders eased, sinking into the couch cushions. He followed the videos closer, lips twitching at the jokes and focusing on the loud noises.
Finally, he turned towards Tommy, his gaze properly focusing. “Hey.”
“You’re back?” he said, instantly.
“Mostly,” he shrugged, his voice still quiet.
“Thank fuck,” said Tommy, collapsing into the couch. “My brain is going to melt if I watch another SB Mowing video. They should not be playing that shit to minors, it’s worse than—” Tommy cut himself off, but Ranboo didn’t notice. Shit, he almost dropped his best-kept secret just like that.”
“I can—you can choose the next video?” said Ranboo, handing over the remote. “I’m just gonna—” He pointed at his journal. “Yeah. I’ll just do that.”
Tommy grabbed the remote, staring at Ranboo’s recommended. Lots of lawn care interspersed with horror analyses and spaghetti commercials. Fuck it, he was putting on vines. Tommy went to the search bar, pulling up lists of compilations and eventually deciding on Vines that trap me in a timeloop.
Halfway through the video, Ranboo sighed, turning across to him once again. “Can you—can you tell me what happened? I wrote some stuff but it doesn’t cover everything.”
Tommy paused the video on a frame of a guy playing a nintendo switch. “Basically, you called me and said you were lost, so I made you stay on the phone while I went to find you. You were super out of it, and I had to remind you a bunch of times what we were doing—but I agreed to help you, alright bitch? Next time this happens you come straight to me—write that down in your fucking book, bitch boy.”
Ranboo huffed, but sure enough he opened to a new blank page.
“Write exactly what I said—including the bitch boy, I can’t have you forgetting that.”
“Of course, Tommy,” he said, adding a bitch boy at the end with his shitty penmanship.
He swallowed, mouth still dry from the stress. “I—I’m gonna be serious here for a second,” he said. “I don’t give a shit about your headspace, got it? If you need help, I’ll help you. Big men know how to support other men’s mental health.”
Ranboo placed his hand on top of Tommy’s. “Thank you,” he said. “I—I really appreciate it.”
“Good, we’re watching more vines.”
Notes:
I gotta stop getting attached to random stuff on the internet first it was Shawn Nickerson and now it's this random school kid's fundraiser. Wouldn't it be funny if we actually donated to it tho
Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 36: The Lady’s Pocket of Last Resort
Summary:
Tommy earns his Auslan swearing privileges, using them to cuss out Clementine instantly. Afterwards, he's confronted with another womanly sorrow.
Wordcount: 2k
Estimated reading time: 8 minutes
Date published: May 4th, 2025
Notes:
This chapter is the first time Tommy has used politics words correctly—not just politician, but patriotism, too. *wipes a tear from my eye* he’s come so far
Shawn4651 made two new boards, they're called CHICKEN THIGHS great "SOY/ITALIAN" and CHICKEN THIGHS "SOY/ITALIAN" and they both have one pin. The pin is the exact same image of a chicken marinade. I love Shawn so so much.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
For the last Auslan class before finals, Niki cast aside her usual lesson plan, instead getting everyone to rearrange the chairs into small groups, creating a game of Auslan speed dating. Each round people would scramble for a different chair, Niki writing a conversation prompt on the board.
While masked up, Tommy confided in his love of nuggets, debated where to get the best coffee on campus and painstakingly fingerspelled his favourite music, A-B-L-E S-I-S-T-E-R-S.
The lights flicked, and they all scrambled to a new table. Tommy hauled his ballgown around the foldout chair, looking up and meeting Clementine’s eyes. He stuck out his tongue, ignoring the rest of the group.
She copied the gesture.
Niki wrote up the next question, What’s your favourite thing about your house?
“Favourite in red house what?” he signed, raising his eyebrows. Then, he smirked, pointing two thumbs at himself. “Me.”
The group gave a good-natured laugh, Clementine rolling her eyes right into the back of her head.
The next person was from the yellow house, signing, “I love parties. Chat with friends, dancing, drinking!” they gave a cheeky smile.
“Drink what?” he signed, slowly. “Beer?!”
“No, no,” they signed. “Milk. Drinking milk.” They nodded quickly, as if it gave any credibility to their statement.
“Alright,” he signed, letting them get away with it.
They continued their way around the circle, and when it came to Clementine’s turn she put a finger to her chin. “I like P-R-A-N-K-S,” she fingerspelled. “Because funny, funny people same.” She somehow managed to sign with Tommy’s swagger, the answer almost identical to what he would have said.
“Me same,” he signed. “Favourite P-R-A-N-K what?”
She speared him a look, but quickly masked it. “In F-E-B I saw chair P-R-A-N-K. Outside chairs—” She showed how the chairs were stacked on top of each other, then used her pointer fingers to draw a triangle. She stacked the chair sign in the shape of the triangle, building a pyramid.
Holy shit, she was talking about Benchamin. “I know!” he quickly signed.
Clementine smiled, finishing her description. “Group took chairs, lots of chairs for pyramid,” she signed the shape again. “Pyramid tall, I loved.”
“Me help make,” he signed, grinning. “Name B-I-G B-E-N-C-H.”
“Make?” Clementine repeated. “You? Ask you why? You not funny.”
Gasps went out across the group.
“Not funny?” He stared directly at Clementine. “Me not funny?” He turned to Niki, waving to get her attention.
“Yes?” she signed, facing them.
Instead of getting Niki to vouch for him, he had a much funnier plan. “Can I swear?”
Niki’s eyes lit up. “Swear?”
“Please.”
Niki sighed, crossing her arms. After a moment of deliberation, she nodded.
He swung back around to Clementine. “BULLSHIT!” he signed, mouthing the word as he made the beautifully crude sign. “Me D-O fun, me D-O P-R-A-N-K-S.”
The group burst into laughter, Clementine dropping her head.
“Remember red food? Me make, because me funny. You not funny, you bitch.”
“Can I swear?” Clementine signed, glancing at Niki. When she nodded, she signed, “Fuck you,” a quick movement that looked far too similar to please.
The conversation devolved into insults, only ending when the tables shuffled again. Even as the everyone moved on, Tommy couldn’t help but smile when he caught eyes with Clementine. He’d never dare admit it, but she was pretty funny.
His good mood followed him back to the red house, where he went for his usual wander through the halls. Finals loomed over the entire building, students weighed down by assignments they hadn’t finished. The usual shenanigans had quietened down, with people putting aside pranks to study, or gearing up to make finals hell for everyone else. Whether it was the assignments or the time, there wasn’t a single person in the communal areas. Not mingling next to the microwave, nobody crowded on couches to watch movies—not even in the basement. Fuck, the morale was definitely low.
Tommy clicked his heels together, starting his rose trail as he marched back upwards. Start studying¸ he sent to Clementine, running through ideas in his head. I’ve got mascot shit.
Hanging with Tubbo, she sent back. Maybe later.
Of course. Tommy had half a mind to swear at her, but that would use the last of his words. Besides, he had important decisions ahead of him. He had a fair amount of equipment to choose from, although most of it was currently in his room. That ruled out most of the fun options—hallway golf would have fucked so hard right now—but he could still manage something relaxed. All his baking supplies were still in the kitchen, surely he could whip up something with those.
He stepped into the closest elevator, finding an entire lollipop tree. The display pole was as tall as him, covered on all sides by lollipops in every flavour. He smirked, pulling off a red one and selecting his floor. You know what? He could take a couple extras. Whoever was doing this knew their food was getting taken, so he could go around handing them out to students. Tommy plucked off as many red ones as he could carry, then searched his outfit for somewhere to store them.
His dress was more casual, as far as ballgowns went. The amaranth-red fabric was unadorned, the skirt folded to resemble a blossom before cascading down to his feet. But the plain fabric betrayed him, leaving Tommy pocketless as he unfolded each pleat in the dress. The bodice was just as plain, fabric hugging him tightly from his waist to just below his elbows. Fuck women’s fashion, the only place he could possibly store something was between his—between his tits.
Tommy stared down, eyeing off the top of his dress and the small gap between his breasts. It was just—it was his own body, what was the big deal? He’d had boobs for almost a year now, he knew about boob stuff. He knew it felt weird as shit to lie on them, that they got in the way of his arms, he even knew how hard to bounce to make them jiggle. He was basically an adult, he could be mature about this. All he had to do was grab the lollipops and slip them in the gap, shuffle them around until they felt right and be on his way. Hand out titty sweets to students.
He stared down at the lollipops. Lifted them up and—
Put them back on the stand.
The lift doors opened, and he quickly left, cheeks warmer than he would have liked. He’d just make hot chocolates or something.
On his way to the kitchen, Tommy bumped into Bad, a bag of packing peanuts falling to the ground.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, scrambling to pick up the bag. Bad’s dark eyes darted back and forth, his hands shaking.
“D-O what?” asked Tommy, helping him pick it up.
Bad blinked. “These are for a prank,” he said. “I—I’m going to throw them in my friend’s room.”
Right. Tommy gave him a thumbs-up and the best he could offer at a reassuring smile. Throwing packing peanuts in a room was just not enough.
He sighed. “I knew it would be lame.”
Tommy quickly shook his head. “Funny will,” he quickly signed.
Bad stared at him, not moving even after he repeated the signs.
Tommy sighed, miming out typing and gesturing to Bad. Once he passed over his phone, Tommy wrote, It’s a good idea, lots of effort.
“But it’s not really funny,” he said. “Nothing I do ends up that way.”
He winced, giving a so-so gesture. U just need more practise?
“I’ve made five pranks,” he said. “Five. And every time it’s the same result. I just—I can’t do it.”
Fuck, what was he supposed to say to that? The thing is, Bad wasn’t funny. He carried himself a touch too seriously, tried too hard, sitting in that weird middle ground between being way too genuine and not genuine enough. He let his expectations get in the way of the prank, lingering over every motion—shit, Bad was waiting for him to type.
I believe in u, he quickly wrote. And u should, too.
“This was a waste of time,” he said, lowering the packing peanuts again. “I just—how do you even make pranks?” he asked. “You—you always have something going on, and you make it look so easy. What’s the secret?”
Secret? The secret was Tommy’s oozing charisma paired with a woman’s beautiful face, the secret was the university’s magic and free tuition, the secret was if he couldn’t joke about his traumatic backstory he would never have grown past it. He could do bullshit, he could make up shit all day and all night, but none of it would answer Bad’s question. How do you make funny pranks? How do you be funny? Pull back the reflexes, pull back all the garbage he blurted to see what happened, what was the secret?
Eventually, he decided on the politician approach.
Everyone finds their own way, he wrote. You gotta test things out n prolly embarrass the siht out of u but it’s gotta happen. He glanced around the hallway, eyes landing on the pile of coconuts in front of the door, the pile that had steadily grown as the semester continued, now up to eight.
Be like the coconuts n don’t make it a huge deal. Just be urself.
“…Thanks,” said Bad, when Tommy held the phone up. “I just—how am I supposed to know who that is?”
He shrugged. Do what you like, find people who do the same. What do u like?
“I—I like history?”
Tommy’s eyes lit up, typing faster. Did u konw ab the lmanburg hsitory club???
Bad did not match his excitement. “Red, I created that club. Nobody has joined.”
Fuck.
Fuck those guys, he wrote.
“Hey, language.”
Frick those guys they cant handle your swag
Ur prank is gonna be awesome
He let Bad read the final message, then passed back the phone, picking up the bag of peanuts. He met Bad’s obsidian eyes, then gave him a salute.
Bad returned it, raising his chin before marching down the hallway.
Another day, another weaponisation of American patriotism. Fucking yanks. Tommy continued to the kitchen, getting out the ingredients to make a fuck-ton of hot chocolates.
Schlatt had never clicked with the president. Not during the initial interviews, not as he won over the entire board, and not even after working with him for a year. Of course, he could be civil—they were both working to improve L'Manberg, after all—but that didn’t mean he had to like the guy.
It didn’t stop Sugamon from trying to grow closer, annoying attempts that brought him closer and closer to punching something. They clashed on many different fronts, but conflict was far better than uneasy agreement. He trusted Sugamon to say what he truly thought, and Sugamon expected the same from him.
He could ignore his unkempt beard, his sudden disappearances, and his penchant for sending emails out at one-am when he did a decent job at his work.
However, he couldn’t ignore the situation with his niece.
Sugamon was a private man, talking lots about his past but very little about the people in it. He could have seventeen nieces with the entire university clueless, and fuck if Schlatt cared. But he did care when one of those nieces was a L'Manberg student.
Schlatt was a reasonable man—and a man that had been working in administration for fifteen years. He had honed his instincts in that time, sniffing out all sorts of problems before they became public. He trusted his gut, and his gut knew Sugamon was hiding something.
So Schlatt entered the office early, and started doing his homework. He gathered Katherine’s forms—as many as he could, Katherine was only here on an exchange. He sent a request for information to Empires University, then scanned through the information he had about her enrolment.
She was here on a temporary stint, part of the Empires-L'Manberg botany program. This was the first semester the two colleges had joined, the change commandeered by—
By Sugamon.
Sugamon was the one to push the collaboration, the program his niece was part of.
Schlatt’s mouth stretched into a grin, elation running through him. All he had to do was set up some cameras and capture some hard evidence.
He had struck gold.
Notes:
I’m sure that’s nothing to worry about.
Anyways, today two different people sent me the same instagram reel about an actual lettuce eating club going "THE LETTUCE CLUB IS REAL??" and I realised I have a confession to make. The lettuce club is not an original idea, I saw a screenshot on tumblr describing it years ago and countless youtube videos since. It's actually a real thing and i was NOT funny enough to come up with it. Other pranks I didn't come up with:
Christmas in July in September (this actually happened at my school but I wasn't involved lmao)
Calling Mr Baer came straight from reddit lmao
That's all the pranks I had on my list, but all of the big ones (Tomatony, imposter president, elevator food etc.) were beamed into my brain. If there's any pranks in particular you want to know my thought process for, let me know down below <3Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
Chapter 37: Tommy’s Biggest Secret
Summary:
Shit. Shit. Tommy’s best-kept secret—the secret he’d managed all year, nobody but Shubble knowing the truth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, in the most causal voice he could manage.
He could keep this game up all night, but Tubbo wasn't buying it. He was done for.Wordcount: 2.6k
Estimated reading time: 11 minutes
Date published: May 11th, 2025
Notes:
This chapter was gonna be released earlier but then I spent 2 hours making a carrd and proving someone’s pfp looked like flint lockwood with microsoft paint.
view flint lockwood here
[Image ID] a poorly-cropped flint lockwood is placed in the rock candy mountain from cloudy with a chance of meatballs 2. Flint has his arms raised in the air in excitement and a white circle sits over the top of the image. [End ID]
I'm very proud of him. I did such a good job at convincing the other person that they instantly changed their pfp to him lmao.Next chapter is going to be the last one for the semester, and then I'm going on scheduled hiatus over the summer <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Exciting changes in the Fall semester
While L'Manberg’s students enjoy a well-earned summer break, the languages faculty have been hard at work, preparing three new languages for the program. Did you know languages are the building blocks for our lives? They frame relationships, time and distance, our understanding of culture and so much more. Learning a new language challenges those preexisting structures, and gives you a better understanding of not just another culture, but the entire world.
True facts: College graduates who minored in an additional language were 80% more hireable than those without it! Employers value workers who have the discipline to learn a new language.
Why else should you learn? L'Manberg’s language degrees are unlike the other courses. Classes are capped at fifteen students, giving you the chance to forge new relationships with your group—in English and in other languages!
Beginning in September, students will have access to three new majors, including Auslan (Australian sign language), Chinese and Portuguese. With these new languages, L'Manberg is introducing a whole host of new staff, increasing our department to a whopping 25 full-time staff. For students looking to enrol or transfer, more information is available on our website .
We look forward to seeing everyone next semester—or as you say in Portuguese, vejo você no próximo ano !
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
A pencil tapped against the polished table, cutting through Tommy’s last shreds of concentration. Tubbo was the cause of it, his tap, tap tap sawing through the library’s quiet and any train of thought Tommy had. It was only Wednesday and he’d already been wiped off his feet, spending almost half his time masked up. This was the first evening where he wasn’t needed, finally able to sit and knuckle down on his assessment.
Well, he could, if Tubbo stopped tapping. Every time he grew used to the pattern, he’d go and fucking change it.
Tip-tap tip-tap tip-tap tip-tap
He had finished two out of his three final papers—well, he’d submitted one, but the second was only a page short. He, Ranboo and Tubbo were hunkered down in the library, working on an eight-page monstrosity about medieval women’s writing. In the space of three days, Tommy had gotten his from one page to six, and with a bit of luck he could—
Tippety tap, tippety tap, tippety tap
Tommy groaned. “What is your problem?”
“What? Can’t a guy like me live his life?”
“Can’t a guy like you stop fucking tapping?”
Tubbo met Tommy’s blue eyes, a lazy grin across his face. “No, I don’t think I will.”
“Mate, actually,” he said. “There’s no way you’ve finished ten pages about the isolation of the female writing voice.”
“I have my draft,” said Tubbo. “Can’t edit it, though.”
“It’s due tomorrow?” said Tommy. “Whyever the fucketh not?”
Tubbo pulled up his phone, opening up a familiar app. “It’s in morse code.”
“You did not fucking—”
Tubbo pushed a button, his phone making an obnoxious BEEP BEEP-BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP-BEEP-BEEP BEEP BEEP-BEEP BEEP—
Tubbo cut it off.
“You’re a fucking specimen,” said Tommy. “You know, when we first met I took one look at your tawny-brown eyes and went ‘this is the most specimen of a person I’ve ever seen in my life’ Ranboo agrees with me—don’t you, Ranboo?”
“Hm?” Ranboo jumped, his eyes darting around without landing on anything.
He exchanged a glance with Tubbo. “Tubbo wrote his essay in fucking morse code, the whole thing is just beeps.”
“Morse code?” Ranboo repeated. “We—I’ve told you to stop doing that?”
The words were too hesitant for Tommy’s liking. “Fuck that, it’s grass time. Come on Ranboo, we’re out of here.”
Ranboo reacted quicker, this time. “I still haven’t integrated my supporting quotes.”
“Oh yeah?” said Tommy, glancing at Ranboo’s screen. “Last edited: forty-four minutes ago.”
Tubbo snorted. “Do I hear an SB mowing video on the horizon?”
“This—This really needs to get done,” he said.
“Has he released this week’s video?” said Tommy.
“Ooh, what if there’s a hidden sidewalk?” said Tubbo.
“You wanna see the sidewalk so bad—”
“You love sidewalks, don’t you Ranboo?”
“Alright,” said Ranboo, closing his laptop. “I—I guess I can put the tv on while I work.”
Tubbo and Tommy cheered, earning them quite a few glares from the groups nearby. They packed up with new vigour, stopping by the vending machine to buy countless energy drinks—they needed enough caffeine to keep Tubbo awake, after all.
The rest of the campus was dead quiet, the air so still Tommy felt like he was pushing through it. Not even the trees were rustling, standing as silent guardians over the quad. Tubbo and Ranboo quietened, too, Tommy’s heart thumping in his ears.
There were still no lights in the grassy space, just like all those months ago with the lemon tree. This time there were no eccentric botany students or bones, just darkness and a silence that made his hands shake. He bit the tip of his tongue, the same way he did when he was seven.
Tommy forced himself to take a deep breath, continuing his steady pace across the quad. He was fine, it was just a little darkness, his brain was being a shithead, but he could ignore it.
Hands grabbed him from behind.
Tommy yanked away. “I’M A MINOR!”
“Gotcha!” said Tubbo, snorting. “Wait, what did you say?”
Shit. Shit. Tommy’s best-kept secret—the secret he’d managed all year, nobody but Shubble knowing the truth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You said—You said minor,” said Ranboo. “Tommy, are you—”
“Miner,” he said, stressing the end. I love mining, I love caves and darkness and fucking—fucking spe-lunk-ing.”
“When’s your birthday?” said Tubbo.
“You know my birthday, it’s July fourth, he said. “When I was a young lad I was obsessed with caving, and your cavorting grip reminded me of—”
“July fourth in what year?”
“1994.”
“Bullshit.”
“… 2005?”
“You hesitated,” said Tubbo. “Give me the real year.”
Fuck, Tubbo knew him too well. Tommy could keep this game up all night, but Tubbo was a ruthless hunter. He was the starved wolf, latching onto information with sharp teeth and refusing to let go, leaving Tommy the flaccid rabbit in his grip, hopeless to survive.
“2007,” he said, bracing himself for their responses.
“You’re seventeen?” said Ranboo.
“You’re a baby!” said Tubbo, at the same time. The two broke into laughter.
“I’m seventeen for two months,” said Tommy. “Two months!”
“Aww, is baby angwy? Did you miss out on your cartoons?”
“Oh, I have to write this down,” said Ranboo, pulling out his notebook.
“Fuck yeah, we’re not forgetting this,” said Tubbo.
“We should forget this,” said Tommy. “I’m unfriending both of you, bitches.”
“Watch your language, young man.”
“Oh fuck off,” he said, spinning away from the two of them.
Ranboo snorted. “Tubbo, he’s throwing a tantrum.”
“I am seventeen, not a fucking toddler.”
“Ooh, I think it’s past his bedtime, Ranboo.”
“Definitely.”
Tommy groaned, but their jabs continued all the way to Ranboo’s room. Even when they stopped, Tommy knew that look in Tubbo’s eyes. Tubbo wasn’t going to let him forget it—and fuck him, there were two days left before the term finished. He’d kept this secret all fucking year, to no avail. He was the rabbit caught in the wolf’s teeth, shaken about like a fucking chew toy.
By the time they got set up, Ranboo was already more aware, but they opened up youtube regardless, bickering over which video they wanted. Tommy was splayed out on the bed while Ranboo and Tubbo shared the couch, propping his laptop on a pillow. Back to bludgeoning himself with twelfth century gender roles.
Tubbo popped his lips.
Tommy’s head snapped upwards. “Not seeing a lot of assignment over there,” he said, glancing at Tubbo’s shut laptop.
“I’m busy.”
Tommy poked him. “It’s finals week, bitch.”
Tubbo ignored him.
Poke.
Poke.
Tubbo slapped his hand away.
Poke.
“You haven’t even started,” he said. “You’re learning morse code instead of typing a shitty eight pages.”
“I’m an adult,” said Tubbo. “I can make my own decisions.”
“Fuck you.”
Ranboo shifted. “Tubbo, it is due tomorrow. Shouldn’t you at least start?”
“And? So what if I don’t start? What if I just fail, would that be such a shame?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be ideal,” said Ranboo. “We can—I can help you with the tough bits.”
Tommy sat up, resting a hand on the bed. “Wait, are you dropping out?”
“Out of L'Manberg?” said Tubbo. “Never. But I’m sure as fuck not staying in Lit.”
“Hey, lit is cool,” said Tommy.
“I’m still dyslexic, bossman. Sparknotes can only get me so fucking far.”
“What are you transferring to?” said Ranboo.
Tubbo sighed, slumping into the couch’s fake leather. “Fuck if I know. All the interesting degrees have too many exams.”
“What about nuclear engineering—hm, never mind. Visual art?”
“Art has history exams.”
“What about theatre?”
“I can’t dance. Or sing.”
Tommy frowned. “Teaching?”
“Teaching definitely has exams—besides, I spend enough time around kids as it is.”
Tommy flipped him off. “Fuck, this is hard—why are you here, if you can’t do exams?”
“Uni sounded fucking awesome,” said Tubbo. “And I’m not leaving, I just—I’m like the psychology dude, the one who taped the cat in the box.”
“Schrödinger?” said Tommy.
“—Schrödinger didn’t actually trap a cat,” said Ranboo.
“I’m Schrödinger’s freshman,” he said. “Both enrolling and not enrolling.”
“Maybe you should drop out,” said Tommy. “Become an electrician or something.”
“Can’t leave you unsupervised.”
“Bitch.”
“Oh, did you see that email from the languages department?” asked Ranboo.
Tubbo grabbed his hand. “Ranboo, I haven’t checked that thing since March.”
Ranboo snorted, his eyes alight. “Well, just have a look at this—”
He handed his phone over, Tubbo squinting at the screen. “An Auslan degree? Holy shit, sign me the fuck up!”
Before Tommy could make some comment, his phone rang, cutting through the do not disturb.
He quickly answered. “Hey, Shubble.”
“Hi Shubble!” yelled Tubbo.
“Is that Tubbo?” said Shubble, in lieu of greeting.
“Yeah, we’re on the grind right now—and the work kind, not the one you do to women.”
“What the fuck?”
“Well, pause your studying, there’s an important tradition on tonight.”
Tommy grinned. “Oh?”
Tubbo spun around. “What did she say?”
“I’m just getting changed, do you think you can meet me by the school of business?”
Tommy glanced around. “How long is this gonna take?”
“Trust me, it’ll be worth it,” said Shubble. “Bring your friends—and be quick.”
The trio scrambled out of their room, rushing across the campus with giggles and snorts. Tommy’s curiosity overtook any lingering fear of the quiet, the three finding Shubble just by the door. Any sign of the president was gone, the only hint being Shubble’s gloved hands, hiding the brown nails beneath.
“What shit are we getting dragged into?” said Tommy.
Shubble just huffed. “Nice to see you, too. Hello again Tubbo, and you’re… Ranboo?”
“Yep, that’s me,” said Ranboo.
“You’re both freshman, right?” said Shubble. When they nodded, she smirked. “You’re in for a treat.”
“Come on, Shubble, spill.”
“I bet you’re all feeling the stress of finals—I know I am. So much studying that all I’m craving is a grilled cheese.”
Tommy groaned. “Get to the point.”
“I’ll take as long as I like,” said Shubble. “L'Manberg has a… stress-relieving tradition, a song that will weave into your core and never leave. For some it’s a moment of levity, and for others it’s a void to pour everything into, leaving all your baggage behind. And it’s name? The midnight scream.”
Okay, that did sound a little cool, Tommy had to admit.
Shubble paused, her grin widening. “Wanna come see?”
“That sounds fucking awesome,” said Tubbo.
“We’re doing it in the quad—that’s the best spot for your first time.”
“So what, everyone just gets together and screams?” said Ranboo.
“At midnight on the dot,” said Shubble. She glanced down at her phone. “We’ve got seven minutes—come on, we have to get a good spot.”
The three followed Shubble, Tommy’s jaw dropping as more and more people emerged, each filtering towards the university’s centre. Students moved out of buildings, wrapped in pyjamas and jackets and day clothes, some dressed up and others looking half-awake. The noise increased as they got to the lawns, students clustering together and laughing and chatting with each other.
“I haven’t seen this many people since the ball,” said Ranboo. “So how does—how does everyone know about this?”
“Because it’s the most important tradition we have,” said Shubble, spreading her arms out wide. “Think of everything weighing you down—not just exams, but every single thing that’s happened this year. Missing your family, failing to keep up with homework, every embarrassing moment, every time you were busy, or tired, or sick, or angry or anything. Hold it close, and when the time comes, let it all out.” She glanced down at her watch. “Two minutes to go.”
Tommy looked to his left and right, finding Ranboo and Tubbo with wide grins. He couldn’t help but match them, snorting when Tubbo cracked a joke.
Clementine appeared next to him, a smug look on her face.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said. “Fancy meeting everyone here!” he added, when Ranboo and Tubbo gave him a look.
“I’m here for the action,” said Clementine. “Glad Shubble remembered to get you out here, this is the best night of the year.”
If it was so important, why wasn’t Red here?
“D’you reckon there’s any mascots around?” he said, staring directly at Clementine as he said it.
“Ooh, do they show up?” said Tubbo. “I mean, I haven’t seen anyone, but do they usually come here?”
Clementine snorted. “One problem with that.”
“I think the mascots would struggle with the screaming part,” said Shubble, staring directly at Tommy.
Fuck, he’d forgotten that she knew.
…And judging by Clementine’s booming laughter, she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“What are you looking at, bitch?” he quickly said.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Shubble, giving him a knowing smirk. She glanced down at her phone again. “Any second, now.”
They crowded around Shubble’s phone, watching the seconds slowly tip over.
A hush fell over the crowd, excitement crackling through the air.
Ten seconds left.
Tubbo nudged Ranboo, then grabbed onto his arm.
Five seconds.
Shubble gave him a sly wink. Despite the bags under her eyes she was smiling as wide as she could.
Three seconds.
Once again, Tommy was struck with emotion. How the fuck did he get here?
Two seconds.
Not just in the quad, but everything. His sister was the president, he was stalked by tomatoes, he’d danced in a ballroom.
One.
Tommy wasn’t just a college student, he was a mascot. A brother.
A friend.
Zero.
Tommy screamed.
As loud as he could manage, his throat stinging from the effort. He screamed until he ran out of breath, then took a breath and screamed again. The noise echoed around him, Ranboo and Tubbo letting out bursts of noise, Shubble’s voice breaking midway through her scream. She kept going anyway, pulling every dreg of air left in her lungs. Cacophony sounded from all around, high and sharp screeches mingling with chesty yells, all sent up into the still night. Tommy could have sworn the still air was now shaking, trembling under the weight of so much emotion and camaraderie; hundreds of college students losing their mind in the same moment.
For the first time, Tommy understood the meaning of glory.
Camera tapes were collected from the President’s office, reran in late hours of the night. No sign of the suspicious niece, but no sign was needed.
Not when the tapes showed a beardless president.
Notes:
I can’t remember the last time I screamed. Can you?
Chapter 38: A Presidential Farewell
Summary:
The final chapter for the semester. Tommy is given a farewell gift, Shubble wreaks havoc in her exam. Schlatt wreaks havoc everywhere else.
Wordcount: 3.9k
Estimated reading time: 16 minutes
Date published: May 18th, 2025
Notes:
okay this is the last chapter of the semester, so prepare for longer and more info-dumpy author notes.
First you guys have to watch Eurovision and by Eurovision I mean Australia's entry that DIDN'T QUALIFY DESPITE BEING THE MOST EUROVISION SONG TO EVERY EUROVISION. Gojo wasn't just there for shits and giggles, he threw his HEART into the song and you can really tell, and not getting into the finals actually devastated him. He had multiple costume changes in a giant blender, what more could you possible want??? I got up at 4:30 am to watch Gojo perform and nobody bothered to vote for him. Eurovision is like cigarettes to me I hate it so much yet every year I come crawling back to watch it again. Most rigged biased stupid competition yet gojo went in with a full heart and plenty of sparkles.
Now that that's out of the way it's time to get emotional. Well, a little bit, anyway. The emotions won't hit me until later. With this chapter, the fic is coming in at 130k words. My word document for this fic is at 300 pages and I've also spent 132k minutes in this document, which is equivalent to 2,200 hours. When people ask me why I don't play video games this is why.
I've also updated the chapter count but shhhh you don't see it it was always that high
Two more things:
1. doing musical theatre would fix Shubble.
2. Shawn4651 added a pin to his CHICKEN THIGHS "SOY/ITALIAN" board, and he ALSO made a board called WEDDING BREAKFAST. It has one pin.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
At 10:13 on Friday morning, Shubble rushed out of the board meeting, shoving papers about maintenance contracts into her folder. She’d drop them off at her office, then get changed out of Sugamon, ready for her last lit exam.
She made it to her office at 10:21, swapping her folder for a briefcase. She’d clawed the time to take the exam from Sugamon’s open office hours, leaving a sign on the door to say they were cancelled.
It was 10:25 when she made it to the President’s House, moving as quickly as possible to the boiler room. She stripped her president clothes, changing into one of Katherine’s sundresses, throwing a beanie over her wig cap. She wasn’t going for colour coordination today—especially when she threw a green blazer over the top—she’d scheduled every minute of her day, there was no way she was planning an outfit on top of that.
Shubble left the basement at 10:36, grabbing her exam bag and the sandwich she’d made at dawn, travelling through the familiar tunnel to the school of business. She emerged at 11:02, far too close for her liking. She broke into a run—a privilege she didn’t have as Sugamon—making it to the red dorms in record time. Shubble ignored the stairs and the lift, instead beelining for the ground floor’s kitchen.
She puffed as she grabbed the sandwich press, opening it up and placing her lunch inside. She closed it, but made no move for the cord.
Instead, she pulled off the bright green blazer, exposing the secret zip at the base of the jacket and pulling it open as far as she could. Then, she shoved the sandwich press inside, zipping it up and folding the jacket around it to mask the rectangular block. There was no time for eating before her exam started, but she had prepared for that.
Besides, now that she couldn’t reveal Sugamon, she had to put forward something for prank of the year.
She exited the red dorms at 11:16, running all the way to Mezaelea Hall. All the air rushed out of her as she joined the line for check-ins, waiting with the other stragglers for her turn to sign in. She slid the blazer over her shoulders, ignoring the rectangular lump on her right. The average person wouldn’t notice it, and even if they did they wouldn’t care enough to snitch.
The line moved forward, and adrenaline surged through Shubble. When it was her turn, she showed her ID and exam-approved supplies, and she was let in without a second glance. She hid her smile, adrenaline waking her up—her first real awakening in days. She moved past the desk, taking in the freshly-polished floors and antique chandeliers above them. This building had just finished its technology upgrades, including adding power outlets to every desk. This building had seen thousands of students take exams, and hundreds of thousands more gracing its floors. Shubble was far from the first prank within these walls, but she was fairly certain she’d be the first president pranker.
The other students waited in near-silence, standing in small clumps and talking in hushed whispers. Most looked confident, knowing they’d graduate no matter the results of this exam, but others were laden with stress. Shubble was part of the former, unless she completely bombed this exam instead of partially bombing. While she recognised some of the people in the room, she had spoken to maybe two of them in the past year—and don’t even get her started on her class attendance. A few of her closer professors had reached out to ask if she was okay, but she wasn’t in high school, and they had no obligation to help her pass.
At 11:29, the doors to the exam hall were opened, each student filing in and finding a seat. Shubble met the eyes of the invigilator—of Schlatt—as she walked in, holding his stony gaze. He didn’t break away, and Shubble had to hide her smirk. Of course he’d refuse to back down.
Regardless, if he was looking at her face, he wouldn’t see the giant lump in her jacket.
Shubble sat in her chair, letting the silence of the room settle over her. She’d made it to the exam on time, and now she could relax and think about modern European dramas rather than the difficulties of contract renewals.
The exam began with a rustle of paper, Shubble flipping her page and reading through the essay topics. This was her final exam—not just for the year, but for her life—and she was ready to go out with a bang.
She chose her moment one hour in—well, it wasn’t chosen so much as planned. Her next meeting was at 1:00, but the exam didn’t end until 1:30. Once she factored in travel time and a costume change, she needed to leave at 12:00.
She unzipped her blazer pocket as quietly as possible with a free hand, as slow as she could. She slid the sandwich press onto her lap, wincing when it bumped the table leg. She held the skin-warmed metal on her legs as she wrote another sentence, happy to pace herself and avoid suspicion.
She lowered her pencil, then moved for the cord, uncoiling it and eyeing the outlet on her desk. In one smooth movement, she slid the press out, putting it on the table and plugging it in. With a whisper of a smile, she picked up her pencil again. Let the waiting game begin.
As Shubble added more detail about Ibsen’s influence on symbolism, she caught the student beside her doing a double take. She continued writing.
The sandwich press warmed, heat wavering off it, more and more students around her noticing, but nobody said a thing.
The sandwich sizzled, cheese pooling out the side and meeting the hot metal.
The rustling in the hall increased, heads swinging towards the noise before staring at Shubble.
She stared back, still holding her mask—just for a little longer, just until—
Footsteps echoed in the silent all, Schlatt meeting her eyes once again.
Finally, she let herself smirk, grin only widening when she saw the sparkle in Schlatt’s eye.
“Miss Berry,” he said, Shubble glancing to her ID card. “Are you aware that food is banned from the exam hall?”
“Why?” she said. “I’m not bothering anyone.”
The sandwich press sizzled again, the scent of cheese making Shubble’s mouth water.
She watched Schlatt smirk. While his rogue streak had caused her countless headaches, it served him well in during exams. “Miss Berry, please leave the exam hall.”
Shubble quickly stood, gathering her supplies.
When she stepped away, Schlatt cleared his throat. “Forgetting something?”
She smiled sweetly, shaking her head. The sandwich press sizzled again.
“I’ll remind you that right now, you are a student in my supervision,” he said, sounding more amused than Shubble expected. “I don’t give a shit about what you do in your free time, but I expect your respect in here. I’ll repeat myself; aren’t you forgetting something?”
The scent of cheese grew stronger, and Shubble knew it would last long after she left. “Oh, that’s right,” she said, grabbing her sandwich and taking a bite. Her tastebuds danced as they met melted cheese and butter, the true food of the gods. Balancing the sandwich in her mouth, she unplugged the press, using the handle to avoid the hot metal.
She followed hazel out of the room, stepping through the door at 11:59.
Once the door was shut, Schlatt let out a chuckle. “You reds always managed to pull something.”
She glanced down at her gloves, checking her brown nails were covered. “Why thank you.”
“Now, I don’t know how you managed to get a sandwich grill into my exam, and I don’t care about the particulars. What I do want to know is why you did it so early? You’ve just lost half your time.”
“I’ve got a graduation party to prep for,” she said, instantly.
“Oh, I assumed it was a more… serious appointment,” he said, smile twisting.
It was actually the final negotiation with the maintenance crew union for the year, but Schlatt didn’t need to know that. “Oh, it’s serious, alright. Now, I’ve got food to buy—I don’t care what you write me up for—have fun!”
She took another bite of her grilled cheese, waving goodbye and marching across the campus once again.
Schlatt made no move to stop her. She didn’t question why until it was far too late.
“D’you reckon I can leave the bracelet in the toilet?” said Tommy, as he wiped down the mirror in his dorm.
“You are not leaving me in the toilet,” said Clementine.
“Well I’m not just hiding you under the bed—people clean these rooms.”
“You can put me in the air vent?”
“But then Connor will find you, and I’m not playing fucking amongus with him.”
“You could hide it in Lazar’s lawn shower.”
Tommy paused his scrubbing. “Has that not been torn down yet?”
“Nope, saw it this morning. What if you buried me under Ponk’s lemon tree?”
“She would actually kill me,” said Tommy. “And you’re not even trying.”
“Normally I don’t have to,” said Clementine. “Most mascots don’t want to deal with roommates, so we pull some strings and get them a private room. There’s a hidden panel in the floor we usually use.”
“I’m not forking out for a private room, those are expensive as shit.”
“Mascots get free board,” Clementine said. “Duh.”
“FREE BOARD?!” he yelled. “WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SO?”
Clementine snorted. “No point. If you had a private room you’d miss out on time with your sister.”
“Ew,” said Tommy. “Affection is fucking disgusting.”
“But you love your sister, and she loves you,” said Clementine, throwing her arms around herself.
Tommy slipped off his mascot bracelet, holding it over the bathroom sink. “I’ll waterboard you, bitch.”
Clementine continued, mimicking his voice. “My sister is so cool and pretty and she’s the smartest person I know, I love making her—”
Tommy turned the tap on.
Clementine shuddered, her face scrunching up. “—Fine, fine!”
He stopped the water.
“Eugh, that felt weird,” she said, shaking out her hands.
“I’m trying to work out where I can leave you,” said Tommy, popping the bracelet back on his wrist. He turned his attention to the shower screen, digging through the cabinet to find the cleaning spray.
“Do you remember how to get into the Buttercamp?” said Clementine.
“Now that is a smart motherfucking place,” he said. “I’ll pop it down there tonight, when I’ve cleaned up my shit—oh, and Shubble’s.”
That morning, Tommy awoke to a note and a twenty dollar bill on Shubble’s bed, the note reading I’ll be back late tonight, payment to clean up my crap.
“Red has the commencement ceremony tomorrow morning,” said Clementine. “But that’s the last maskup for the term.”
“Yep, yep,” said Tommy. “Graduation, then Buttercamp. I’ve got this.”
Their conversation was interrupted by an obnoxious knocking.
He opened the door to find Ranboo and Tubbo with matching grins, a perfectly wrapped present between them.
Tommy frowned. “Is that a bomb?”
The two blanched.
“No, it’s—it’s a goodbye present!” said Ranboo.
“If I was planting a bomb you wouldn’t know until it was too late,” said Tubbo.
“There’s no way that’s a normal present,” he said.
“Nah man, I’ve had too many exams to get anything stupid,” said Tubbo, pushing his way into the room. Tommy sighed, letting Ranboo through as well.
The three got themselves settled—
“—Get your grubby ass boots off my mattress!”
The three got their shoes off and settled on the beds, and the present was shoved into Tommy’s lap. It was fairly plump—most likely an item of clothing, but Tommy still doubted the duo.
“Come on, what’s the catch?”
“Seriously?” said Tubbo.
“I just wanted to get you something,” said Ranboo. “You—You’ve been a huge help for me over the year, so I thought I’d get you some appreciation for it, y’know? I still don’t know why you became friends with me, but—but yeah!”
Tommy softened, meeting Ranboo’s mismatching eyes. He was a sappy dumbass, but a sappy dumbass who’d bought him a gift. If anyone messed with him Tommy would fucking deck them.
“Stop yapping and start unwrapping,” said Tubbo.
He rolled his eyes, tearing through the paper.
His smile dropped when he saw what was inside. “This isn’t funny.”
The two burst out laughing, any ounce of sincerity gone from Ranboo’s face—fuck, his puppy eyes had got Tommy.
Two items sat inside the wrapping paper, a set of baby car keys and Lightning McQueen pyjamas.
“I think it’s pretty funny, actually,” said Tubbo.
“You bought me fucking toddler keys!”
“It’s for when you get bored without us,” said Ranboo.
“You little—Ranboo, I’m not believing anything you say ever again. You’re a conniving little bitch.”
Ranboo burst into laughter, and Tommy threw the car keys at him. “I’m seventeen, not fucking seven,” he said.
“Come on, you gotta like the Lightning McQueen pyjamas,” said Tubbo.
Well, they did look a little cool, but Tubbo didn’t get to hear that. Ever. “Kill yourself.”
Tubbo wheezed, the two laughing strong enough that Tommy had to join in. “I hate both of you,” he said, no bite behind the words.
“I guess we’ll have to leave,” said Tubbo. “Here I was thinking my best friend would enjoy a gift, but I guess we weren’t friends after all.”
“You got that right,” said Tommy. “Unfriended, you two aren’t coming to my birthday party.”
Ranboo gasped. “But that’s when we can legally hang out with you. You really hate us that much?”
“Yep,” said Tommy. “I don’t wanna see either of you until August.”
“Ouch,” said Tubbo, tossing the keys back onto Tommy’s lap.
“I can’t believe the year is over already,” said Ranboo.
“I can,” said Tubbo. “You guys are great, but if I have to look at Philza again I’m setting something on fire. Preferably him.”
“It feels like we only just got here, but I’m already going back home,” said Ranboo.
“Says the guy with memory loss.”
“Hey!”
“Tubbo, you literally can’t think without coffees. How much caffeine did you have to do your exams?”
“Two double shots beforehand and another shot halfway through,” said Tubbo. “But I fucking destroyed those essays.”
“We’ll see,” said Tommy. “I think the results will be outside—although lit exams would be a bitch to grade.”
Ranboo opened his notebook. “Grades will be out by the end of next week.”
“We’ll be long gone by then,” said Tommy. “Have you two got your rooms cleaned up?”
The two dropped their gazes.
“Well…”
“—I’ve started doing a little bit of stuff.”
“Get out of here,” said Tommy. “You guys have to clear off by—when, tomorrow morning?”
Tubbo cracked his knuckles. “Guess I’ve got one more all-nighter for the semester.”
Tommy groaned. “You’re the worst—both of you.”
“I—I’m leaving early tomorrow morning,” said Ranboo. “It’s a long drive home. Can we do goodbyes now?”
“Oh yeah, my flight is super early,” said Tommy, quickly. He had to stay for the graduation ceremony, but he couldn’t have them making the connection between him and Red.
The three exchanged hugs and jibes, Tommy getting one too many minor jokes for his liking.
All too soon they were standing, lingering around the doorframe, the room holding its breath.
This was their last moment together, their last moment until—until August. Tommy would go back to the UK, Tubbo would get back to work, and Ranboo would do whatever the fuck rich people do.
“Until August?” he said, instead.
“August,” replied Tubbo, looking between them.
“I’m gonna miss you guys,” said Ranboo. “Until then.”
The trio parted ways. Tommy ignored the hollowness in his chest.
For the commencement ceremony, Tommy donned a more formal gown, pulling together a red civil-war era look. His plain top was embellished by three white bows, bows that added a pop of colour. He wasn’t trying to overdo the graduates, here, but he wasn’t rocking up in fucking pyjamas. (Although, a Lightning McQueen ballgown would fucking slay)
His overskirt stopped just below his knees, red bows ruffing the fabric the whole way around, leaving his white underskirt to reach the ground. The outfit was tied together with white-lace gloves, Tommy’s mask tied around the back of his head with a matching bow. It was the most elegant gown he’d worn all year—he could even put Blue to shame with it.
Just the same as the opening ceremony, Tommy gathered with the faculty in the sports centre, gravitating towards Yellow and Blue as the three exchanged compliments. They were just as dressed up as Tommy, despite rocking completely different styles. Blue had gone for a modern hanfu while Yellow rocked a halter dress, and the three looked fucking awful next to each other. Seriously, who decided to base the houses off primary colours, they looked dogshit next to each other.
Tommy had hardly finished admiring their outfits when it was time to proceed out, the three switching from jokes and excitement to boring regal-ness. They had to look good for all the parents and donors, the graduation ceremony was one of the few times Tommy couldn’t have fun.
He tuned out most of the speeches, only perking up during the president’s address. He made a game of trying to spot hints of Shubble, but now that he knew what to look for, it was all he could see.
“One of my greatest honours as the president is witnessing scholars’ hard work pay off. Whether you’ve been with Lanthem for a year, three years, or longer, you’ve been spurred on by peers and faculty to broaden your knowledge. Before me stands the next generation of doctors, engineers, historians, biochemists, and so much more. This ceremony is to celebrate you, and there is nothing that excites me more than sharing that pride.”
Of course Shubble went all out with her speech writing. Unlike normal people, Shubble got excited about public speaking, rambling on and on, delighting in her captive audience.
“It’s impossible for me to name every influence on your success, and even moreso on the impact you’ll bring to the workforce. Just like a sprawling mycelium network, your influence will spread further than you or I could ever witness, tendrils curling beneath the surface—”
And it was back to fucking mushrooms. Fuck him, the clues were everywhere. From the rasp to her voice to the way she was standing. How had he—how had everyone missed it for so long? Sure, he’d barely seen Shubble, but what about her classmates? What about Quackity?
Becoming the president was bold—fucking crazy, but bold. It had taken a miracle for Shubble to pull it off, and even now delight radiated from her.
Shubble’s speech finished with raucous applause—ouch, her ego didn’t need feeding—and the stage got ready for handing out diplomas. The three mascots and other key staff made their way onto the stage, preparing to shake just over a thousand hands. Tommy’s rose petals mingled with Yellow’s glitter and Blue’s mist, creating a magical carpet that sort-of-but-mostly-didn’t work.
The names begun, quickly blurring together as Tommy shook each red student’s hand, trying to add some personalisation when he could. He amused himself by reading each person’s points, seeing who had the highest number. You only needed fifty to pass for the year, but some students were getting as high as two hundred. He couldn’t wait to tell Shubble—that would certainly knock her down a peg.
Even with the mascot magic, Tommy’s feet were aching by the time they got to the letter Z. As the last student found their seat, Chancellor Schlatt stepped up to the microphone. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, sporting a fresh haircut and a wide grin.
“Alright, you guys made it to the closing speech,” said Schlatt. “You’ve already proven how smart you all are, but I’m here to see if you can remember how to exit the stadium.”
Laughter rumbled through the crowd, and Schlatt continued. “Firstly, lunch is available for graduates and their guests from one onwards, set up in the dining hall. Honors will be announced on the first of June, depending on exam results. Scholars potentially receiving honours will be invited to the honours ceremony on the same day. Third, when the music plays the graduates will exit first, followed by everyone else.”
He nodded, but didn’t move from the microphone.
Come on, Tommy was ready to get out of here. The new graduates had parties to attend and he could feel Clementine beating his flappy bird high score.
“But before we leave, I have one thing I’d like to address.” He turned to his side. “President Sugamon, will you join me?”
Shubble nodded, stepping to Schlatt’s side with a smile.
Tommy tilted his head. This didn’t happen during the last ceremony, was it an end of year thing?
“I hate to dampen the celebrations, but I have an unfortunate announcement to make,” said Schlatt. “Shane Ulysses Sugamon is a thief and a fraud.”
Oh.
Oh shit.
Shubble’s eyes widened. “What’s the meaning of this, Schlatt?”
“Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about,” he said. “The year of lies, sneaking in and out of office, falsifying your records.
Murmurs rumbled through the crowd, Blue and Yellow shifting beside him.
“This is most unprofessional,” said Shubble, a tad too quick. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”
Tommy held still.
“You can’t squirm out of this one, Sugamon. This is checkmate.” He smirked. “Although you don’t usually go by Sugamon—”
He grabbed the president’s beard, ripping it away.
“Do you, Miss Berry?”
CLEMENTINE HE RIPPED OFF SHUBBLE’S BEARD, he sent, as Schlatt yelled again.
“YOU HAVE LIED TO ALL OF L’MANBERG, COLLECTING YOUR TWO HUNDRED GRAND SALARY AND PLAYING US FOR FOOLS!” He threw an accusing finger at Shubble. “BUT NO LONGER! POLICE, ARREST THIS WOMAN!”
Please don’t react, Clementine sent. Act shocked and don’t—
She hit the word limit before she could berate Tommy.
He ignored her advice, immediately stepping forward.
Shubble’s head snapped towards him, golden eyes with pinprick pupils locking onto his. The rest of her face was perfectly calm, every emotion hidden beneath her mask.
Tommy took another step forward.
She shook her head.
He didn’t move, deaf to the crowd and the gasps among the staff, ignoring Blue and Yellow’s quick signing and the police climbing the stairs. He held Shubble’s gaze, asking a silent are you sure? The same are you sure from when Shubble left for university, the are you sure from when they finally opened up to their foster mother, the very are you sure from when he was eight years old in that tiny police station.
Shubble dipped her head, then turned to Schlatt.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asked.
Tommy stepped back.
She shrugged. “I knew it was never meant to be.”
Numbness overtook him. Schlatt yelled and yelled, the police surrounding Shubble, the crowd growing louder and louder. Phones raised all over the audience, documenting the police handcuff the president, handcuff Shubble, handcuff his sister.
Tommy did nothing.
Shubble didn’t fight back. She didn’t complain or resist, just held her head high.
Tommy did nothing.
Schlatt tapped the microphone, quietening the crowd. “With that little mishap out of the way, I’d like to congratulate the graduates of 2025. Go forth and improve the world.”
And just like that, the band began to play.
Tommy did nothing.
Notes:
... So how are we feeling, everyone?
I wish I could tell you how I come up with the plot for this. I wish I remembered my thought process for anything, but all I know is to inflict awful jokes and angst on the readers. And speaking of jokes, NOBODY is allowed to throw any shade at smuggling a sandwich press into an exam. You wanna know why? Because I did this in my year 11 maths exam, and I got away with it, too. I got food banned from all the following exams but it was so worth it lmao.
Next up, Tommy's dress in this chapter was inspired by this dress by fanciful doll. I wish I had a magic bracelet and could wear gorgeous dresses without paying broken heart emoji.
I realised that since I'm not announcing who won prank of the year until the opening ceremony, I can leave the form open through the whole holidays!! It's not too late to vote, you can do it here.
Next on the agenda, have you ever wondered which house you would get put in? Well, last year I got bored, so I made a uquiz for it haha. find out your house here.
If anyone here makes fanart I will shit myself and die
It's been a wild ride so far, I hope you'll continue to stay with me when I return, on the 19th of August. Leaving kudos is slay but comments are bae ;D
MANDATORY REST STOP!!!
Did you know you’ve been reading for 130k words? I know I just dropped a massive cliffhanger on you guys but this is a really good place to stop before the next year plotlines begin. So have a look around, is it past 10pm? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Need to pee? This fic isn’t going anywhere, so get out of here.
Chapter 39: BOOK 2: Spike the Soup
Summary:
Tommy's back at L'Manberg and already dreaming big. He catches up with Shubble and then attends the house initiation--there's no way he's missing prank of the year.
Wordcount: 5.2k
Estimated reading time: 21 minutes
Date published: August 19th, 2025
Notes:
Welcome back everyone!!! I had a lovely hiatus, I spent my time baking 20 loaves of bread, finished my level two Auslan, got addicted to Wplace, and then spending three weeks in timeline hell. I'll infodump more at the end, enjoy <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
By the time Tommy made it to L’Manberg’s iron-wrought gates, he was grinning from ear to ear. Despite the weight of his backpack and bulky suitcase—fuck plane baggage limits—he couldn’t help the pep in his step, weaving between students in an effort to get there faster. He crossed the university’s threshold, red swirling across his nails, the L’Manberg crest forming on top of each one.
“We’re so fucking back.”
It had been four months since he’d stepped onto the well-worn paving, four months since he laid eyes on the gauntlet fountain, four months since he’d smelled the stress-induced sweat of countless young adults. Not that he’d particularly missed the latter, but you couldn’t win them all. His phone was blowing up with messages—no doubt Tubbo and Ranboo had found their way back to campus—but there was one person in particular he wanted to see.
One that died long before he was born.
Tommy entered the quad, aiming for the northern building rather than the red dorms, ignoring the glances that students threw him—as far as they knew, he was just hungry as fuck. He turned at the food court’s entrance, ducking past the bathrooms and hauling ass upstairs. By the time he got his bags up, his arms were shaking like crazy, but he continued onto the Buttercamp’s entrance. He popped out the panel and yanked the door open, inhaling a wave of dust straight from the eighties.
Clementine was nowhere to be seen—knowing her, she was probably waiting to scare him.
“Hah hah,” he said, to the empty room. “Real funny. Get your ass out here.”
There was no response. He rolled his eyes, digging between the couch cushions until his fingers brushed a familiar wooden bracelet.
Clementine appeared in front of his face. “Took you long enough.”
He flinched—no, not a flinch, a twitch, A twitch because his nose was itchy, he would never flinch. “Well fuck you, too. I was hauling ass up those stairs.”
She hummed, leaning over the back of his head. “I don’t know what you were carrying, but it’s definitely not ass.”
“I think you mean I missed you and your dashing intellect, Tommy,” he said.
“You wish,” she said. “Can we get out of here? I reckon I’ve memorised every DVD cover in this place.”
“What, no how are you? Did you enjoy your summer? What are your plans for this year? What prank ideas do you have? What fucking pranks do you want to do, Tommy?”
“I’ll listen to you, but only if we can get out of this place. I’ve been stuck here for way too long.”
“Deal—wait, stuck here? What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “I can only move through objects when someone is holding the bracelet.” She stuck her arm through the door, encountering no resistance. “See?”
“So you just let me trap you here? What the fuck?”
“Well, last Christmas you stuffed me under a bed. I’d certainly call this an upgrade.”
He groaned, yanking at the door and making his way out. “You’re insufferable. What is it with you people and not telling me anything.”
“I honestly didn’t mind,” she said. “It’s just part of my duties—same as shadowing you and putting up with your monologues.”
“Speaking of monologues!” he said, rolling his suitcase down the hallway. “I’ve thought long and hard this summer—I’m always hard, but harder than usual, y’know?”
“Ah, sweet freedom.” Clementine breezed down the pallid hallway, not even blinking at Tommy’s antics. “Have you ever seen something so beautiful?”
The floors were dusty enough to leave a trail of footprints behind him, walls grubby and dented after years of abuse.
“Of course,” he said. “I see it in my mirror every morning. As I was saying, I’ve been working my brain over the holidays, I had so much space without thinking about literature that I had to, you know? Last year I dropped the ball on house points—to be fucking honest I spent most of the year smiling and nodding when you talked about it. But this year, I am prepared!” He winced when he came to the staircase, letting his bag clunk down every single step. “The morale is gonna be high after Shubble’s success, so we have to keep that energy rolling. I’ve got prank after prank planned, and I’m going to involve as many people as possible.”
Clementine hummed as he listed out his ideas, her green eyes vacant as she drifted down the hallway. She glanced at the locked doors and scuffed walls like a helmsman’s first moments above water, relief washed away with the overwhelm of the surface, the fresh air and vivid sights leaving them stumbling in vague delirium.
He kept rambling regardless, at first to get a rise out of her, but then as something to fill the awkward space. The words ran dry when they made it outside, Clementine reaching out to the light as if it were liquid gold. The sunshine set her hair on fire, red waves glowing as she closed her eyes, every hint of tension vanishing from her face.
Tommy quickly looked away, pulling out his phone. Something twisted inside him at her sigh, so he just opened up his messages, sending some vague insult to Tubbo. They could talk later. Talk about pranks, about Shubble, about anything. Clementine needed this moment, so he would wait.
Tommy didn’t mask up until the next morning, attending the opening ceremony while Clementine pigged out in the food court—something about satisfying ghost cravings. He caught up with Yellow and Blue, the respective mascots bouncing with energy. They spent the entire event covertly signing to each other, Yellow going up to receive the house trophy.
After Shubble’s arrest and everything that came with it, Schlatt became the acting president while the board scrambled for a new one. Despite his rambunctious attitude, Schlatt wasn’t one for timewasting. Instead of the day’s usual overwhelm of events, he’d organised a handful of guided tours, meaning Tommy could do whatever he wanted.
And what he wanted? To unmask and chill the fuck out. He made his way back to his room, interrupting Clementine’s feast so he could catch up on Netflix—the reds had their initiation tonight, but he could squeeze in at least four episodes of the shawnaverse before then.
He was halfway through the third when his door slammed open, Shubble walking in.
He jumped. “What the fuck?”
“What? This is my room, too, isn’t it?” Shubble was dressed smarter than usual, a pale yellow blouse paired with a white skirt, her filthy combat boots swapped for double-knotted sketchers. Despite the perfectly-coordinated outfit, she couldn’t help the colour of her nails. Tommy could tell they were trimmed to perfection, but they were still the muddy grey of expulsion.
“Well, you were kinda expelled,” he said. “And arrested, too. Why aren’t you in fucking jail?”
“Relax, I’m on bail,” she said, pacing back and forth. “My court date isn’t until January, and knowing how identity theft trials go, I should get almost a year before I serve any prison time—if the trial gets that far, anyway.”
He knew better than to doubt her. “You’re fucking insane—where have you even been?”
“Eh, you know,” she said. “Crashed at Katherine’s for a bit. I’ve been exploring the city—and the campus, too. Did you know there’s a whole lobby hidden in the dorms? Half of it was demolished in renovations, but they just left the other half.”
“Slow down,” he said. “Are you fucking living here? That’s just asking for someone to call the police on your ass.”
“They don’t know I’m here.” She spun around, throwing her arms in the air. “Besides, who’s gonna snitch on me?”
“Literally anyone,” he deadpanned. “It’s the busiest day of the year—at least put on a fucking mask.”
“I’m a hero, Tommy. The hero of the red house. Of course no one will snitch.” She slumped onto her old bed, sending dust flying into the air. “Besides, they’re announcing prank of the year tonight.”
“Watch your ego,” he said. “You never know, maybe Lacy finally revealed herself.”
Shubble scoffed, but Tommy cut her off. “I’ve gotta get ready soon but—and I mean this seriously—is something going on?”
She stood, back to pacing. “Lacy won’t reveal herself—she’s been here since I began, and I doubt she’s going anywhere.”
“Hey, enough with that shit. How are you?”
For the first time since stepping into the room, Shubble paused. “I’m alright,” she said. “I won’t lie, it’s been a little rough losing Sugamon, but I’m excited for tonight, you know?”
Tommy ignored the flutter in his chest. “Well, you could have started with that,” he muttered. “Skip the bullshit, next time.”
She smirked, reaching to squeeze his cheek. “Only for my little bro.”
He slapped her hand away. “Eugh, gross. Why did I choose you as my sister?”
Clementine drifted between them. “Sorry to break this up, but Red needs to get down there.”
“Well then,” he said, clapping his hands. “I’ve got mascot shit to do. Talk later, alright?”
“Ooh, what’s Red wearing for soup shots?”
“I’m going all-out,” he said, getting to his feet. “Feathers and diamantes, I’ll let the magic take care of the rest.”
Shubble tilted her head. “So how exactly does it work? The magic, I mean.”
Clementine glared.
“It’s simple,” he said. “I reach into the core of my soul and pull out the energy, then I convert it into Nunya.”
“Come on,” she said, returning to the mattress and crossing her legs. “You know I can keep a secret—or a clue, surely you give me a clue.”
“Don’t,” said Clementine. “You know she’ll piece it together—she always does.”
Unfortunately, she was right. He sighed. “Nope, no clues.”
She groaned, flopping backwards again. “Almost had you.”
“You did not—I’ve been watching you pull that shit since I was eight, of course it didn’t fucking work.”
“I’ll get you one day,” she said.
“You fucking wish. Now get out of here, don’t you need to get ready, too?”
“Nope, I’m going like this.”
He blinked. “Not gonna dress up? At least put on the beard.”
She sighed. “I would if I could get the police to give it back to me—they’re not letting me tamper with anything that could be used as evidence.”
“Hah! Well, I’m gonna get glammed up, you have fun with your boring clothes.”
Shubble raised a hand. “See you down there!”
Tommy’s smile lingered as he traced a familiar path, dodging bags and open doors on his way to the closest storage cabinet.
“Holy shit, we fucking destroyed Shubble,” he said, once he closed the door.
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah you did great. We just need to keep up the effort—Shubble has free time now, and that makes her dangerous.”
“I can distract her with my charming wit and effortless swagger.” When Clementine gave him a look, he guffawed. “Alright, alright, I’ll keep an eye on her. Besides, if she really starts digging, I’ll just tell her to cut it out.”
“Good, good,” she said. “I’m not coming to the initiation tonight—I’m gonna stay as far away from her as possible when shadowing, for as long as we reasonably can.”
“Aw, I had this epic speech planned and you’re gonna miss it.”
“Yep,” she said, popping the P. “I’ll just sit in here—who knows, maybe I’ll get some flappy bird in.”
Tommy groaned. “It’s been one day—surely you could give me at least a week.”
“Eh, I’ll think about it,” she said. His bracelet began to burn, goosebumps prickling at the familiar sensation.
Clementine grinned. “That’s your cue, Red. Mask up.”
Petals gathered around his feet, and Tommy jumped, quickly picturing his dress. The morning’s opening ceremony demanded elegance, it was for the sponsors and the parents just as much as for the bright-eyed freshman. But the initiation ceremony was for the red house, in all of its laughter and glory. His outfit needed to be fun—more sequins than he could count, a heart-themed face mask—surely he could make a feather boa work, right?
The petals rushed up from his toes to the sensuous curls of his hair, revealing the beautiful woman inside of him. Today, the beautiful woman was clothed in a bedazzled gown, beginning with off-shoulder sleeves, crewmate-shaped sequins trailing down them and scattering into the bodice. The sparkles met the skirt in a burst of red-black feathers, the plumage following the gentle curve of his crinoline to his womanly feet.
Not quite a feather boa, but he would take it.
Clementine let out a low whistle when she emerged, looking Tommy up and down.
He struck a few poses, making a love heart with his hands—a shape that matched his face mask perfectly.
She flicked out a wrist, the universal gesture for slay.
“Me eating,” he signed. When Clementine just blinked, he added, “Will eat soup. Slay.”
“Yes, yes,” she signed, then shooed him out.
Tommy gave a salute, making his way out the door and to the lift. It was only when he spotted the no entry sign did he stop. Right, the elevators were filled with soup. That was fine—the stairs were very patriotic, and he definitely remembered the route to the ground floor. Tommy found the first staircase, returning smiles with each person he passed, others joining his pilgrimage downwards. The relaxation of summer fizzed between each person, bouncing off the walls until it built into a contagious excitement, spreading through his group as it grew and grew.
By the time Tommy reached the ground floor, he had at least fifteen people with him, all of them scattering into the common room. The usual couches were crammed together, chairs and stalls and whatever else students could get their hands on filling the extra space. A decent portion of the red house was already gathered, so Tommy began his rounds, checking in with new students and old. He brushed up on his signing just as much as his jokes—and even adjusting his footing. His heels were already killing him—fuck, he had no points.
It was only a matter of time before he started to sweat, and he could already feel his feet sliding around in his shoes—he’d be limping out of tonight.
“Ey, Red!”
Tommy lit up, turning and throwing his arms out for Quackity. “How are you?” he signed.
“Couldn’t be better, couldn’t be better.” Tonight he wore his button-up shirt and dress shoes—way too formal for drinking soup, if you asked Tommy. “And how about you? Stunning as always?”
“Always,” Tommy replied, adding as much sass as he could into the movement.
Quackity tilted his head, so Tommy repeated the sign, then fingerspelled it.
“Oh, of course, of course,” he said. “Do you want a rundown of the schedule—it’s all going smoothly, but you never know with this bunch.”
Tommy shook his head. “Want two things,” he signed, holding up two fingers. He tapped the first. “New students where?”
“Most are by Paula—you know Paula, right?” he said, pointing her out. “There.”
“Thanks. Secondly, me want S-P-E-E-C-H.”
Quackity blinked, but understood after the second repetition. “Oh, you got a speech? Okay, I can work that in. How about just before the prank award?”
“Amazing.”
He quirked a dark brow. “Got something big planned?”
Tommy just put a finger to his lips, earning him a playful slap on the shoulder.
“Just don’t derail the whole evening,” he said. “I’ve got something big planned myself, if you know what I mean.”
His polite grin crept into a smirk, and he gave Quackity a military salute.
“Great, soup’s dropping in half an hour, have fun.”
Tommy made his way to the new students, their eyes lighting up when they spotted him. He remembered that magical feeling when he first saw the mascots—someone stunning yet approachable, a mysterious figure who never spoke but always welcomed.
He met their stares with a smile, but soon had to stop. Far too many chairs were crammed between him and the students, and his dress had several too many layers to squeeze past. There was no way he was getting through there with his dignity intact.
You know what? Perfect. Tommy reached down, hauling up his skirts and exposing his knees. While most students didn’t bat an eye, he caught the newbies giggling, some quickly averting their eyes. No bitch, you were supposed to look. Nobody could be intimidated by the mascot hauling ass over a folding chair. Fuck, he should have worn love-heart panties, that would have been perfect.
Tommy made it to the students—and sure enough, most of them met his eyes when he waved. “Hi, my name R-E-D,” he signed, not bothering to slow down his letters.
“And this is Red,” said Paula. “She’s the mascot of the house, but just like the RACS officers, there’s nothing she can’t do.”
He raised an eyebrow, his eyes wide. “Talk?”
Paula didn’t react. “Red and the other mascots all use sign language—there’s classes available on campus for those who are interested.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. How was he supposed to communicate with his students when she kept yapping? He pulled every visual gag he knew, entertaining the freshman and getting to know their sense of humour. He teased out smiles as he sat around them, using basic signs and showing fingerspelling—even teaching some to fingerspell their names. The noise in the common room grew with its population, until the place was buzzing with energy.
“Alright, alright!” said Quackity, climbing onto a stool. “Can we get some peace and quiet in here—Orange, hit the lights!”
The crowd hushed as the lights lowered, noise petering out as Quackity began.
“Welcome old and new to L’Manberg university—anyone who’s not Red can fuck off. Go make your own initiation, we’ve copyrighted this one.”
Chuckles carried through the crowd, Quackity grinning at the attention. “This year is gonna be a wild ride—parties and assignments, breakups and breakdowns, but tonight is about us. About the red house, where we come together for our shared mission, our core values, if you will.” He turned towards Tommy, the students around him shifting.
“Our freshman might be wondering; what exactly are we all about?” He grinned, turning to the rest of the house. “Don’t worry, these guys will tell you. The true meaning of the red house is…”
The crowd erupted, Tommy signing “BITCHES!” He caught the word wisdom somewhere in front of him and there was an ear-shattering shriek of CHILLI DOGS in the centre of the room.
The students around him jumped, eyes darting to each other before they broke out into grins and laughter.
“Now, that legacy is a difficult thing to live up to,” said Quackity. “So how do we get there? We do it with soup—open those lifts!”
Shit, that was his cue. Tommy stood, gesturing to the students around him and guiding them up as Quackity spoke.
“In the elevators behind me, there are several crock pots and a couple hundred shot glasses—and I can guarantee that every single one tastes like liberty.”
Tommy led the group to the lift, pushing the button on the wall.
The doors opened to a foldout table, an aproned person behind it. “Any allergies?”
“Liberation from you past, liberation from the lies you were told, liberation from everything holding you back.”
The shots were handed to each new student, Quackity grabbing one for himself. When everyone was in position, Tommy took one, too.
Quackity climbed back up, raising his cup into the air. “To liberty, and the house!”
“To the house!”
Tommy tipped the glass, pouring hot tomato soup down his throat. Goosebumps rippled across his womanly flesh as he gulped it down, lowering the cup to raucous applause.
“Alright!” said Quackity, tossing his cup aside. “Let’s get this ball rolling! New reds, you can go find your seats, everyone else can fend for themselves, it’s soup time!”
“Soup! Soup! Soup! Soup!” The crowd chanted as the new reds hurried to their seats, breaking into chatter and laughter.
Tommy began his rounds once again, targeting the students who got their cups and were moving away from the crowd, asking about flavours and talking about just how delicious his was. Eventually he came across Bad, who looked far too tired to be there, but the took his soup cup regardless, drifting to the edge of the room.
“Ah, hello Red,” he said, as Tommy approached.
“Soup which?” he signed, pointing at Bad’s cup.
“Oh, I just went with chicken noodle—I’m not big on soup but it should be easy to get down.”
“True,” he signed. “Me have tomato,” he mimed chugging it back and the shudder that went through him afterwards.
Bad laughed. “I hope mine isn’t that bad, oh my goodness.”
“You alright will. Me have T-R-A-U-M-A.”
The light faded in Bad’s eyes, the fastest tell that they had no idea what he was signing. Come on, how hard was it to learn the alphabet? “You good,” he signed, instead.
“Aw, thanks.” Bad tossed back the glass, then choked. He coughed up the soup, sending it spraying down his shirt.
Tommy took a step back. “You alright?”
Bad coughed again, tears spilling from his eyes. “It’s burning!”
“Allergic?” he signed, but Bad wasn’t looking. Tommy turned, grabbing the closest person and desperately pointing.
“Oh shit, are you okay?”
Bad coughed. “Why is that soup burning? Is—was that alcohol?”
The person broke into a laugh. “Oh, you got the vodka! Congratulations, you got the spiked shot. That means you’re gonna have a lucky year.”
“It does?” Bad swallowed, a shudder running through him. “I—Nobody told me about that.”
But they were already turning around. “HEY EVERYONE, FRED GOT SPIKED!”
The crowd cheered again, surrounding a rapidly-reddening Bad.
Tommy had to hold back a genuine laugh, holding his breath so he wouldn’t shatter the magic. This house was fucking incredible.
After that incident, he planted himself in the middle of the room and let the people come to him. If he’d remembered he didn’t have the mascot magic, he would have worn some proper fucking shoes—none of this stiletto business. But even if he was out of physical energy, he could still keep the mental energy alive. So he asked about people’s soup, taking exaggerated whiffs and either fainting or gagging, depending on his mood. In his spare moments, he scanned the shifting crowds for signs of Shubble. A flash of dark, greasy hair, a handful of grey fingernails, her snorting laughter—anything that he could think of.
But no, his sister didn’t want to be seen. She probably had some big reveal planned, and then he’d have to act like it was a surprise and not the third dramatic entrance she’d pulled this week.
A hand slapped his shoulder. Tommy blinked, Quackity back at his side.
“Alright, Red. Your time to shine.”
He gave his signature grin. “Let’s get your speech going before everyone finishes—reckon you can hype them up for prank of the year?”
Tommy scoffed. If anything, he always knew how to work a crowd. But tonight he wasn’t just throwing insults, he had a purpose.
“You interpret,” he signed, looking directly at Quackity.
His brown eyes widened. I don’t know about—I haven’t practised all summer.”
He smirked, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the front. Tommy shook his hands above his head, trying to grab everyone’s attention. A couple people turned, but most continued in their conversation.
Tommy gave Quackity a pointed look.
He cleared his throat. “Alright fellas, listen up!”
When the crowd quietened, Tommy continued. “I want S-P-E-E-C-H,” he signed, making the letters as clear as possible. “With interpreter. Best interpreter.”
Quackity repeated the signs aloud, and Tommy launched into it.
Speech was a bit overkill, to be honest. With the speed of his signing and Quackity’s proficiency at interpreting, he could only say so much before the details became muddled. “This year, Red can win,” he signed, twisting his fist high. “This room have amazing people. Smart people, funny people.”
He paused again, making sure Quackity could catch up. “Blue has what? Flowers?” He pouted his lips and widened his eyes at the sign, letting the sarcasm bleed through. “Yellow house? They nervous, watch Red nervous.” By emphasising the facial expression, he could truly get across the panic they felt.
“The yellow house is scared of us,” Quackity interpreted. “When they watch us, they’re scared.”
A shuffle at the back of the room caught Tommy’s attention, and he quickly found Shubble’s golden eyes. He swallowed, then continued signing. “We want win. Need win.”
Murmurs ran through the crowd—time to finish before everyone was distracted with Shubble. “Will win why? Smart people assignment pah!” He mimed out writing the assessments, then receiving perfect marks on all of them. “Funny people communicate, share, plan make surprise.” He gestured to his whole signing space. “All connect, connect, connect” he signed, linking the different areas. “Then, win.” He accepted his invisible trophy, placing a crown atop his head. Tommy glanced to Quackity.
“We’ll win because—because the clever people will get high grades, and the funny people communicate to… to make pranks happen” said Quackity. “And all those things can connect, then we—”
He cut off, staring at something in the crowd. No doubt it was Shubble—what else could stump Quackity?
“And then we’ll win,” he said, voice firmer than before. “We’ll be the champions, we’ll get the house cup.”
Shubble met Quackity’s gaze with a relaxed grin, the murmurs around her growing. “I hope I’m not running late.” Her voice carried perfectly over the crowd, silence trailing after it.
Quackity smirked. “Of course not. Speaking of trophies, let’s get on with prank of the year.”
Cheers and whoops broke out, Tommy stepping away from the stage. His speech had lost some of its oomph with Shubble’s appearance but he’d bother her with that later. In the meanwhile, he could shake her hand when she won—oh, and ask where the beard was, it was perfect.
“Last year’s competition was one of the best I’ve ever seen,” said Quackity. “We had sculptures, break-ins, even a fake elevator—kudos to Paula’s team for pulling that one off.”
Tommy couldn’t help but join the applause. Surely Quackity was talking about his break-in, who else would go and make his bed?
“Of course, to get to those big pranks, you need a lot of little ones along the way,” he said. “From mucking around in your friend’s room to setting up a professor, it’s those little joys that really get us going. Those are the pranks available to everyone, no matter their time or budget.” His grin widened. “That being said, there can only be one prank that wins. The students have cast their votes, and I have the results. Let’s announce the top three!”
The energy in the room built and built, lightning darting through Tommy’s limbs.
“First on the list, Paula with the fake elevator!”
The crowd applauded as Paula made her way up, brown lips stretched into a radiant grin.
“For anyone not familiar, Paula designed and commissioned a fake lift door, one that can be moved anywhere in the dorms and has fooled—what was it, nine hundred people?”
“That’s how many times the doors were opened,” she said. “We don’t have that many students—which means people were falling for it twice.”
“Now that is the mark of a true prank,” said Quackity. “Alright, let’s give it up for the second contender!”
This one had to be Shubble. The lift was good, but nowhere near President Sugamon.
“I’d like to invite Connor Eats Pants to the stage, with his prank, Tomatony!”
What the fuck. Tommy saw red, forcing himself to still while Connor ran to the front, wearing his signature hoodie and taking a large bow. He didn’t want to relive the trauma—the months of trauma, yet Quackity said them all regardless.
“Connor targeted one student in particular for his prank—but I’ll just play the footage and it can speak for itself.”
Fuck no. The lights dimmed, someone switching on the TV, his torture appearing on screen. But he was Red, he was Red and he didn’t know so now he had to watch it. He hid his wince as he watched tomatoes drop over and over, watched his failed chases and traumatising finale, the crowd getting more and more amped up.
“Tomatony left a tomato on his victim’s bed on the fourteenth of every month—for seven months straight.”
Oooh’s ran through the crowd.
“Ooh indeed,” said Quackity. “We’ve got some… tough competition on our hands, this year,” he said, drawing the words out.
Quackity said he had a big twist—where was it? Tommy tore his gaze away from the screen, glancing around the room for any hint of what was coming next. The crowd was silent, raptured by Quackity, but no movement caught his eyes, not even around the glimmering trophy. Quackity continued to monologue, the video continued to loop, and Shubble lounged at the back, her teeth glinting in the dark.
“I’d like to invite the third and final person to the stage, Benchamin and the Big Bench crew!”
Oh. Oh shit. What was he thinking?
Hesitant applause scattered through the crowd as Benchamin stood, making his way to the front of the room.
Shubble moved, standing on her chair in the blink of an eye. “Quackity, what are you playing at?”
“What do you mean?” he said, smile far too wide. “I’m just following the votes.”
“You’re mistaken,” she said. “Myself and every other person in this room knows my name was on those ballots—and as a member of the student council, you of all people should honour that system.” In the blink of an eye Shubble had shifted, her voice clear and controlled even as she raised it, demanding respect from everyone who heard. Any trace of his sister had vanished, replaced by something stronger, something more precise, something you could rely on. A president.
“I’m well aware of how many votes you received,” Quackity replied, dangerously still. “Unfortunately, your expulsion nullifies the right to participate in house activities.”
Shubble’s eyes widened, the illusion shattering.
Quackity lifted up a red-fingered hand. “But the lies are over, Shubble. We all know what you are.”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Nothing. Tommy watched his sister swallow, then swallow again, just as speechless as him.
“You might have missed it at the start of the night, but I’m more than happy to remind you,” he said. “This is the red initiation, anyone else can fuck off. And judging by your nails, you’re not welcome here.”
He should do something. Tommy should step between them, should tell Quackity to stop, anything.
But his identity was on the line. His and every future mascot’s. He couldn’t.
Shubble’s hands shook.
Tommy watched.
She spun on her heels, storming down the hallway. The crowd was silent as they watched her walk further and further, eventually turning the corner.
“Alright, fellas!” said Quackity, clapping his hands. “Let’s move on to Benchamin’s video—you guys are in for a treat with this one.”
And Tommy could only watch.
Notes:
Benchamin wins the 2025 prank of the year!
WE'RE BACK. WE'RE BEGINNING WITH A BANG AND THERE'S MANY MORE TO COME >:D
We’re keeping the weekly updates on a Tuesday, but I might change it to Thursdays depending on how my schedule plays out. I’m playing with fire (burnout) for this year but I really want to make this work. My break was very productive in the fact that I had an entire month to burn out and have a depressive episode without the pressure of posting chapter, but I've genuinely gotten straight back into the swing of things. I'm so excited for where this is going and super super hyped to bring you guys along with me. I've now started my cert 3 in Auslan and I'm also working but it's all for the love of this fic. It's me and my three year fic timeline against the world.
Okay so going by the ACTUAL prank survey, Sugamon DEFINITELY won, getting 64% of the first preferences.
Second place is actually red cosplaying as Jack Manifold which REALLY surprised me lmao
And third was Tommy making Quackity's bed, which was ALSO a surprise. Like I understand why it was funny but from a story standpoint nobody else would get it. I know you guys like tommy but please please please logically it wouldn't win. So for the final nominees I ended up having to use Tomatony, Benchamin and the fake elevator but your votes were very appreciated. Guess you'll have to wait for next year to have them actually count lmao.SEE YOU ALL NEXT WEEK BYEEEEEEE
Chapter 40: Royal Flush
Summary:
Tommy needs to track down Shubble, work out Quackity's problem and get everything back on track. None of those things get done, but Clementine's watching with popcorn.
Wordcount: 2.7k
Estimated reading time: 11 minutes
Date published: August 26th, 2025
Notes:
I learned how to format footnotes for this chapter. It took twenty extra minutes but in my defense it's a really good footnote. I'm back on the grind and by that I mean that I have the MOTIVATION to grind. My calendar is becoming a meticulously organised beast between my two jobs, auslan classes and assessments and also all my plotting for this fic. I've had two unreasonably productive weeks in a row and somehow it's still lasting and that's kinda terrifying.
Anyways enjoy the chapter, I read through it again for the first time since I typed it a couple weeks ago and it really cracked me up.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“—And then Quackity was all like guh, no expelled students are allowed so fuck off, mate. What a load of bullshit,” said Tommy, taking a bite of his sandwich.
Ranboo and Tubbo sat on the other side of the park bench, their eyes wide.
“Just because she was expelled?” said Ranboo.
“But that’s the reddest prank to ever prank,” said Tubbo. “What the fuck.”
“The fuck indeed,” said Tommy. “Seriously, even if he didn’t like Sugamon, that’s part of the joke. Shubble wasn’t trying to be a good president, she was in it for the shits and giggles.”
“The revenge goes crazy,” Tubbo agreed. “And aren’t Quackity and Shubble friends?”
“I don’t even fucking know,” said Tommy. “They hate each other just as much as they love each other—Shubble never picks the normal ones.”
Ranboo sighed. “There’s always something going on with her.”
“Fucking tell me about it,” he muttered. “But how did your summer breaks turn out, anyway?”
Tubbo beamed. “I don’t know about you guys, but I had way too much fun in Spain.”
“Eugh, I knew your family was rich,” said Tommy, glaring at Tubbo’s perfect tan. “What have you got against English beaches? Too good for fucking pebbles?”
“You’re just jealous I could feel the sun,” he said. “Besides, when the morse code championship comes with a free hotel, you just start packing.”
Ranboo shuddered. “Tubbo, are you still writing your notes in morse code?”
He just smirked, pulling out his phone.
Tommy groaned before the beeping even started, but Clementine burst out laughing, making him jump.
“Ask if he’s gonna submit an assessment like that,” she said, curling around the trio.
“Fuck yeah—Tubbo, surely you submit one of your essays in morse code.”
“What, my Auslan assessments?” he said. “How is that going to work?”
“Oh shit, you got in?”
“Yep,” said Tubbo. “I had enough credits from passing lit—and since I’ve attended Niki’s classes all year I was straight in. But more importantly, how the fuck would I sign morse code?”
Ranboo hummed. “Can’t you just sign it out? Dot dash, dot dash, you know?” he said, making the handshapes as he spoke.
Instead of laughing, Tubbo jumped, holding deadly still.
One second later, he pulled out his phone. “Ah shit, I’m supposed to be—to be hitting up the gym?”
“The gym?” Ranboo repeated.
“Yeah. Trying to—to stay fit and healthy, you know?”
“Fuck off,” said Tommy. “You do not need more muscles.”
“You’re just jealous, twig arms.”
“Twig arms? Twig arms? I’ll fucking twig your ass if you—”
“—Sorry, got a friend waiting for me, gotta go!” He hurried off without another word—not even an acknowledgment of Tommy’s threats.
He groaned, slumping over the table’s water-worn wood.
“Your sandwich will go stale,” said Ranboo. “Besides you could do with the extra weight.”
Tommy didn’t move, just held up his middle finger.
Ranboo just laughed.
“At least you’re in a good mood,” he muttered, sitting himself up and taking another bite of his sandwich—ham and cheese, classic and reliable.
“You know me—I’m always in a good mood! And—And with no presentations or exams my memory is better than ever.”
“Yeah yeah, whatever—” he muttered.
The light in Ranboo’s eyes faded. Fuck, that was a Shubble joke, Ranboo definitely took that seriously.
“—Whatever will we do without you, I mean,” he recovered. “Sorry, little slip of the tongue, there.”
He paused. “…Sure, sure, we—we all have our—um—make our mistakes, sometimes,” he mumbled, glancing down.
“Hey, I mean it, bitch.” Tommy nudged his shoe onto Ranboo’s boney shin. “I know I joke around lots but we’re mates, okay? I care about you, you care about me, and Tubbo better be the same or I’ll shank him.”
A smile broke across Ranboo’s face—a real smile, teeth peeking out between his thin lips. “Thanks,” he said. “Although, I wouldn’t go looking for a fight with Tubbo—I don’t think you’d win.”
“FUCK YOU!”
Wtf is Quackitys problem like that was CRAZY
where are you btw
Okay pity party over get your ass back here Shubble
Two days ago
Seriously
You’re abandoning me
Your only brother
One day ago
I’m not going searching in the walls for you
This is the reason I have abaondmwnt issues
You’re literally traumatising me
“She’s still not responding,” said Tommy, stepping out of his lecture. “I can’t believe she fucking hates me.”
“You guys went weeks without talking last year,” said Clementine.
“Yeah, but that’s because she was President. Shubble has all the free time in the world, so why isn’t she spending it with me?”
She sighed. “Probably because she hates your guts.”
“Her own brother,” he agreed. “After everything I’ve done for her.”
“Everything you’ve done for who?”
Tommy turned at the familiar voice, finding Tubbo.
“Fucking Shubble,” he said. “She’s gone radio silent on me so now I have to stalk her.”
“Of course,” he said, face lighting up. “Can I help?”
“Whoa, I don’t need her stalked yet—if she hasn’t by next week then we can go hunt her down.”
Tubbo pumped his fist. “Hell yeah—I’ll practise my subterfuge.”
If anyone else had said that, Tommy would have blanched, but given that it was Tubbo it was honestly pretty mild.
“I’ll keep you updated,” he said, giving a salute.
The two parted, Tommy muttering to Clementine as soon as Tubbo was out of earshot. “Shubble can’t be pulling this bullshit again—not when I know what’s going on.”
She snorted. “Good luck with that.”
“Nah, I know what I’m doing.”
“If you say so,” said Clementine, as Tommy stepped into the sun.
Shubble was stubborn—had been since the day they’d met. If she didn’t want to be found, Tommy would have a fucking awful time tracking her down. He couldn’t match her skill even if he wanted to, but there was one person who could. One person who could match her effort, who had jousted with her time and time again, and one person who fucking hated her guts.
Quackity.
Finding him was killing two birds with one stone—Tommy could track down Shubble and work out his fucking problem. He told Ranboo and Tubbo he had no idea about why Quackity betrayed her, but that wasn’t entirely true. Tommy didn’t know, but Red had seen a lot more behind the scenes. She knew all about the RACS and Shubble’s constant lies, about their clashing arguments and the secrets that she’d buried far too deep.
…Fuck, this identity shit was getting complicated.
Tommy shook his head, making his way to the third floor and finding Queen Elizabeth’s throne. Her low-resolution smile had faded as the months passed, colour bleeding from her Windsor-blue eyes.[1]
“Lizzy, my old friend,” said Tommy, running a gentle hand across her flusher.
Elizabeth’s smile remained eternal, paper swollen ever so slightly around where she was taped, water damage wearing her down.
He…
What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Tommy locked the door, then dug his fingers into the wall’s groove, trying to budge it open. He yanked it. Yanked again.
“It’s not budging,” said Clementine.
“I fucking realise that,” he said, getting both hands and pulling harder. “What gives?”
Clementine smirked. “Not the door, clearly.”
He grunted. “Are you gonna help me or are you just here to gloat?”
“The gloating is pretty fun, but I guess I can help you out. You’ve gotta use the password before the wall will open.”
“Ha-fucking-ha,” he said, pulling again. “Hocus pocus sesame seed, open up, bitch.”
“No, really,” said Clementine. “Connor was keeping it secret from you—hoping you wouldn’t be able to get into the walls at all—but last time you guessed it by sheer luck.”
“You’re bullshitting me.”
“No, seriously. Just say sssecret.”
“ssssecret,” Tommy repeated, the panel popping open. “Why the—fuck it, of course it does. Of course Queen Elizabeth has a fucking password.”
He peeled the door open, air whooshing into the tunnels as dust floated into the room. Tommy was captured by that darkness as it stretched further and further, curling out a lifeless hand and beckoning him forward.
“… Are you just gonna stand there, or—”
Tommy jumped, his heart roaring in his ears. “Fuck! Give me some warning.”
She giggled. “I have to have fun somehow.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re still not getting any closer,” she said. “It’s boring waiting—I bet Elizabeth is bored, too.”
“—She is not bored,” he snapped. “Lizzy could never be bored in my company.”
“Wait, are you scared?”
“I’m not scared,” he scoffed. “Scared—what does that even mean? Is it like s-tier care or something? Well, either way, I don’t have it.”
Clementine raised an eyebrow. “Then why aren’t you going in?”
“And leave Elizabeth?”
“Tommy.”
“I’m not scared,” he repeated, clenching his fists in a show of masculinity. “Besides, if I was scared of it I wouldn’t have pranked Quackity, would I?”
“Naturally,” she said.
The two stared at each other, Tommy glaring into Clementine’s puke-green eyes.
“So what are you waiting—”
“—I’m not waiting, I’m going in now,” he said, stepping onto Elizabeth’s lid. No time to think. The longer he left it the worse it would be.
He shimmied through the wall, gaining his footing on the other side. With his free hand he reached into his pocket, ready to dispel the darkness with his phone’s flashlight—
The phone buzzed, sliding from his fingers and clattering to the ground.
“Of course she responds now,” he muttered, pretzelling around his leg to pick the phone up.
The phone splayed blue light through the space, dust motes dancing in front of it. New text message from Quackity.
He muttered some more swears under his breath, fumbling his password a few times before getting accepted.
You’re invited to the lettuce eating club. September 12th, 6:30am, room 8. You may nominate one additional member to join the lettuce club by responding to this text. All nominations must be submitted by the 5th. May the lettuce guide you.
“Ooh, who are you gonna invite?” said Clementine.
“None of your business,” he muttered, climbing back into the throne room.
“Why aren’t we in the walls, Tommy?” she said, smirk far too wide. “Scared you’ll get haunted?”
“That place could haunt me way better than you,” he said. “But it’s nothing to do with anything! Just thought I could be a decent fucking person and ask to see him. If he can send civilised text messages then I can go to his room like a normal person.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
Tommy paid his respects to Queen Elizabeth, then took the lift down to the first floor, stumbling through the long-winded corridors until he finally found the Nevada staircase. The stairs were as slim as ever, the carpet worn on every step, but he climbed them all the same to the secret second floor—seriously, whoever designed this place should go to prison.
Clementine snorted when he shared the thought. “Hey, getting the layout this bad was a team effort.”
Instead of continuing onwards, he looked back, examining the floor’s Do Not Help list. Unsurprisingly, Shubble’s picture was in the centre, twice as large as the others and printed in full colour. He scoffed, giving the smaller photos around it half a—hang on, was that his fucking face? Sure, his handsome jawline didn’t need any help, but what about the rest of him?
“That’s strange,” said Clementine.
“Strange? It’s fucking—why the fuck am I up there? I didn’t do anything!”
“No, I mean it’s strange you were invited to the lettuce eating club. You’re on the No-Help list.”
“Does Quackity even know who he’s up against? I’m not some easy fucking pickings—and I didn’t do shit.” He stormed down the hallway, talking up a storm. “I’ll fucking show him—I’ll win this battle, I’m Tommy Berry.”
A door flew open, an unfamiliar woman stepping out.
Tommy pivoted. “Hey, I’m trying to find Quackity.”
The student took one look at him, her face dropping. “Sorry, haven’t seen him.”
She tried to shut her door, but Tommy got his foot in the way. “What’s in your wardrobe, huh? Does this dorm connect to Quackity’s?”
The student froze. “How do you—”
“Hey, hey! Stop harassing my students.”
Tommy turned, Quackity rushing towards them. “You—”
He held up a finger. “We’ll sort this out in my office, you understand me?” He turned. “Siobhan, are you good?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “He knows—”
“—As I said, I’ll take care of it in my office. Right this way, Tommy.”
“You put me on the fucking No-Help list.”
“Listen, I’m not doing this here. Keep it quiet till we’re inside.”
“Keep it quiet till we’re inside,” he repeated, muttering to himself. “Yeah yeah, Mr glitter-ass has his own office, I bet it looks like shit. You definitely have shit taste.”
Now that one was a little back-handed, as Tommy had been in his office before, just not as himself. Sure, he shouldn’t be using Red’s knowledge against Quackity, but anyone who had a shopping trolley in their office deserved everything coming their way. He continued the entire way downstairs, doing everything he could to get a rise out of Quackity. Finally, Quackity opened an innocuous door, flicking on the light switch.
He beamed. “Hah, I knew it was shit!”
While the furniture in the room was decent—chairs and a desk both made from matching wood—it was all ruined by his paperwork shopping trolley, de-wheeled and shoved against the wall, just waiting for someone to light a match to it. Besides, who didn’t want a fireplace in their office?”
“Take a seat,” said Quackity, resting a hand on the doorframe.
Tommy glanced at the desk, taking in the chairs on either side. One was clearly for guests, a beaten-up wooden thing that looked like someone had used the leg for a chew toy. In comparison, the second was a fucking throne, polished cedar curled around a velvety cushion, fancy enough even for Elizabeth’s delicate ass.
He sat on the fancy one, of course.
Quackity shut the door, then glared, a wave of petty satisfaction washing over him. “I’ll make this quick,” he said, standing over the desk. “I’m a fair man. I treat my students well, and I expect them to do the same to me. What your sister did was not part of that arrangement.”
“What, pranking wasn’t red house enough for you? Shubble was literally the embodiment of the red house—”
“—Sugamon actively piled the needs of tens—sometimes hundreds—onto individual students. He actively caused rifts within our house,” he said. “And you both lied to my face about it all year.”
“Whoa,” said Clementine.
“I haven’t lied about shit, bitch.”
“So I’m supposed to believe you went a whole year without realising your roommate’s fingernails were brown?”
“Fucking obviously. She wore gloves!”
“Save your bullshit for the courts.”
“Well I’m sorry you’re such a dickhead,” he snapped, all those glorious critical thinking skills washed away with his anger. But worst of all, Quackity was right. He did know, but he could never share that with anyone except Clementine.
He sighed, putting his hands in the air. “I’m not here to listen to your defence. I’m a fair man, okay? I know you had nothing to do with the RACS, you’re just trying to graduate and have some laughs along the way. You’re not the one to blame.”
“No need to sound so disappointed.”
“It’s simple; I want nothing to do with you, but I’m more than my personal biases. Last year you were invited to the lettuce eating club and per the rules that makes you a member this year. You get your lettuce head, your plus-one and your chance of winning, just like everyone else.”
“What, so you wanna solve our debate sloppy style?”
Quackity flinched—fucking finally, a real reaction.
He gave an innocent blink. “You know, with the lettuce eating. Loser has to apologise?”
His shock hardened into a glare. “Don’t make bets you can’t win.”
Tommy raised his hands. “Hey, a man’s just asking.”
“You’re in no position to be asking anything from me. Don’t miss the lettuce eating club, and don’t you fucking dare bring Shubble. Red students only.”
He winced. “Could you at least take me off the No-Help list?”
“Get the fuck out of my office.”
Notes:
1
source :Expert Explains: the royal family [return to text]I'm literally soooo hot and sexy from that footnote. Also it's my birthday this weekend and for my birthday present everyone has to tell me their favourite joke from this fic.
Chapter 41: it’s not a shithouse, it’s a shit-home
Summary:
Yellow invites the other mascots in for a tour of her house, and the trio get to know each other
Wordcount: 4.8k
Estimated reading time: 19 minutes
Date published: September 2nd, 2025
Notes:
Okay time for Auslan rambling yippee!!!
Tommy and the other mascots use lots of Auslan this chapter, but I thought I'd just touch again on the fact that they don't know what they're doing. These guys aren't even conversational in Auslan--I'm not conversational in it, either. But specifically in this fic the characters use lots of fingerspelling for words they don't know, and it might seem like Auslan has less vocabulary than English when that's not the case at all. Auslan is its own language with features that cannot be replicated in English, it can physicalise abstract concepts and relationships in a way you never can with English, and every chance I get to learn more is an absolute gift.
Another point on this topic was that I recently realised that by translating sign language directly, it makes it sound crude and "less educated" compared to English. When I write sentences in Auslan I'm thinking about every sign, but for someone who doesn't have that experience it just reads like a whole lot of nothing. The better approach would have been to spend more time describing each signs, like instead of writing "My plan your money connect" you go I showed my plan interlocking with her money. I've used bits and pieces of that below, but mostly I've stuck to the direct translations, mainly because it's super interesting for me to see my Auslan skills develop as the story continues. It won't make much an impact to you guys, but please bash it into your heads, Deaf people are not inherently stupid, they are not dumber than hearing people, their language is not stupider than spoken language, the only difference between you two is that one of you can't hear.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tubbo: Yooo come study with me im lonely
Tommy: You’re just trying to make me read stuff for you
Tubbo: …
Tubbo: okay but I actrually am lonely I never see you guys anymore
Tommy: shouldn’t of dropped out from lit
Tubbo: kys
Tommy suppressed a snort, checking that Doctor O’Graphy was still caught in conversation. But before he could text his eloquent response, his bracelet began to burn.
Fuck, another one? He still had his opening night blisters—what the fuck was the magic’s problem?
He tapped Ranboo’s shoulder. “I’ve gotta piss.”
Ranboo gave a jerky nod. “I—I actually forgot my laptop charger so I—I’ll go, too.”
The burning crept up his wrist, Tommy walking faster. Heads swivelled but he didn’t have time, pushing out the door with Ranboo close on his heels.
Clementine appeared at his side. “I don’t know what this is for, but you’ve got half a minute before the petals show.”
Shit.
“I’ve got a shit coming,” he said. “It’s a bad one, gotta run.” He took off without waiting for a response, the burning spreading further. He passed classroom after classroom until he found an office, slamming the door behind him.
“Fuck, that was close,” he said, petals licking at his ankles. “Mask up.”
He was too frazzled to put any thought into his outfit, and he was rewarded with a mid-length shift dress, plain fabric broken up by the frog buttons running down the centre, cool maroon complimenting his tawny brown skin.
He let out a loud sigh, Clementine emerging next to him.
“Me class will,” she signed. “Have fun.”
He slumped against the wall, dress creasing across his stomach. “My feet hurt,” he complained, pointing to his strap heels. With a mid-length dress he needed showy heels, but of course that meant they were uncomfortable as shit.
Clementine let out a huffy laugh, placing an L on her forehead. Tommy flipped her off, but she just repeated the gesture, heading out the door.
Good for nothing ghost. She was supposed to support him, not laugh at his blood sworn duty. And now he was missing out on O’Graphy’s lecture, with heels that were already rubbing at his blisters.
Alas, his womanly duties called. Tommy made his way through the literature building, masking his limp whenever he passed students—no doubt making his blisters worse in the long run. Unexpected maskups often meant there was a red student in need, and chances are he’d find them in the dorms. So Tommy made his way outside, sunshine basking across the campus with the last dregs of summer. The university had fallen back into routine, students playing frisbee on the lawns, people strolling along the paths and admiring the buildings they’d left for so long. They were well and truly in the honeymoon phase, getting the very best of college before the assignments weighed them down.
Tommy matched the student’s energy, following the smooth curve of the paved paths, keeping an eye out for whoever summoned him. Well, what he was actually after was an excuse to sit down. Surely one of the chess players would beckon him over—okay, his heels were far too thin to get over those lawns—maybe something in the food court?
When Tommy made it to the quad’s centre, he heard another pair of heels, one that grew louder and louder and faster and faster. He turned around just as Yellow jumped at him, almost sending them both to the ground.
She jumped back, smile bright as always. “How are you?”
“Good,” he signed, then repeated the question. He didn’t really catch Yellow’s response, too busy focusing on how the fuck she ran in those heels.
“Great! Want show looking home yellow red blue,” she signed, jumping rapidly from one handshape to the next.
“Again?” he signed, leaning closer. That definitely wasn’t just him, that was complete gibberish. “Slow again, please.”
Yellow repeated the signs, but it still didn’t make any sense. Something about the students going home?
“Not understand,” he signed, shaking his head.
“Fingerspell? Alright, T-O-U-R. House T-O-U-R.”
Okay, that made a little more sense. “S-O red house, yellow house T-O-U-R?”
“Yes! Blue house same. Red, yellow, blue,” she signed, putting each of them on a list buoy.
“Pah!” he signed, showing his understanding. “D-O why?”
“Me want see! Students, games, different rooms—” she twirled around the handshape for look, changing it into sightsee. “But! First want B-L-U-E. You meet?”
“Today? No, not meet,” he signed. “Can check blue house?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” She beckoned Tommy onwards, the two marching for the south quad. Tommy had been in the blue dorms before—how else was he supposed to bother Ranboo? —but he’d never been in there as Red.
Eyes fell upon them the second they stepped in, but Yellow just grabbed his hand and pulled him further. All Tommy could do was sign a quick “Sorry!” to the people they passed, moving further and further down the grand hallway. The space opened up in front of them—the sort of hall that you could throw a medieval feast in. Wooden pillars line the edge of the room, tables scattered throughout each with a pot of flowers—how rich were these people?”
He huffed, tugging at Yellow’s hand. She let go, and he signed, “N-E-P-O baby.”
Her eyes lit up as she looked across the room, taking in the checkerboard tiles and floral carvings. No wonder Blue dressed so fancy if she lived in this.
Tommy was about to share the thought when he was interrupted by another set of heels.
Blue breezed in the door behind them, her eyes widening at the two mascots in her territory.
“Her idea!” Tommy quickly signed, pointing at Yellow.
At the same time, Yellow signed, “Ready for house T-O-U-R!”
Blue’s brow crinkled, and she moved closer. “What?”
After a some excited gibberish (and an explanation from Tommy) Blue nodded, leaning back. “Me like,” she signed. “Blue house first sightsee?”
The two agreed, and her eyes crinkled. “Alright, ready!”
While Tommy had been to Ranboo’s room countless times, he’d never explored the rest of the dorms. He’d assumed that the wood-panelled walls would continue the entire way through, but it only made up a small portion of the house. They stepped through areas of cream-coloured bricks—places where the walls were painted black and postmodern light fixtures clung to the ceilings—and other areas still where the windows were long and wide, plants clamouring for space. While the outside looked cohesive, the inside was closer to four completely different buildings stacked together like lego bricks.
“R-E-N-O-V-A-T-I-O-N where?” he fingerspelled, as they reached the fourth staircase. Each one was placed so logically, all of them on the southernmost side of the building.
Blue tilted her head. “Don’t-have? Not understand.”
Tommy frowned, trying to find a way to explain it in Auslan. “Blue house N-E-A-T.” He showed the layout of each floor, the position of the stairs and where each room sat, then repeated the same thing slightly higher, and higher again, showing that each floor was identical. “But red house don’t-have,” he signed, emphasising the movement. “Red house messy, ground floor all bedroom, one kitchen, two stairs,” he signed, showing the layout once again. “Stairs where?” He showed the basement stairs at the end of the furthest hallway, and the stairs to the first floor directly next to the elevator. “Mess,” he repeated, scrunching up his nose. “Next floor different, different, different.” He moved the sign upwards with each repetition to indicate the different floors.
Yellow tilted her head. “Strange,” she signed, making the mouth shape bah-bah.
“No, this bah-bah,” he signed, pointing at the floor. “Blue house normal why?”
The two stared at him like he was fucking crazy and not the crack-smoking architect in charge of the renovations.
“Anyway,” he signed. “T-O-U-R next who?”
“Me!” Yellow signed. “Yellow house have cooking soon.”
“Cooking?” Blue repeated.
“Hungry,” Tommy signed. “Can eat?”
The trio left the blue house and its orderliness behind, Yellow leading the way into her dorms. Since Tubbo’s room was on the ground floor, Tommy had hardly touched the rest of the place, and he couldn’t deny his curiosity.
Yellow took them to the centre of the building, where instead of tables and chairs there was a wooden stage, octangular in shape and just higher than Tommy’s knee. Tables and chairs were shoved to the room’s edges, a grand staircase at the back spiralling upwards. Tommy followed it as it went round and round and round, a skylight sitting at the very top. This was… not what he was expecting in the slightest. He didn’t know what he was thinking but fuck, his house was shit compared to this.
A hand tapped his shoulder.
“Cooking third floor,” Yellow signed, moving to the staircase. Instead of plain wood, each of the step raisers were different, a motley of designs and materials lining each one. Mosaics, collages, printouts—even metalwork had a place, stairs twisting away before he could see more. Tommy could only imagine what they filled five flights of stairs with, but surely there was an amongus. At least one, perfect to match the one on the side of his facemask.
He waved his hand, getting Yellow’s attention. “Amongus stairs have?” he signed, making the crewmate with his fingers. It was nowhere close to Auslan, but it was just so fun to make.
“I think yes,” signed Yellow. “Can check?”
Tommy got halfway through his nod before he stopped, feet throbbing as he pictured the stairs. “Maybe elevator,” he signed. “My feet hurt.”
“Me same,” Blue signed, “Don’t-have M-A-G-I-C.”
“Yes,” he signed, widening his eyes. “Painful.”
“Alright, alright,” signed Yellow. “Will elevator.”
The three continued chatting once inside the lift, albeit slightly cramped in the space. But instead of talking about the house, they talked about each other. Tommy had the worst of the blisters, but apparently Blue was chafing, the word alone terrifying him.
Stepping onto the third floor was like an entirely different world. Even the blue house had the same kitchens installed as the red’s, but nothing looked familiar—from the tiles to the fucking sandwich press. Walls were covered in gorgeous graffiti, none of the cutlery matched, restaurant-standard equipment hodge-podged with vintage pots and glasses. No, hodge podge wasn’t the right word for it. Hodge podge made him think of a potluck or a barbecue—something with a theme—but the students in the kitchen were doing anything but. A woman salted cocktail glasses next to a footballer frying bacon, another lady pulling cookies out the oven while another person prepared a killer stir fry. Roast vegetables, cake decorating, a pot full of a blue sludge—it was amazing.
“Welcome Yellow kitchen,” she signed, pulling them onwards. She introduced each student by name, none batting an eye at the foreign mascots as they worked on their projects. “Yellow house love making,” she explained, once they found a quiet corner. “Cooking, sewing, art, lots. Can always make more.”
Tommy and Blue nodded along, and Yellow gave them a cheeky smile.
“Can always eat more.” She waved down the cookie-baker. “Try?” she signed, then mimed out plucking a cookie off the tray.
“Oh, those were for my floor but—but yeah! Just don’t take too many.”
They each took one, Tommy biting to find white chocolate with pops of cranberry.
“Why give?” signed Blue, after slipping the cookie beneath her facemask.
The student blinked. “Sorry, I don’t—I only know the alphabet.”
Blue nodded, the slowly spelled, “W-H-Y G-I-V-E?”
“I’m the RACS officer for my floor,” she said. “I’ve got a bunch of new students this year, so I’ve been using baking to break the ice.”
Tommy popped the rest of the cookie in his mouth, freeing up his hands. “I thought R-A-C-S finish?”
“Why?” signed Yellow.
“Before, last-year have—” Fuck, he couldn’t remember the sign for president. “—different boss, S-U-G-A-M-O-N. Boss finish, R-A-C-S finish?”
Blue’s eyes lit up. “Understand! Why not finish? Don’t know?”
“Will ask,” Yellow signed, biting the cookie with her free hand. She looked around the kitchen, snatching a pen and some paper towel. Didn’t racs finish with Sugamon??
“Oh, we’re not going anywhere,” she said. “Last year we got the option to sign a contract, and now we have a small floor budget, too. Most people said yes to doing it again—it’s not good pay, but it’s pretty satisfying work. Quackity’s a huge help, too—Red, do you know Quackity?”
“Yes,” he signed, giving a nod. Of course he knew Quackity, who else would put him on the fucking no-help list, send his sister into hiding and then invite him to the lettuce eating club?
Shit, he still needed to choose a guest.
“He’s amazing. Whenever I have a question then he tells me exactly what I need—and now he’s working with Schlatt to increase our budget.”
Yellow led them around the rest of the kitchen, the three tasting each and every dish along the way. When Blue asked to taste the blue syrup, the student laughed. “Go ahead, ma’am, but just warning you it’s soap.”
“Why?”
He snorted. “Why not, you know? I saw a tiktok and went, ‘I could do that.’” He pointed at the pot. “Then boom, I did.”
After snacking enough to smear Tommy’s lipstick (he fixed it up with a paper towel and some help from the other women) they took a short tour through the rest of the dorms. The hallways were more cluttered than the Blue house—DIY furniture and experimental art sitting on just about every wall—but the layout was still intuitive. No matter how lost you got, all you had to do was return to the central staircase, the lifts circling the stairs. But no matter where they went, Tommy could see the passion clinging to the walls. It was tie-dyed shirts hanging over sinks as they dried, half-finished murals and even the star stickers on a doorframe. Sure, his eyes were starting to hurt from all the clashes and bright colours, but the place embraced it, like a high school art room had exploded and become sentient.
Back on the ground floor, Blue and Yellow turned to him, their gazes weighing him down. Fuck it, time to share the shithole.
He stood up straighter, moving with newfound confidence across the quad and pretending his feet weren’t sliding in his heels with every step. The hours had passed quickly while touring, the sun pulling behind them and casting harsh shadows across the lawn. Now, where to start the tour—he’d take the stairs the whole way, obviously, but where else to hit? The trophy cabinet? The fake lift doors? Queen Elizabeth? The red house didn’t have a big thesis statement, it didn’t have specially designed areas or a grand, spiralling staircase—it barely had a common room, and that in of itself was more of a coincidence than a plan. Fuck, everything in the red house was a coincidence. It was joke stacked upon joke—right down to the floorplan. Maybe that’s what the house was all about—fuck it, he’d go with his heart and see where the coincidences led him.
Nothing caught Blue or Yellow’s eye on the ground floor—they’d definitely been here at some point before, but in all honesty there wasn’t much to point out. A couple pens stuck in the ceiling, a bench from the dining hall, but nothing intentional. Just the things people did in their free time.
The mascots changed tone when Tommy led them past the lifts and to the stairs.
“Your feet hurt!” Yellow signed. “Not-want stairs.”
“Please no stairs,” Blue added.
“Must,” signed Tommy. “Must E-X-P-E-R-I-E-N-C-E. Elevator not red house, stairs yes.”
The two instantly started complaining, but Tommy just smirked and turned around, wandering up the stairs. He turned at halfway. “Will have fun,” he signed, beckoning them up.
Tommy could see their groans, but they followed him regardless to the first floor. This place received the most foot traffic of the whole house, the locals taking the piss whenever they could. They gave confusing directions, placed misleading signs and tried creating barriers wherever they could. Tommy found one such barrier just around the corner, a bookshelf covered in plushies blocking the fastest route.
“Why—”
Tommy flipped off the shelf before Yellow could continue, taking them the long way around. Fuck it, they might as well go to Nevada while they were at it. Tommy took them to the furthest corner of the floor, the Nevada staircase almost perfectly hidden from sight. “Secret stairs,” he signed, as they climbed up single file. If Tommy’s feet weren’t so battered, he might have turned and climbed up backwards, signing to the others as he did, but he wasn’t taking any risks without the mascot magic. He’d show them the no-help list—they’d get a kick out of Shubble being on there—and then they could carry on their way.
But when he reached the top of the stairs he found everyone. The normally quiet Nevada floor was… was completely full. Tommy blinked as twenty pairs of eyes fell on him.
Of course, Quackity was in the centre of it. “Red! We’re holding the Nevadas meeting, want to join?”
Two pairs of heels followed him up, and he watched Quackity shift. His smile remained but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
He needed to explain quick. “Can’t. Me house T-O-U-R.”
Blue gave a hesitant wave, Yellow following suit.
“Now that’s a fun idea,” he said. “No new pranks going on up here, unfortunately. The garden gnome infestation is still going strong, though—and was there something happening on the sixth floor? Yeah, there definitely is.”
That was the closest Tommy would get to a fuck off with this audience, but he knew Quackity. “Thanks,” he signed. “See you later.”
“Alright, buh-bye!”
He raised a hand, then ushered Blue and Yellow back towards the stairs.
“Alright fellas,” said Quackity, as they moved out of sight. “Our visibility is raising too high, so we need to start being drastic—”
Tommy tilted his head, but Blue was already waiting at the bottom with another question.
“Downstairs why?” she signed, changing the direction of the sign for stairs.
“Want different stairs,” he replied. “Second floor have—” he showed the layout of the floor, making a large wall through the centre of it. Overall, the Nevadas only took up a small portion of the floor, but that was just semantics. “Not connect,” he signed, emphasising the length of the wall.
He had to hold back a laugh when he saw Yellow’s face drop. These two had no idea what hellhole he was living in—thriving in—and it was amazing. A surge of house pride filled him as they moved onwards, finding the garden gnome invasion. Gnomes littered the floor, climbed up furniture—even hung from the ceiling. The longer they stood the more detail they found—the depth of effort was what made this prank truly work. Sure, it was simple as far as ideas went, but it was fun, and something people could add to. It wasn’t a solo run, it was collaborative by design.
The trio climbed higher and higher, moving paste the multiplying coconut memorial (a great bit, but costly to sustain) a door covered in McPuffy receipts, and what seemed to be an entire wheel of cheese. It was best not to ask, to be honest. They reached the final set of stairs, Tommy’s calves quivering as he hiked up them. The flight of stairs to the sixth floor was actually more like two flights, a landing in the middle making room for the final row of lifts. By some sheer fuckery of the renovators, the lifts didn’t make it to the top of the building, instead they were on an isolated platform. Nothing but a blank wall was opposite, just begging for another joke.
Hm, he’d keep that one up his womanly sleeve.
Finally, they made it to the top floor, and they were well and truly rewarded. Mannequins filled the hallway, each decked out in the university’s merchandise. Tommy knew exactly where those mannequins came from, and it was fucking hilarious. He watched Blue’s eyes light up as he pointed at two mannequins making out, her shoulders shaking with mirth. Tommy smiled wider, moving further along and checking out the other poses. The scene fell together as he spotted mannequins holding beer cups, others throwing their arms up to invisible music—even one vomiting into a bucket. It was never a pose that the campus’s merchandise store would use, but it was far more accurate to the college experience.
He turned to the others signing as he walked backwards. “Shop person looking, looking, where M-A-N-N-E-Q-U-I-N?” he signed, looking to the right to indicate the shift in role. “They don’t-know look here.”
“Yes,” Blue agreed, adding to the story. “Where clothes? Hey boss, you see clothes?”
The mannequin closest to them moved, leaping out and hitting him with a pillow. “BOO!”
He jumped a foot in the air, turning to find none other than Sajida.
Tommy pushed her off, what a dick move. How long had she waited—and how long had they missed her? She was the only one with a hijab, for crying out loud!
“Hah, got you!”
Tommy’s fumbling hands managed to pull off a rude finger, terror blending into disappointment. Fuck, she did get them—and good.
“Scared,” Yellow signed, her eyes wide.
“Aw, if only I caught that on camera,” she said. “I was wondering who came up the stairs so quietly—but of course you guys are quiet.”
“Wait how long? When?”
“Oh, where?” she said, completely misreading the sign. “Everyone else is replacing the actual mannequins right now, they wanna see how long they can go without getting caught.”
“W-H-O?” Blue fingerspelled, doing each letter as slow as she could.
When the woman didn’t respond, he exhaled. “Writing,” she signed, following it up with “Phone.”
“Sure!”
Blue typed out the message, and they finally got an answer out of her.
“It’s the whole sixth floor crew—we’ve been planning since last year and it’s turning out perfectly,” she said. “Feel free to send some more people up—the more I can scare, the better.”
Abso-fucking-lutely he would. He quickly nodded, smiling wide and giving a salute.
“Awesome. Enjoy your day, ladies.”
The trio moved back down the stairs to the lift, squeezing in and pushing the button for the ground floor. Of course, he opened the pie warmer and offered sausage rolls. Yellow instantly accepted, and Blue followed afterwards with a little more hesitance.
“Red house T-R-A-D-I-T-I-O-N,” he explained, as he bit into his own. Ah, ten-hour’s old pastry, half cold and horribly flaky, it was perfect.
“P-R-A-N-K food?” Blue asked, once she finished hers.
Tommy tilted his head. The mystery food was a staple of the house, but it wasn’t really a prank. The prank came from how long students spent questioning the origins of the food and how many people it frustrated, but there was no way he could explain that with his shitty Auslan.
“A little bit,” he eventually decided on, following up with a so-so gesture.
Blue frowned. “Not understand.”
He smirked. “Good. Red house important what? Always confused,” he signed, using the delightfully visual motion of his brain slapping on the ground. “Not understand? Good. Laugh, always fun.” The words felt impassioned with his limited space—anytime he tried to throw his hands out he’d elbow Yellow, Tommy compressing his signs as much as he could. They filed out as soon as the lift opened, getting to a better distance. “T-O-U-R finished?” he signed, as they stepped into the common room. “My feet killing me,” he signed, emphasising the pain with his face.
“Me same,” signed Yellow.
“T-O-U-R good idea,” Blue added. “Will again next year?”
“Alright,” signed Tommy. “But must have food.”
“Yes, will,” she signed. “See you later?”
Tommy waved, but before he could turn Blue flapped her hand, grabbing their attention.
“I remember! Three-week’s-time will have Blue picnic. You-two want come?”
“Yes!” signed Yellow, instantly.
Tommy made a show of checking his watch (he wasn’t wearing one) before also agreeing. The picnic last year had pissed him off, but now that he had some warning he could have fun with it.
“Meet you picnic,” he signed, gesturing to the door.
The three went through their goodbye song and dance again before finally parting, Tommy letting out a long sigh. He hobbled back to the elevator and selected his floor, slumping against the wall to take the weight off his feet.
All done, unmasking soon, he sent, leaning on the wall as he stumbled for his storage closet.
Took you long enough, Clementine returned. What were you—
The message cut off, hitting the seven word limit.
Mascot house tour, he sent, rolling his eyes. Finally, Tommy had never been so glad to see the sign Janitor’s supplies. He eased through the doorway, clicking it shut and instantly speaking. “Unmask.”
He slid down the door as the petals washed over him, heels finally vanishing. He instantly tugged off his shoes, tearing off his socks by the time Clementine emerged.
“Hey, you need to stop unmasking in here. You’ve done it too many times.”
“My feet are ruined,” he moaned, ignoring her. Red lines curled around his feet, puffing up into at least six blisters.
“Ooh,” said Clementine, leaning in way too close. “Look how puffy that one is!”
He swiped at her, only meeting air. “Get your grotty fingers away from them, they’re sensitive.”
“Surely let me pop one.”
“Ew—fuck no!”
“Alright, alright,” she said. “I don’t wanna touch your feet, anyway.”
“My feet are beautiful.”
She sighed. “Just cut to the chase. What do you mean you were doing a house tour?”
“I met up with Yellow and Blue and I got to see their dorms,” he said. “Also, why is our dorm so shit compared to them—you can’t get lost in any of them.”
“It’s all part of the Red experience,” she said. “Besides, we need some way to identify the new students.”
“I disagree, give me a million dollars and I’m rebuilding this whole place.”
“A real red wouldn’t say that,” said Clementine.
Tommy still hadn’t seen his sister.
“Not like Shubble,” she quickly said. “Quackity has his own thing going on. Accepting the bullshit here is part of the patriotism.”
“Yeah yeah, I already told Blue all that,” he said, “But we’re both red here, surely we can talk some shit.”
“I thought we were the pranking house, not the shit-talking house.”
“That reminds me, the sixth floor has a fuck-ton of mannequins right now.”
Her face lit up. “They actually did it?”
“Sure did—wait, how long have you known about it?”
“They’ve been talking about it all year,” said Clementine. “I’ve gotta see this—mind if I go check?”
“Go ahead, I’ll just be wallowing on my phone.”
Clementine stopped, lowering herself to eye level. “About that.”
He groaned. “What did you do?” He unlocked his phone, finding a series of notifications from Tubbo. “Clementine?”
“It was a rock and a hard place, okay?”
Tubbo: kys
Tommy: no u
Tubbo: you’re just jealous that im with callahan and niki all day
Tommy: a real man respects English
Tubbo: a real man wud use morse code
Tubbo: ur one of those, right?
What had she done?
“Anyways, I’m gonna check out the sixth floor, bye!”
“I am not learning fucking morse code!” he said, but she was already gone.
Tommy groaned, reading through the messages again. He didn’t have a choice—his masculinity was on the line. The very code he swore against—yet without his manliness who was he?
Tommy got to his manly, blistered feet. He began a manly stagger down the hall to his room, manly sneakers dangling from his spare hand. He hobbled into his bedroom, finding a spare piece of paper. All manly men knew how to commit.
He pulled up a morse code translator on his phone, then scrawled out the title in a bold, masculine font. Best lettuce eating guests.
He already had a handful of people that he could bring, and a few more that would be fucking hysterical.
His manhood was saved at his first dot and dash, but at what cost?
BEST LETTUCE EATING GUESTS
.--- .- -.-. -.-
.-.. .- --.. .- .-.
--.- ..- .- -.-. -.- .. - -.-- / -.--. .--. --- .-- . .-. / -- --- ...- . -.--.-
- .... .- - / --- -. . / -.-. .... .. -.-. -.- / .-- .... --- / --- -. .-.. -.-- / . .- - ... / ... .- .-.. .- -.. / .- - / - .... . / -.. .. -. .. -. --. / .... .- .-.. .-..
..-. ..- -. -.. -.--
Notes:
And as if the 4.8k chapter wasn't enough, now I'm going to yap about my inspirations for this fic.
Well, not necessarily inspirations, but more people who I look up to and motivate me to work harder on this fic. If you've reached this point you may have noticed there's a certain humorous tone, one that's different from the general dsmp. Of course, part of this is straight from me, but there's so many amazing creators who find a funny joke and then commit to the bit. There's the big youtuber Anthpo, also known as Cheeseball Man--who spent MONTHS with a secret identity, just changing his accent and putting on a facemask and it worked (proof shubble could have done it too LETS GOOO) There's Kodekai tiktok, the poor college student who's first ever video was making 1,000 paper cranes in 24 hours, and who always has an amazing blend of humour and heartfelt in his videos. (I've never cried and laughed so much at a heartfelt lesson being delivered over visuals of Ko making out with Remi the rat)
And on the indie side, there's the 800k original novel about a sentient pun-making dungeon (the jokes are worse than mine PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE READ ITS SO FUNNY) by stewart92, called
There is no Epic Loot here, Only Puns, and of course there's Mellohi the Musical. The 2-hour minecraft hamilton parody that covers EVERY SONG with its own characters, worldbuilding, music videos, SUBTITLING, all made by a single person. Cloudron spent 8 months rewriting and recording every line, recreating every shot and then edited together the entire thing in a one-week free trial of adobe premiere, and then he got a FILM SCHOOL SCHOLARSHIP for it.
If this fic had one moral, then it would be commit to the bit. Even if it's silly or stupid or "niche" then commit. Put a stupid amount of time and effort into something that doesn't matter, throw all your passion at it, and the right people will come. Not the disinterested Mr Beast audience, but the ride or die fans who would do ANYTHING for you. It doesn't matter if they're small, they're worth it. I love my readers and commenters so much, you guys will let me hit you in the head with bad puns over and over. I never have to doubt if a joke is too corny, it ALL goes in, joke after joke after joke.As always, thanks for reading and have a lovely day <3
Chapter 42: 42: Of Yearning and Yfeet
Summary:
Another year, another lettuce club. Another chance for glory.
Wordcount: 2.7k
Estimated reading time: 11 minutes
Date published: September 9th, 2025
Notes:
This fic has 3k hits and is FINALLY my highest hitting work, my shoddy fics from 2022 clung for so long but I've finally overtaken them with my magnum opus.
So a few times in this story I've used the phrase "universal sign" and I realised that could be taken literally, but it's not. When Tommy calls a sign universal, he means that even a hearing person with no knowledge of sign language can understand it. Gestures for things like stop, good, bad, come here, etc. Also the amongus crewmate handshape, but these things are not equal to sign language, and they even vary between sign languages. Sure a hearing person might be able to understand them, but what about one that doesn't come from a western culture? The fact of it is that even gestures like come here are not universal (fun fact! the gestures for come here and go away are swapped in Japanese!) so basically when tommy says universal, he's wrong and he's stupid.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tommy was halfway to his Victorian literature class when his bracelet itched, sending tingles up to his elbows.
“Let’s fucking go,” he said, moving faster. No more smeared lipstick for him—and he needed that with the lettuce eating club so close.
“Sorry, what did you just say?” said Ranboo.
Did you know Tommy was an acronym? It stood for Thinking On My Masculine Yfeet. He could always deflect a conversation.
“Let’s fucking go have a panic attack,” he grunted. “I feel one coming on—the kind that needs five minutes by myself and then not speaking for three hours.”
Clementine snorted, but Tommy was proud of his work. Not only had he given himself a plausible backstory, but he was fighting against toxic masculinity by communicating about his emotions.
“I—oh,” said Ranboo, his grey eyes darting around. “Do you—do you know what triggered—did I say something—”
“—You’re good, you’re good,” he said, the itching spreading further. “Just go ahead and save my seat, I’ll be there when I can.”
Ranboo nodded, leaving without another word. No hesitation, no questions asked, just unbridled support.
“Alright, let’s get this over with,” he muttered, ignoring the lump in his throat.
“He’s a good friend,” said Clementine.
“Wish he fucking wasn’t. Would make my job easier.”
A smile curled at her lips. “I’ll make sure to thank him. Are you going to be out for long?”
“I’ll just do a couple floors in the dorms,” he said, turning onto the fire exit’s stairs. “You better thank your ass off, and when I unmask I’m making him dinner.”
“The dining hall is literally free.”
“I’m making fucking dinner for a fucking date night, and it’s gonna make Tubbo jealous in the process. Mask up.”
“Oh so I don’t even get a choice about—”
She was cut off by the petals washing over Tommy, mascot magic giving him a proper outfit. Painless heels, a mask that never shifted and armpits that never sweated.
Clementine emerged with crossed arms. She rolled her eyes and used her hand to create a mouth opening and closing, the universal sign for yap, yap yap.
Tommy just flipped her off, gliding out the door in pain-free heels.
The red dorms were quiet—it was midday, after all. Most people were in class or incredibly hungover. He decided to start at the sixth floor—the mannequins had long since been found and returned, but that blank wall was calling his name. it was just itching for a mascot’s gentle touch, for an unexpected yet tasteful artwork. The wall stretched from one end of lifts to the other, not a single blemish or obstruction in his way. No protruding light switches or outlets, no windows or doors, just a radiant white, the perfect canvas.
Once he had scoped out the entire area, he stepped back into the lift, choosing a floor at random. He ended up on the fourth floor, stepping out into a random walkway. This hallway had a few empty shelves against the wall (yet to be filled with a year’s worth of bullshit) but there was a new piece of paper. Tommy moved closer, reading the text. Visitor logbook. Sign your name and leave a comment!
Only two comments had been written so far, so of course he had to add to it. He grabbed the pen—hang on, why did that feel weird? It was the standard-issue college pen, grey metal with L'Manberg University painted in black, but something felt odd. It was a little bit heavier than usual, a bit thicker—or a bit warmer? He gave it a test-scribble, but the pen just smooshed under his fingers. The tip became literal crumbs, cracking open to reveal pale brown insides.
…The cakey insides?
Tommy stared, waiting for his brain to process the input. The pen was made of cake—now that was a good prank—who was making hyper-realistic cakes and just leaving them around?
He checked the visitor’s log again, reading the names left behind.
Skeppy and Badboyhalo.
Bad, you fucking legend.
He moved for the kitchen, hoping to catch Bad in the act and praise him for his prank—for his funny prank. Sure enough, he found him in the centre of the kitchen, bowls of icing and half-filled piping bags surrounding him.
A second person puttered around the edges of the kitchen, neon blue hair creating a stark contrast with his brown skin.
“Why hello, Red,” said Bad, with a beaming smile. “I see you found our production line.”
“Yes,” signed Tommy, stepping in closer. Amazing P-R-A-N-K.”
“It’s turning out so well!” he gushed, a dozen cake pens sitting on the tray in front of him. With a miniature brush Bad painstakingly wrote the next letter, Tommy holding his breath as he watched.
“I’ve never met a mascot before,” said the blue-haired guy. “I’m Skeppy. I’m one of the newer members of the red house, you might say.”
“Welcome,” Tommy signed, then shook his hand. “You what D-O?”
Skeppy turned to Bad. “What’s she saying?”
“Oh, I don’t know any sign, usually I’d just pass over my phone but my hands are full.”
“Nah, I’ll use mine.”
He passed Tommy a neon-blue phone, and Tommy opened the notes app, typing This is fucking awesome, whos idea was it?
“All Bad’s,” said Skeppy. “I’m just the fondant guy, he’s the one doing the fancy stuff.”
Its super cool
Are you doing all pens or are there bigger plans????
Skeppy read the message aloud with a smirk.
“Well I don’t want to go and spoil the surprise,” said Bad. “But you make sure to keep your eyes out, okay?”
He passed back the phone, signing “I will,” with a strong nod. He crossed his fingers. “Good luck.”
He winked. “You’ll know it when you find it.”
Bad had finally found his place in the house, and Tommy couldn’t be prouder.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning, a sacred quiet falling over the dorms. At six o’clock the population was sparse, each student on their own silent pilgrimage. Tommy wandered between the floors with a water bottle in one hand and ranch in the other. He’d drifted around the hallways for just over half an hour, first to find the lettuce location and then to have a chat with Clementine.
“You definitely texted Jack the thing, right?” she said, hovering just in front of him.
“Yeah, but he hasn’t read it yet—not the morse code or the normal version.” The message in question was a failsafe for Clementine—they were both attending the club, but explaining why Clementine wasn’t speaking would take a bit of work.
“Well, we did send it at five am.”
I’m the one who invited you to the lettuce club btw. I’m taking a vow of silence until I win.
“He better get up soon or he’s gonna miss out. You’re ready for your text to speech charade?”
“I died ready.”
Tommy stopped, thinking her words over for a moment. “That’s a clever one.”
“Thanks, I’ve had a long time to perfect it. Ready to mask up?”
He nodded, stepping into the floor’s laundry and locking the door behind him. He took in a slow breath, making sure to picture every detail in his dress. Today he wanted a bubble skirt with as many layers as he could manage, and with a bit of luck he could it looking like a head of lettuce.
“I’ll go first,” said Clementine. “Red is allowed to be fashionably late but Tommy isn’t.”
“Bet I can beat you this year,” he said, putting his ranch and water on top of the washer. “Mask up.”
“Oh, you’re on—”
The petals washed over him, and he put all his attention to his skirt. The shape was a balancing act between layers and curves, too many layers and he’d have a basic ballgown, too much curve and nobody would identify his dress. He opened his eyes, immediately dropping his gaze.
The organza was heavier than he expected, but it held the organic shape he was looking for, each layer edged with thick ridges, darkening ever so slightly as they moved inward.
Clementine emerged, and Tommy got her attention straight away. “Dress good?”
She looked him up and down, and her face lit up. She opened Tommy’s phone, selecting his newest app and typing out a message. She hit play. “You’re not the lettuce champion. You’re the lettuce, and we’re all about to eat.”
Tommy held back a snort, shooing Clementine and her text to speech out of the room.
He needed to wait at least a few minutes before following, so he practised his runway walk between the washers and the dryers. The mascot magic helped him master the basics, but there was no passion, no pizazz. Tommy tried crossing his feet over as he walked, then swinging his hips—he even worked on his turns. After his fourth rotation of the routine (this one with a blown kiss) he left the laundry, continuing his strut towards the lettuce eating club. The halls were were just as empty as he left them, but fuck if it wasn’t satisfying clacking through them in heels.
When he reached room eight, it only took one tap before the door pulled open, Fundy looking left and right before letting him in. “Just the Connor protocol. Come and find a seat.”
This year’s room was much more crowded, a foldout table crammed between two bunk beds, most people sitting straight on the mattresses rather than trying to squeeze in a chair.
He glanced down at his lettuce dress once again, realising just how much it poofed out—he could fucking social distance in this thing.
Jack and Clementine were already seated at the far end of the table, only one seat between them and Quackity.
Clementine typed in something once again, robotic voice saying, “This is a vegetable. Do you know what those are?”
“Of course I know what lettuce is—I work at McPuffy’s, you dick.”
“This is what lettuce looks like before it’s shredded,” the phone said, without skipping a beat.
Quackity’s jaw clenched at the monotone voice and lacklustre joke.
As Tommy, he thought it was fucking hilarious to sit directly next to Quackity, but as the mascot? He sighed, taking the spot between them, crumpling his lettuce skirt beneath his legs. He did his best to compress the layers further, but he could only do so much.
Quackity met his eyes, his jaw relaxing as a smile quirked across his lips. “Glad you could make it, Red.”
“Always,” he signed. “How are you?”
“Believe me, things are looking up. All our problems are gone, the university is our oyster.”
Cryptic as usual. Good thing he was Red, he could be as blunt as he liked in Auslan. “What D-O?”
“That’s the best part, it could be anything,” he said, splaying out a hand. “Want to host monthly concerts? We can! Want to fix the university’s grading system? Let’s get a team together! Want to start a campus-wide chess tournament? Be my guest!”
“Exciting,” he signed. “Will imagine plan ideas.”
“I’ll keep you in the loop,” he promised. “Besides, you have a knack for showing up at the right time.”
“Thank you,” he signed, when in reality he caught Clementine’s gaze, watching her eyes roll. The magic helped a little with that one, he had to admit.
“Alright, that’s everyone,” said Fundy, shutting the door and dragging a shelf in front of it. “Welcome to the lettuce club, old and new. Our rules are as simple as our purpose. Eat lettuce the fastest, you’re organising it next year. Acceptable condiments are ranch, water and spit. We will now hand out the lettuces.”
Quackity and Fundy stood, but before they could begin the solemn procedure, there was a scuffle from under the bed.
“Ah, I must have slept in, sorry guys,” the voice called. American, too casual and far too familiar; Connor Eats Pants.
“Excuse me, Red,” he said, sliding from beneath the bed, a stray leg kicking at his skirt.
Quackity groaned, burying his face in his hands. “How long have you been lying under there?”
“Eh, couple hours,” he said, “Fundy left the door open when he went to the bathroom.”
“Fuck,” said Fundy. “I was gone for two minutes.”
“No hard feelings. Is this seat taken?” he said, pointing at the spot opposite Tommy.
“It’s free,” said Quackity, through gritted teeth.
“Perfect. Just pretend I was here all along.”
Fundy cleared his throat. “As I was saying, let’s begin the handing of the lettuce.”
The group fell silent as the procession began, ranch and lettuce handed out in even intervals. In the end Tommy’s eyes fell on Jack, watching his confused silence shift into suppressed laughter. Clementine stared directly at him, her face blank enough to set Tommy off. He watched Jack grow redder and redder while he tried to hold it in, avoiding Clementine’s deadpan stare and clenching his fists.
If only Shubble was here to see it.
The mirth in his chest snuffed out with a single thought, Tommy dropping his gaze and trying to ignore the empty chair closest to the door. If Shubble wanted to be here then she would, she’d sneak in just like Connor and there was nothing that Quackity could do to stop it. She was busy with something else, some grand plan that would blow all this conflict out of the water.
Quackity and Fundy returned to their seats, Tommy straightening.
“Everyone knows the rules. Prepare yourselves.”
Silence fell over the table, each person lasering their focus. Some stared down at their pending meals while others glared at the table’s ranch, identifying who the other threats would be.
Tommy met Connor’s eyes. He smirked.
“Let the lettuce eating begin.”
He tore into the lettuce, shoving in crisp mouthful after mouthful. The cold shreds clung to his cheeks and throat as he tried to swallow. Swallow again—fuck, still stuck. He reached for a bottle of ranch, squeezing some directly into his mouth before dumping liberal amounts on his lettuce. The squirt of sauce bottles and smacking of lips filled the room, Tommy swallowing larger and larger chunks. He didn’t have time to chew, this was a competition of gulps.
A hand slammed down on the table. “Done!”
A groan travelled through the room as Sajida stood, showing her empty plate and mouth.
Tommy just continued, finishing after Connor but a fraction before Clementine.
Bitch, she sent, but he didn’t deign to respond, he just licked the dripping ranch from his fingers.
“That was shit,” muttered Jack, wiping his face. “Nah, I thought it was going to be fun but that was just awful.”
“Coward,” Clementine replied, using the app.
“Come on, we both lost, your vow of silence is over.”
Tommy flinched, but Clementine just spammed the button. “Coward coward coward coward.”
“Fuck off,” he said, then turned to Fundy. “Thanks for organising this. It was horrible, but I appreciate the effort.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Hope you’ll be here next year.”
“Yeah Jack, I’ll see you there,” said Connor, his face perfectly clean despite the fucking demolished lettuce in front of him.
Quackity groaned. “For the last time, you’re not welcome here.”
He just chuckled. “Man, you’re such a prankster. I really love the energy, Quackity.” He glanced at Clementine. “But anyways, I’m a man of the walls. You couldn’t stop me if you tried.”
Oh, he made that nickname, didn’t he? His eyes lit up. Ask Connor to track down Shubble, he sent, watching Clementine still.
She glanced down, typing out a message. “Connor I need a favour.”
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
Tommy turned, finding Sajida.
“I was wondering if you want to come on a victory lap with me? It’s okay if you’re busy.”
Connor turned to Clementine. “Are you sure this isn’t just revenge for the tomatoes?”
Clementine scoffed, writing a response, but Tommy focused on the new Lettuce President. “Walk yes,” he signed. “You have crown?”
She gasped. “I should get a crown, you’re so right! Come on, we can look together.”
Tommy grinned, sliding out from the table and heading for the door. Clementine would catch him up on the conversation later, and then they could track down his sister. With lettuce between his teeth and ranch on his tongue, it was time to take matters into his own hands.
Notes:
Click to view Tommy's gorgeous dress
[Image ID: two photoshopped outfit images show Tommy's dress for the lettuce eating club. The skirt is a picture of lettuce that is tinted red. The first photo shows the dress by itself, and the second has it being worn in a dorm made out of lego. End ID]
For the second image I googled "lego dorm" and used the first image that came up.So the joke about Tommy's masculine yfeet wasn't entirely original, I actually got the idea from another dsmp fic that's like "what's an NDA even stand for? No Dwords Asaid?" I thought it was comedy goal so I stole it, but you can read the fic here:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/65987890/chapters/170021656
what do you think tommy is gonna paint on the wall? Place your guesses below <3
next week no chapter because instead of working on this fic I planned a 2 course tea party with 16 different dishes and now I have to find the time to cook all that.
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