chiclawgo

[chiclawgo]

[image description: drawing of goobie ballson, who is a blue goo person wearing a sleeveless jersey and a backwards cap. he is smiling and holding a white cat, which is socks maybe. 2 smaller goobies and stars are drawn in the background. end description]

goodbye goobie, you’re worth more than 5 runs

[chiclawgo]

“In a few years, Loucinde Shu-Ching Roseheart will joke that the end result looked like that one time she went to Burning Man with Kichiro and Atlas, ‘except this time I was stone cold sober and Ruthless was there telling me the world was ending and they didn’t even get to punch their brother about it.’”

Anyways! what if the desert was just field day? they’re fine, just camping.

[chiclawgo]

[image description: A digital drawing of Edric Tosser and Atlas Guerra from the game Blaseball. Edric is embracing Atlas with their arms thrown over her shoulders, while Atlas has her arms around him and is lifting him up. Neither of their faces can be seen and they are lit up by blue light in a dark location. /end image description]

everything’s been happening so much and my brain just processed that atlas died first thing with the rest of the mints this week and would of been able to meet edric in the hall when the jazz hands went there and now i’m laying on the floor.

[chiclawgo]

author's note: this follows my lore that alternates are just people off the street hired to replace the original players and play the "roles" that come with their names and histories. enjoy!

The following is a transcript of a phone call between Sutton Dreamy and ??? Dreamier, the night the Fridays incurred full-team Instability, Shadows included..

DREAMY: ...Hello?

DREAMIER: What.

DREAMY: You called me. What do you mean 'what'?

DREAMIER: Whatever.

DREAMY: I didn't think you'd call in the first place.

DREAMIER: How's it feel to be wrong, sweetheart?

DREAMY: I can hang up anytime, you know. I don't have any obligation to this.

DREAMIER: You can, sure, but you won't. You wanna know what I have to say.

DREAMY: You're dying sometime in the next week or so because you're Unstable. Trust me when I say I've heard it all before.

[A heavy pause. The faint sound of birdsong and footsteps on DREAMY's end. She's outside somewhere. Finally, a long, staticky sigh from DREAMIER.]

DREAMIER: God, fuck you.

DREAMY: You can hang up anytime too. I wouldn't stop you.

DREAMIER: I know.

DREAMY: You aren't going to.

DREAMIER: No.

DREAMY, quietly: Okay. [Another long, tense pause.] So, how are you.... fffffeeling?

DREAMIER, laughing incredulously: Um, bad? I'm feeling fucking bad.

DREAMY (with a startled, guilty laugh): Yeah, no shit, kid. Um. Sorry, by the way. I, uh, didn't think this kinda thing would. Happen.

DREAMIER: ...But you're glad it's not you.

DREAMY: Jesus. I mean, of course I'm glad it's not me. But.

DREAMIER: Well. Thanks for admitting it, I guess.

DREAMY: I'm not going to lie to you.

DREAMIER: Yeah. I'm sure this is the last time we'll be talking, so.

DREAMY: Yeah. Congratulations if by some miracle it's not, don't get me wrong, but like—

DREAMIER: I'm not getting my hopes up.

DREAMY: Mm. Probably smart.

DREAMIER: Thanks.

DREAMY: ...Is there anything you wanted to say or hear me say? This kind of seems like a "final words" type of deal.

DREAMIER: I dunno. [More than anything else, she sounds exhausted.] I guess I just. I dunno. I just wanted to play blaseball before I died.

DREAMY, gentler than even she had expected: Everything about this is blaseball. This is the game. It's all it is.

DREAMIER: No, I—fuck you, okay, Dreamy, you know what I meant. I wanted to hit a stupid fucking single, I wanted to steal a stupid fucking base, I wanted to somehow manage a stupid fucking homer even with the stupid fucking batting FK you saddled me with. I wanted to—you know, strike out fucking swinging instead of whatever this is. You know how many of the Fridays' Shadows have seen play since we alternated in? Almost fucking none. We're going to die in the dark without having done shit.

DREAMY: Jesus. [Pause.] I doubt you want me to say I'm sorry, but.

DREAMIER: Yeah, I really fucking don't.

DREAMY: Figured. Uh. I'll miss you?

DREAMIER: Like hell you will.

DREAMY: I'll feel bad, anyway.

DREAMIER: I told you already, I don't want your pity.

DREAMY: No, I know. I still don't know what you expected from this call, though.

DREAMIER: Me neither.

DREAMY: Right.

DREAMIER: So. Yeah.

[Another lengthy pause.]

DREAMY: Hey, I—listen, seriously, what's your name?

DREAMIER: I told you, it's Dreamier. Hilarious bit, right?

DREAMY: Yeah, hysterical. You've been misusing the "sweetheart" thing, by the way. I only call my wife that.

DREAMIER: Actually it's called high camp when I do it like this.

DREAMY: Ah.

[Beat.]

DREAMIER: My name's Edie. Edie Samuels.

DREAMY: Edie Samuels. I'll remember that, okay?

DREAMIER: Thanks. Sutton.

DREAMY: Of course.

DREAMIER: Yeah.

[The longest pause yet. This time the only noise is breath.]

I-I gotta go, okay?

DREAMY: Do you?

DREAMIER: I'm going, anyway.

DREAMY: That's fine. If you make it through the week, call me again, alright, Edie?

DREAMIER: ..Sure.

[The line goes dead as soon as the word is out of her mouth.]

[chiclawgo]

men who are incredibly smart but also kind of terribly pathetic. men who are good with kids. men who get bullied by kids. men who eat glass. men who are so kind and pure-hearted but also just a bitch. bisexual men. most importantly, men who are dilfs .

[chiclawgo]

listen to the wind blow

author’s note: this is a 12x100 about rivers rosa and scratch deleuze during the seasons that rivers was pitching for the ohio worms! my interpretation of rivers rosa is heavily, heavily influenced by @chiclawgo’s portrayal of her, so go follow them! they are a wonderful and talented artist! my interpretation of scratch is my own and detailed further in my fic “fast car” (but the tl;dr is that she’s a human woman from a small town in arizona who’s been with the ohio worms since the beginning). sorry for the minor worms-bashing, by the way; i genuinely love the worms, but the characters have their reasons even if i don’t go into them much here lol. hope you enjoy this! 

i. 

The new pitcher from Chicago’s weird, and Scratch doesn’t flinch away from thinking it. She’s quietly, deeply intense and one of her eyes is vivid red and she smells too much like smoke and she doesn’t talk in the locker room, just shows up when it’s her day to pitch and does what’s needed and leaves as soon as the game’s over. The other Worms avoid her if they can—just one roster change among too many—and Scratch doesn’t blame them. She keeps to herself too, minds her goddamn business. 

But every pitcher needs a catcher. So here she is.

Keep reading

[chiclawgo]

author’s note: hi! this follows the irm that all the negative alternates called are essentially just randos off the street hired to take the name and play the Role of the originals while the aforementioned originals retire from blaseball. i introduced crow, my version of jaylen’s alternation replacement, in this ficlet over here if you wanna read it for context. cw on this fic for smoking. other than that, i think that’s it!

Crow doesn’t meet Sutton Dreamy’s new alternate until the postseason gala. Which they figure is fine anyway—the alt’s not even in active play, not a real visible part of the performance yet, and the gala’s never too long after elections each year, so like, whatever—but it’s still weird, as Jaylen fucking Hotdogfingers’ eldritch stunt double, to only run into Jaylen’s wife’s new eldritch stunt double five full days after the fact. It feels like being late for an unscheduled meeting. Or rehearsal with a scene partner. Like, sure, they never agreed on a specific time, but they really should’ve met by now to go over their lines.

Either way, when they meet the new alternate she’s leaning against the fourth floor balcony of one of old-JessTel’s mansions smoking a cigarette. She doesn’t turn to look at Crow even when the sliding glass door shuts too loud behind them, just blows a cloud of smoke out of her mouth that, for a moment, obscures the stars. 

After a few more seconds of being ignored, Crow kicks a nearby potted plant with the steel toe of their boot, and at least that muffled thud makes the woman’s head turn toward them enough for them to see her narrowed eyes. Still doesn’t say anything, though. 

“…Hey,” they finally relent. “I’ve been looking for you.” 

“Well, you found me.” Her voice is dry and, if anything, condescending. “What d’you want?”

Keep reading

[chiclawgo]

lourivers + 22?

22. docks. this is set in the hiatus between s8 and s9? maybe? roll with it

"You should let me braid your hair sometime," Lou says, kicking their feet idly in the water. If the lake itself has a name they don't know it; as far as anyone on the team is concerned it's just Josh's place, the Michigan lakehouse they all party at after each season's end, a momentary oasis. Distantly they resolve to ask Josh its real name in the morning, then forget about it almost immediately.

Rivers snorts, takes another sip of her beer.

Lou finds themself watching her throat and lips, and when she inevitably catches them looking, she smiles as she lowers the bottle. "You're drunk, Roseheart."

"Two IPAs is not enough to get me actually drunk," they protest, nudging their foot against hers indignantly. "I'm bad, but I'm not that bad."

"You are exactly that bad," Rivers says, lips twitching up again. "That's the difference between you and me, Loucinde. Your first drinking experience was peach schnapps; mine was my Tío Jaime's cheap tequila."

"The one and only difference," Lou deadpans with a grin, and Rivers rolls her eyes, still smiling a little. "And I've improved since then, darling. Don't define me by the—the sins of my past, or something."

"Or something," she agrees wryly, and they kick at her again, splashing water up her shin, but they're giggling which makes Rivers laugh too, raising her eyebrows. "And you are really sitting here trying to tell me you're not—"

"I'm not drunk, I'm tipsy," they insist. And they're not lying—any haze has long since receded into a warm buzz at the back of their mind, just enough that they feel loose and giggly and happy, finding everything Rivers does cute-funny, which really she should be thanking them for anyway, Lou thinks. "Which is respectable."

"Mm," Rivers says noncommittally.

"Oh shut up."

"I didn't say a word."

"You didn't have to," they say, and Rivers just shrugs, the usual smug, barely-there smile that Lou's learned to look for pulling at her lips. Lou sighs and runs her hand down Rivers' thigh, and Rivers shoots her a look, eyebrow arched, but all Lou says is "You really gotta let me braid your hair sometime."

"I always thought braids looked stupid on me."

"More of ponytail girl?"

"Mm." She snorts, mostly to herself. "My hair was never long enough for a braid when I was younger, and I wanted one so badly. Then when it finally was long, it turned out to just look bad."

"Well I think it'd look good," Lou murmurs, reaching up with her other hand to run her fingers through Rivers' hair. Usually they aren't this touchy, the two of them, but it's—okay, it's siesta, and it's a gorgeous summer night, and they're all off work, and the two of them aren't fighting for once, and their feet are in the water, and there are fireflies moving lazily through the air, and they can hear the party still raging on at the lakehouse but out here alone it's more peaceful than anything Lou's felt in years. She can pretend they're friends like this. She can pretend they're more than friends.

"If nothing else it might keep my hair out of the way when I'm swimming."

"Hm?"

"A braid."

"Right." They stroke Rivers' hair again just because it's there, still wet from swimming earlier and hanging loose around her face. It feels nice under their hand. Looked nice flying out behind Rivers as she dove off the edge of the dock that afternoon, one long curve of muscle and hair and sun-warm skin against the clear blue sky.

She chuckles softly, one hand covering theirs where it rests by her knee. "Roseheart."

"Yeah?"

"You're drunk."

"Maybe I just like you," they say.

"Maybe," she says dryly, then hesitates, like maybe she doesn't have a comeback for that.

"Though I'd like you more if you stopped making assumptions about my tolerance, darlin'."

"Given the season five afterparty? I think I am entitled to."

Lou hums and combs Rivers' hair back from her face with their fingers. "Well I think you should kiss me," they tell her, and if their heart is in their throat they won't show it.

"Not your best segue," Rivers murmurs after a beat, but she's already leaning forward almost imperceptibly.

"If it works it works."

"It hasn't yet."

"It's about to."

Instead of bothering to argue the point further, Rivers just closes what little distance remained and kisses them, her left hand settling in its familiar place on Lou's waist, and, just for a moment, Lou smiles triumphantly against her lips.

[chiclawgo]

things you said while we were driving + lourivers?

set during season 4 or 5. thank you for the prompt!

Rivers half-crumples into the seat next to Lou on the shuttle, eyes squeezed shut and head tipped back against the headrest, and Lou doesn't ask about it. They're used to the careful space between the two of them, the tense silence, the way they both keep their hands folded awkwardly in their laps so they don't brush together even by accident. It's not natural, but then again nothing is anymore. And Rivers doesn't say anything, even though she could've sat anywhere on the shuttle, alone or next to Caleb or Edric or Ruthless or even Declan, but she chose to sit here with them, and Lou doesn't know what to do with that, so instead they wedge themself harder into the corner between the seat cushion and the wall, and they tilt their forehead against the cool glass of the window.

It's an hour's drive from the airport to Breckenridge, and it is not quite dawn. If the shuttle is at the right angle at the right time, Lou might just get to watch the sun rise over the mountains.

But they're still looking at Rivers out of the corner of their eye as the vehicle rumbles to life and starts creeping forward, making its way out of the airport. Over and over, her chin starts to drop forward to rest on her chest. Over and over, she twitches awake again, eyebrows drawing together with a sharp inhale.

Eventually Rivers catches her looking, and Lou turns her gaze back to the road, but Rivers is already shifting toward her.

"Josh messed up my schedule," Rivers murmurs, voice scratchy. "Gave me a twelve-hour right before the flight left."

Lou, for their part, tries not to seem surprised that they're talking at all. "Shit. I'm sorry, Rivs."

"I can't sleep on planes."

"I know."

"I'm pitching today."

"I know," they repeat, quiet. Rivers sighs, eyes falling shut again, and Lou resists the urge to reach out and take her hand. They're fighting right now. They've been fighting for years. It's hard to remember that, in moments like these.

"It was a bad shift," Rivers says a few minutes later, her voice barely more than a breath, eyes still closed.

"Yeah?" Lou scans the bus. It's quieter than she's used to, just breathing and wheels against the road, the rest of the team napping or gazing out the window or scrolling mindlessly through their phones.

"Candle left unattended by a window, some curtains. You know the rest." They do. "We lost some people."

Lou's stomach sinks, and they have to touch her then, can't imagine doing anything else. So, carefully, they settle a hand on her shoulder, and Rivers' eyes flutter open and fix on them.

She looks exhausted, absolutely defeated, and the vulnerability makes Lou freeze for a second instinctively, like if they move too fast Rivers will retreat again and they'll be left with—they don't know. Nothing, probably. And they're used to nothing, with Rivers, but the idea of it now is—

"You're not gonna be able to fall asleep sitting up like that, Rivs," they murmur. They don't know what else to say. Rivers doesn't push the subject, just nods almost imperceptibly. "C'mere. You can put your head in my lap."

Rivers inclines her chin again and, as if in a dream, unwinds herself slowly closer until she's draped across them, her cheek pressed to Lou's thigh. The grace of the movement is almost startling.

"I don't know if I will be able to sleep like this either," Rivers mumbles, the words muffled a little against the fabric of Lou's sweatpants. She's staring blankly ahead at the back of the seat in front of them, arms tucked close to her chest, knees curled in to fit on the cushions. Lou wraps an arm around her, if only so she doesn't fall off the seat.

"Just close your eyes for a bit, then," Lou tells her softly. Brushes a curl away from her face; it had fallen out of her usual ponytail. Rivers sighs, a gentle puff of breath, and closes her eyes.

Lou watches her face relax minutely as the minutes pass. The crease in her forehead fades, the hard line of her mouth softens, her jaw unclenches. The tension of her spine, so constant that Lou hardly notices it anymore, leaches away.

They don't even realize they've missed the sunrise until the pale light touches Rivers' cheek.

[chiclawgo]

presenting for your consideration: tucker thane (he/him lesbian) and grit watson (she/her) from the firefighters' shadows! this is set after s17, about an in-universe week after them both getting alternated. in my blaseball cinematic universe, the city of the championship team throws a gala a week after elections. this interpretation of grit is 100% credited to @chiclawgo! cw for one use of the d slur in a reclaimed way.

i think that's all the context you need! enjoy!

Tucker doesn’t like Chicago. It’s noisy and massive and smells bad, which isn’t a concern he thinks he should ever have to have about a place he’s living, and winter’s only just beginning but it’s already far too cold, and he knows how to handle cold, he’s not a baby, but it feels exponentially worse in the city. It’s all places he doesn’t know how to get to and and things he doesn’t know how to do and people he hasn’t figured out how to talk to yet.

Even with all that, he’s learning he likes Los Angeles even less.

He kicks at the pavement, ends up scuffing the toe of his bought-yesterday fancy shoes, and grimaces down at his feet. He should go inside, get back to serving champagne to people in too-expensive clothing whose eyes slide right over him, but—

“Tucker Thane?” a high, clear voice calls from the doorway he’d come through five minutes ago. He startles, spins around too fast like a kid caught stealing cookies from the jar. There’s already an apology waiting on his tongue, a guilty Sorry, ma’am, I’ll get back to it in just a sec, but person standing on the stoop isn’t the flat-staring woman who’d given him his apron and nametag earlier.

It’s somebody he sort of recognizes, actually, a short woman with long black hair and beaded earrings and dark, shining eyes. More importantly, though, she’s wearing the same waitstaff uniform as him, the crisp white button-up and black suit pants and apron and tie. And most importantly, she seems like she wouldn’t rat him out.

So: “That’s me,” he says instead of an apology. Shoves his hands into his pockets and tilts his head, offers a hopeful grin. “You think I can stay out here another few minutes?”

“I’m not in charge of you,” the woman points out correctly.

“Yeah, but if you don’t go back in and snitch on me then nobody’ll figure out I’m gone for a little while longer, so..”

“Sure!” she says, then hops off the stoop and leans her shoulder against the wall next to him. The smile’s there again now. Leaves a dimple in her left cheek. Cute, some part of Tucker comments unbidden.

“That easy?” he says, and he can feel himself grinning too, just a little.

The woman turns her head to arch an eyebrow at him. “You think I wanna go back inside?”

“Got me there.”

“Mhm. You know, I was actually so excited when I got my gala invite, but—”

“Fuckin’ waitstaff job,” Tucker finishes. “It sucks.”

She shrugs, smiling ruefully. “That’s the Shadows for you!”

Tucker shrugs too, and the smile dies off his face. “Guess so, yeah.” Quiet stretches out between them for a moment, cut through with the sounds of cars passing on the nearby street, honking, faint music from inside the ballroom. He shakes his head after a couple more seconds of it, though, and pushes himself off the wall a little, extending a hand to the woman. “Sorry, just realized I didn’t even ask your name.”

The woman grins and cocks her head. “It’s on my nametag, you know.”

“Well, sure,” he says. “But it’s polite to ask.” He had genuinely forgotten about the nametags, but hey, win some, lose some.

“Grit Watson,” she tells him and takes his hand, her fingers cool in the balmy Southern California air. Jesus, if you’d told him anytime before this week he’d ever be in SoCal on purpose— “I’d ask yours, but I supposedly came out here to lecture you on our boss’ behalf, and knowing your name was kind of a prerequisite for that, so.”

“Grit Watson,” Tucker echoes, and his stomach sinks at the realization. “...Shit, you’re in the Firefighters’ Shadows with me, aren’t you?”

“I mean, I wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up,” she says. “But yes, we’re in there together.”

“God, I’m sorry, I should’ve remembered.”

She snorts. “In your defense, it’s been a very weird week.”

“It really fuckin’ has,” he mutters, then hesitates. “Uh—look, you can stop me if this is too personal of a question but which, uh—which universe? Did you come from?”

Grit furrows her brow. “Same as the rest of us, Tucker. The Firestarters.”

“Yeah, okay, but I—” He rubs at his forehead. It has been a weird goddamn week. “What were you, though, is what I’m tryin’ to say.”

“....A Firestarter?”

He can’t help but groan, head thudding back against the wall. “Son of a bitch, are you all fuckin’ arsonists?”

“I don’t really think of myself as an arsonist, actually.”

“You know what I’m asking—”

“Yes,” Grit cuts him off, and when Tucker opens his eyes, he’s pretty sure she’s looking at him with actual sympathy, which isn’t—he hasn’t seen that in a bit, is the thing. Pity, sure; plenty of discomfort, definitely; a fair amount of confusion, yeah. But not this. “Everybody else was a Firestarter except you.”

“Fuck,” he says, drawing the word out until it’s more of a sigh than anything else. “Grit, I’m just a fuckin’ dyke from West Virginia.”

“I’m from Canada!” she says brightly, but there’s a wry gleam of humor in her eyes and he snorts in spite of himself.

“Nice. Which part?”

“Tiny little town; you wouldn’t’ve heard of it!”

“Hey, same here.” He grins, and Grit does too. “Whaddaya know? Whole fuckin’ bullpen full of city slickers and then us.”

“Whaddaya know,” she says, a little quieter. They watch each other for a moment longer until Grit rolls her shoulders back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with a sigh. “You know, I really did want to dance tonight. What's the point of a ball if you aren't even allowed to dance?”

“Hey, no law sayin’ we can't right here.”

“No law, but we were supposed to be back inside seven minutes ago at minimum.”

Tucker snorts. “They can wait for us a little longer, it won't kill ‘em. C’mon, let's at least have this.” He doesn’t know why he's pushing it so hard with a total stranger. But as Grit herself said earlier—it’s been a weird week. And this is the first person he's met in this universe who looks at him instead of straight through.

So again, he holds out his hand, and again, Grit takes it. “No law, and no music either,” she says, dry, but lets herself be drawn in closer regardless. “Do you know how to waltz?”

“I sure know how to sway. I haven't danced since senior prom, didn't really have reason to learn to waltz outside that.” Still, he's managed to avoid stepping on her toes so far as they start to turn slow, unpracticed circles around the cramped alleyway, which is some small victory.

“It shows!” she says, chipper as ever. Tucker laughs, and Grit ducks her head maybe shyly, another smile tugging at her lips, then admits, “Me neither.”

“It shows,” he grins, and she swats at his shoulder lightly, which makes him laugh again, the first real laughter he's had since being alternated. It feels good.

[chiclawgo]

Grit Watson isn't from Chicago, but she's not from Deerfield, either.

(twelve one hundred-ish word scenes about an alternated shadow)

[chiclawgo]

shadows bitches + the beach

"You're afraid of water."

"I'm not—okay, yes, kind of! Not really." Edric leans back into Briskie, shooting Declan a pointed glare over the bonfire. "Me and water have a rocky relationship."

Robbins snorts, propping kitself up and out of Axel's lap on kits elbows to sneer at him. "This like the whole ex-wife situation with Fishgirl?"

"Nah, Finn and I were just scrunchie married 'til it got too complicated." Declan opens his mouth, hoping to slip in a sardonic question about scrunchie marriage, but Edric continues: "Declan—not this Declan, wimp-ass Declan from Chicago—he tried to drown me like twice, and then there was the shit with Tillman and that one time Justice forgot some people have lungs and fuckin', uh, crushed me underwater during a game of chicken or whatever, and so basically even if I trusted the fuckin' Pacific like I trust Lake Michigan, which I don't, I also don't trust you motherfuckers as far as I can—"

Matheo snaps, hand reaching up into the chilly wind above where they're laid out on their bright orange towel. "The Chicago bullshit! Fuckin' knew it." They lets their arm drop. "This just in, gang, being a Firefighter makes you miss your god-mom sooo bad you catch hydrophobia about it."

Declan can feel Grit tense up against his back. He speaks before she has to. "Nah, man, pretty sure this is just a personal problem. Edric has their own shit idiot brain fungus, don't implicate the rest of us."

"Love loses," Grit mutters, and Declan shoves her with his shoulder for it. She just chuckles.

"It's not like it's fuckin' homesickness, man!" But Edric picks up the oversized stick they've been using as a poker and jams it into the fire, letting loose a plume of smoke and steam. "I'm just saying, I'm only about to swim with people who haven't directly threatened my fuckin' life, okay?"

He thinks he might hear Briskie laugh. "So me and Grit, then."

"And Axel!" Robbins protests. Kit flops back into him, not-so-subtly lacing a hand with his. "He's never threatened your ass with jack shit, you fuckin'—defamer. With your defamation."

"Briskie's the one defaming," Axel says. "Not Edric."

"Stop being impartial, I hate it."

Declan clears his throat. "So are we seeing if the glowing water shit is real or not? 'Cause I still don't believe—"

"You idiot—" Edric starts, but before he can finish, a gust blows the smoke into his face and he's left wheezing.

In the meantime, Matheo picks up where Declan left off: "You really think a docent would do that? Just go out in the visitor center and lie?"

"Okay, but plankton don't glow—"

"And cities don't talk in your head—"

"Well, not right the fuck now they don't—"

"Ffffuckin' dumbasses arguing about plankton like nerds—"

"Like you know about plankton—"

"I know more than you, I read the brochure instead of spilling fucking In-N-Out-N-In on it, assh—"

"Wait, the plankton here glow—?"

"When you step on them, apparently, but at this rate we're never gonna see it happen," Declan finishes. "So is anyone gonna come with me 'n' Grit 'n' Matty, or is this a cool bitches only beach walk?"

"I'm a cool bitch," Edric mumbles, still a little scratchy-sounding from the smoke.

Grits stands up and dusts herself off. "Sure you are." She reaches down to help Declan up. "This is a cool bitches who trust Deccy beach walk."

Matheo clears their throat. "I resent that—"

"Oh, get up and look at some plankton, already, Matty." Declan takes the proffered hand and keeps it, leaning into Grit as the sun dips lower, the wind suddenly feeling a lot colder on his skin. "Maybe you'll feel better."

"Sure, sure." They groan and stand. "Lead the way, Captain Ducky."

"Fuck yeah, Ducky wins."

Grit smiles. "Love is once again winning."

[chiclawgo]

any combo of The Shadows Gang Tm + things you said with no space between us

a bunch of the shadows guys are going on a chiclawgo (+ briskie) roadtrip!

Matheo blinks, curled up on one end of the couch and trying not to fall asleep. Edric’s scrolling through Tiktok on the other end, and they glance up when Matheo sits up and stretches.

The RV’s parked in a camping ground somewhere outside Kansas City—Grit and Declan talked so much about pitching a tent, but they’re knocked out cold on one of the bunks, Declan with an arm slung around Grit’s shoulder, and Matheo would make fun of them for it except they look really fucking comfortable and also asleep, so. Another time.

“It’s only ten,” Edric whispers, following Matheo’s gaze. “What is with you people?”

From the bed on the other end of the RV, Robbins snorts, settling in with Axel tucked into kits side. “We picked you and Briskie up today, fireboy. You haven’t got the roadtrip tireds yet.”

Matheo nods emphatically, and from the floor, leaning up against Edric’s legs, Briskie makes a hum of consideration. “Somehow—” he pauses, glancing at Grit and Declan and lowering his voice, “—I imagined this trip to be much. Louder.”

“I’ll fuckin’ show you loud,” Robbins mutters. “Just—tomorrow.” Axel laughs softly, and kit makes a face at the eye scratched into the opposite wall.

“Tomorrow,” Matheo agrees, stretching to reach for the deck of cards on the kitchenette counter. They’d meant to start a game of solitaire on the coffee table, but Edric looks up expectantly and puts his phone away when Matheo opens it, so Matheo starts dealing for gin instead, ten cards each on the middle cushion.

“What are we—is this gin?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know how to play, man.”

“I barely remember, that’s all,” Edric says, holding their hands up like don’t blame me if I lose.

“I cheat,” Matheo deadpans, gratified when Briskie snorts. “You don’t have to remember.”

“Matheo’s a dirty cheater at every single game they’ve ever played, yeah,” Robbins whisper-calls, pulling out a book with a bright pink bookmark midway through.

“Except Mlonopoly,” Axel interjects. “You lost that one all by yourself.”

“I did do that,” Robbins allows. “Fucker. You want me to read or not?” Axel makes a noncommittal hum, and Robbins shakes kits head, flipping the book open.

Kit starts reading aloud, running a hand through Axel’s hair, and at first it’s too quiet to really make out, but when Matheo and Edric both look up curiously, kit glances around at all the others, raising kits voice a bit.

“Miranda opened her eyes in time to see the sunrise. A wash of violent color, pink and streaks of brilliant orange, the container ships on the horizon suspended between the blaze of the sky and the water aflame…”

Station Eleven, Edric mouths, placing a card on the pile.

Matheo takes it triumphantly, mouthing back I know, dipshit.

Briskie doesn’t say much, but Matheo hadn’t really expected him to anyway. Quiet guy. He just leans back, closing his eyes contentedly. Robbins keeps reading aloud, and Grit and Declan keep sleeping, and Matheo and Edric keep playing, and there'll be time to be loud tomorrow, Matheo thinks, but for now—

Well. This is good.

[chiclawgo]

Ji-Eun Loubert grins at her, and it’s unbearable. Unfortunately for Augusta, this becomes the status quo for their interactions. 

Augusta doesn’t understand anything about her. When they’d first met at an OSU charity gala, Augusta had assumed that she’d somehow snuck in, and had asked, none too kindly, how the fuck she’d gotten in. Ji-Eun had flashed that infuriating not-smile and replied simply, “Daddy’s money,” and then had swept off to go talk to someone else. The sound of her boots (what?) on the tile floor of the hall haunted Augusta for the rest of the night. 

They meet every once in a while. Augusta hears her talk, catalogues the scar and the space between her two front teeth and the way she dresses and comes to the conclusion that she’d lied, had only made the nepotism joke as an attempt to get under Augusta’s skin, had come from fortunate circumstances, certainly, but nothing close to the persona she put on every time they crossed paths. She can’t fault her. Image is very important for the circle Augusta’s family runs in, but she thinks it’ be a better idea to pick literally any fake personality than “southern money.”

Some years later, after Augusta’s been picked up by the Ohio Worms, and they’re playing some rag-tag team in San Antonio, and they get their asses kicked royally. She’s standing at the edge of the back parking lot in the middle of the Central Texan summer, still wearing all her gear, when a large truck approaches and eventually stops in front of where she’s dropped her things on the curb. The window rolls down and Ji-Eun leans out, teeth too white and laugh too loud. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Augusta has to shout over both the music blasting from inside the truck and the loud rumble of the truck itself. 

Ji-Eun turns the radio down, then crosses her arms over the side of the car door. She’s a little sunburnt and the flyaways that were never going to be able to reach where she has her hair tied up in an unnaturally straight ponytail are plastered to her face with sweat. She’s almost unrecognizable from the high school graduate she’d been two years prior, but the gap-toothed grin is unmistakable. 

“Heard you’d picked up the game ‘nd wanted to see how all that shook out for ya!” she says. 

Augusta closes her eyes and inhales deeply. Exhales. “That doesn’t answer my question. Did you come all the way to Texas to see my team get mauled?” 

At this, she snorts, flicking up a pair of wildly reflective blue aviators that Augusta had been able to see exactly how gross her hair looked in. If she’d had any doubt before over whether this was Loubert or not, it’s completely vanished. The crescent scar under her left eye stands out, pale against the flush of her skin. Her mascara is smudged under her eyes a little. Her eyes twinkle with something akin to smug amusement. 

“Honey, I’m from here. Where’d you think the accent came from?”

“I thought it was fake.” 

Ji-Eun huffs and the flyaways that weren’t already stuck to her face or held back by her sunglasses momentarily stop dancing in the current created by her truck’s air conditioning in favor of floating straight up. Her eyes roll. It’s the first time Augusta seems to have gotten under her skin in their many meetings. She turns away again, and for a second, Augusta thinks she’s done with whatever game she’s come to play. 

And then Ji-Eun holds an index card out to her. 

“Come cool off at my place sometime, when you’re not too busy gettin’ your ass handed to you,” she says lightly. She’s smirking.

Augusta takes the card wordlessly. She doesn’t know what else to do. It’s only polite. She looks over the card. It has a name, address, and several phone numbers for a ranch located in Boerne, Texas. When she flips it over to the back, there’s another ten-digit number and what Augusta can only assume is the hanja for Ji-Eun’s name hastily scribbled in blue ink. The card is mildly warped where someone’s sweat has been and dried. 

She looks back up at Ji-Eun. The grin widens incrementally.

[chiclawgo]

gameses + 17 (things you said that i wish you hadn't)

17. (bastards) - blood and injury cw. 

It would be a lot easier for Cornelius to go through with the divorce if Richardson weren’t occasionally kind to him. It would be a lot easier for Cornelius to go through with the divorce if he wanted one, but that’s neither here nor there. There is something almost obsessive about how Cornelius thinks in ‘should’s: he should have resolved his relationship with the Discipline Era; he should still be the team’s ace; he shouldn’t be the recipient of pity; he should be alone.

Once there was a sort of twisted logic to the idea that he should end it, maybe to leave his husband before they left him, or because sometimes it felt like Richardson had already won the nonexistent, inevitable break-up. But now the prospect has just become one of many things that Cornelius should do, that should exist.

It’s not something Cornelius is thinking about when the Consumers attack. Day 99 is one that he would pitch in a normal rotation, but instead it’s been devoted to finishing the paperwork for the lateseason ballpark renovations, cataloguing the changes in a way that a good GM would in a splort that wasn’t ruled by bloodthirsty gods. It’s useless. It makes him feel like he is still contributing something to the team, even if it’s just his job.

He shouldn’t even be down by the field. He shouldn’t have looked. It’s the first inning, and Richardson is their leadoff hitter, and it’s a nice day with a cool breeze and bright sun overhead. The Thieves haven’t qualified for the postseason. For half a second Cornelius considers watching their last game as a means of quiet indulgence.

The idyllic weather was a lure. The moment he’s close enough to the field, immateria swallows the ground, and all at once he’s drowning. All at once he’s drowning, and there’s blood everywhere.

A few years into starting the Thieves - back when they were a heist team and not athletes - Cornelius had been stabbed. The details aren’t important, and the wound was far from fatal, but he still has the scar on his torso. The knife had been sharp and the cut was clean and for a split second, Cornelius had known that he was wounded but only felt a dull ache, like he’d ran into the side of a table or stubbed his toe.

This is much of the same. He sees the shape, sees its teeth, watches it jab out of the murky immateria and sink into his flesh. He can see its dark, beady eyes and rough skin and its speed, and he can feel the liquid that blocks out the sun and prevents him from breathing. And he can see his own blood in the water in the instant it takes for the Consumers to tear his shoulder apart. He can see it. The pain, for better or for worse, is suspended. Delayed.

As quickly as it came the immateria rushes back into the earth, and Cornelius collapses with it, back on solid ground. There is more blood than he expected, hot and sticky and wet, rushing down his arm and spreading across his chest. He tries to turn his head to look, clumsily, and catches a flash of white in the mess of blood and muscle and sinew.

People are screaming. His team? The Georgias, new to the league and horrified? The fans? People are screaming - with excitement or terror? With delight or fear? The ticker of the scoreboard bellows, “CORNELIUS GAMES IS ATTACKED BY CONSUMERS,” and the roar of the crowd grows louder as players run to him.

The inning is over. Cornelius hadn’t realized.

He tries to push himself upright with the arm he can still feel, but there is blood on his fingers and in the grass, and he realizes quickly enough that if he tries, he will fail. The alternative is being helpless as he is surrounded, but the feeling of wind on exposed bone is enough that he doesn’t care.

There are too many people trying to accomplish too much with too little success. If Cornelius tries to speak he will wind up with blood in his mouth. He doesn’t tell them to go. He wants to. He wants to remind everyone that the game will not allow for him to be permanently incapacitated. The pitcher must throw the ball.

“Get the fuck away from him,” cuts a voice through the swarm, and it’s one Cornelius recognizes as his husband. Irritable, sharp, angry. Helpful. “Are you doing anything to help with this?” A distressed reply that Cornelius can’t quite make out. “That’s what I thought, get the fuck away from him.”

Whatever Richardson is doing, it works, because the frenzy of nervous energy dissipates. They kneel in front of Cornelius, and don’t seem to mind the blood. They only look concerned.

“You shouldn’t,” Cornelius manages, and he might be halfway to unconsciousness but he still remembers that Richardson is supposed to be better off without him. They’re not supposed to still care. They’re not supposed to tell off everyone to help.

“What?”

“You shouldn’t’ve done that,” Cornelius slurs, and there’s copper on his lips, and there is no cruelty like the man he married reminding him why he fell in love.

Richardson looks at him for a long time with an expression Cornelius cannot read. “Shut up,” they say finally, and their face is the last thing he sees before darkness wins.

[chiclawgo]

aaaand i am kicking my legs like it's a sleepover. ghostel motel + shaqedric just like in case you have more thoughts?

Edric’s never completely sure when they’re alone in the room, so to spare themself the embarrassment of talking out loud when no one’s there, they wait until it’s verging on sunset outside and the TV across from the bed flickers alive with static and noise. It would startle them if they hadn’t had a week of getting used to it first, the little ways the ghost in their room prods them to say hello.

“I know you’re not actually invisible,” Edric says aloud, in reply.

“What?” a voice says, clearer than Edric’s ever heard it before. Then: “Shit. Who snitched?”

Edric laughs. They can’t help it. “Nobody, if it makes you feel better. I saw a guy I thought was normal walk through a wall.”

“Bet it was Derrick. Fucker.”

“Didn’t get his name.” Edric pauses, shifts in the bed so they’re on their stomach facing the TV, chin propped in their hands. “Can I see you? Or are you shy?”

“I’m not shy.”

“But?”

“People usually don’t ask.”

“Well, I’m asking,” Edric says.

There’s no verbal answer, but there is suddenly another person in the room, perched on the dresser in front of the TV. He’s not what Edric would have expected. Edric’s not sure what they expected, but not this - not the flat-ironed pink hair, or the bright blue eyes, or the freckles, or the Garages jersey with the sleeves cut off. It’s easy to reconcile the guy’s broad grin with the laugh Edric sometimes feels more than hears against the cup of their ear, but the way their heart flips when they see it is maybe the farthest thing from easy Edric’s ever experienced.

“Hey,” the ghost says, swinging his legs and kicking his heels against the dresser. “I’m Shaq.”

“Oh,” Edric says, painstakingly unsticking the word from their throat. “Hi.”

[chiclawgo]

godspeed, you beautiful bastards + chiclawgo

Ike takes a long sip of his beer and tries to ignore the chill starting to worm its way in through his bare skin. He’d left his uniform on—not a lot of time to change, not when he caught a direct from Colorado and has to catch a red-eye right back in a matter of hours—but he’s regretting it, now. There’s a crisp, cool wind blowing down the shoreline, cutting across the flat water and straight through to his bones. Not a good night to be on the beach.

Two incinerations, though. They had to be there.

Caleb leans into his shoulder. “You think that Tot’s okay?”

“Mike’s with hir. And Betsy, probably.”

“Brock?”

“Flying in soon. With Silvaire.”

“Right, forgot they weren’t here already.” They turn their head to plant a kiss on his bicep, then step away. It leaves Ike’s side even colder than the rest of him. “I’m going to check in with Bertie? See if he’d want to drive to the airport?”

“Thanks.” Ike has to admit, it’s good to have someone else be the one playing taxi tonight. It’s been too long since he got to—well, just take a minute like this. Feet in cold sand, getting colder. Chest tight. Eyes allowed to wander, instead of obligated to fix themselves on narrow black text and shaky ballpoint handwriting.

A little ways away, Finn, Wes, Swammy, and Summer are mostly submerged in the midnight high tide, Tot—the other Tot—ankle-deep next to them. The new kids are farther out. Maybe getting used to the harbor. Edric’s started a bonfire—flew in with the rest of them, still tight-lipped about how long he’s going to stay. Around it, their lineup’s all wrapped themselves around one Crab or another, blanketing them with the usual rowdy, casual touch like it’ll somehow keep them safe. Gita is telling a story, gesturing wildly in the way that means someone let her drink something stronger than wine. Ike squints. It’s hard to make out maroon on maroon, but is it really just Ken, Parker, and Bertie under it all? Finn in the water, of course, but—really?

Speaking of, Ken's distracted. Normally he’d be listening intently, nodding and hmming at all the right intervals to keep Gita talking—and it’s understandable, of course, it was Luis, no one’s exactly feeling animated, but—he’s staring off at the shoreline, half-frozen, a little too pale.

Ike follows his gaze. Only now does Finn the surface, lure bobbing back into sight. She laughs, high and bright, and that, at least, is something Ike can be thankful for.

But he can see Ken exhale from here.

Another sip of his beer, another shiver, another thought spared for how Ken’s doing these days, another question saved for a better time. He knows, of course he knows, that the Crabs have lost people—everyone has. It’s still a difficult thought to bear, though—that they’ll be leaving on that four hour flight again in a matter of hours, yes. But mainly that they’re leaving hardly anyone behind.

“Godspeed,” Ike mutters into the bottle’s neck. “You beautiful bastards. Send me a postcard while you’re up there.”

He hums the next few lines idly, attention straying to the red clouds gathering on the horizon. Maybe, he thinks, just maybe there’s a black hole singing somewhere beyond them. Watching. Waiting.

Listening.

“If it were up to me, I wouldn’t let you go.”