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congrats on how quick the latest batch sold out omg!! i managed to snag one of the letterfellows and i'm very excited for it to arrive, i love your work! i hope you have a lovely day!!
I’m so glad you got one! I’m going to be printing a bunch of shipping labels but I will be doing it with light in my heart. Light and also adrenaline
shaqedric + tenderness
Nobody questions how Socks ends up places, so Edric doesn’t question it when they’re able to get into and out of his Breckenridge apartment with ease, trotting smugly into the kitchen while he’s frying rice for lunch.
“[Delivery] [cat] [delivery] [cat]”
“Yeah, yeah,” Edric says, reaching down to scratch absently behind Socks’s ears when they come to a stop near his heels. “You smell like you got into the fireplace, dude.”
“[Dead people] [smell],” Socks says. They drop the letter held between their teeth onto the floor and busy themself with the buttons that seem to travel everywhere with them. “[Tiana] [Bennett] [Mickey] [Norris] [Raúl] [Zi!!!] [Kirby] [... . -...] [Butt] [Teddy] [Case] [Jessi!] [unremarkable Derrick]”
It’s a cacophony of voices Edric has mostly never heard before. A chorus of the dead recording their own names. He doesn’t drop the spatula he’s holding, but it’s a near thing. Socks blinks up at him, still smug, from the floor, and he looks back down at them.
“You’ve got one from them,” he says, and it’s not a question.
“[Shaq],” Socks replies, stepping firmly on a button to their left. Then, “[Edric’s boy]” to their right.
They’re both Shaq’s voice. The first one is utilitarian, the second one softer and more fond, a laugh half-hidden behind the words. Edric imagines them leaning close over the button to record it, grinning at his expense, and swallows hard.
“Thanks, Socks.”
“[Hahaha snort],” Socks replies, a perfect mimic of Edric’s own laugh. “[Tip] [for] [delivery] [cat] [hmm?]”
“Yeah, alright,” Edric says, and reaches over to get out the bag of cat treats from the pantry.
ghost hunter au + 23 (in relief)
It’s been a week since Amal last properly saw Agan. They’ve been stuck stuttering in place in the entryway, moving to the door, grasping the handle, and then appearing a few feet back on repeat, hanging on to enough corporealness that it sends pins and needles all through Amal’s body when he has to leave. It feels like too private a thing to bring someone who knows what they’re doing into their home. Agan might not care but Amal does, maybe too much, and sometimes late at night when he’s heard the handle of the front door turn just a fraction he wonders if that’s why Agan is stuck here; that this is happening because he can’t let go of them.
It feels wrong to leave them alone for too long, even if he’s still in the house. He thinks about Agan coalescing and not knowing where they are, being as confused as they were when they’d first appeared a week after their death. At the beginning of the second week he drags a chair next to the coat closet by the door, far enough out of Agan’s path that he doesn’t get pins and needles but close enough to be present, and works his painstaking way through hand stitching a quilt. The sewing machine needs a table and there isn’t room for a table and a chair in the entryway without overlapping with Agan. He puts on the radio on Saturday nights when there’s two hours of jazz programming and thinks about what Agan would have to say about what got chosen.
Week three begins with the front door opening and immediately slamming shut at 4 in the morning and then an hour later it happens again and then an hour later it happens again and by that point Amal is up. Agan is still looping in entryway but more solid, the haze that surrounds them coming in closer. “Agan, it’s early. Come back to bed.” His voice is still thick with sleep and he thinks maybe that’ll be enough, treating Agan like they’re alive again, but all it does is collapse Agan into static.
The door opens and slams shut again an hour later. He tries to think that it’s a good sign that Agan’s more corporeal, that they’re able to do the action of unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door, that they can keep their concentration long enough to do that. He tries to not get tired of the sound of the door slamming shut, of relocking the door, of getting woken up in the middle of the night, and he lasts until 2am the next day. Amal drags his chair in front of the door, wrapped up in the quilt that he’d made for them as a first wedding anniversary gift. He tries to get comfortable enough in it to sleep but Agan’s still drifting through them every few minutes, making their nerves vibrate.
He reaches out a hand to where he thinks Agan’s shoulder would be and feels his fingers up to his shoulder go shuddery numb. “C’mon, please. I miss you.” Agan turns their head and then stutters backwards, leaving afterimages behind them. A few minutes later when their loop has brought them back forward, Amal does the same thing. Hand on their shoulder, asking them to come to bed or to talk or to sit down somewhere.
He’s losing track of how many times it’s been. It’s late or early or both and Agan’s loops have been getting longer. They spend more time at the end of the entryway and more time looking towards him. It’s an act of desperation at about six am that gets them to take Agan’s hand, solidifying to turn the doorknob, and press a light kiss to their fingers. It was something they’d do to him sometimes when they were out on a walk or watching a movie or he was cooking and they wanted to get a taste before he was done. “Please, Agan. We both need to sleep,” he says through half numb lips.
And it’s enough. It’s enough to get Agan to dissolve and then solidify for a half second and then dissolve out again, to get Amal an hour or two of cramped sleep in his chair before the sun starts to come in the windows, to leave a handprint in the steam on the mirror when Amal showers. It’s enough.
jessme + 41 (because the world is saved)
41. because the world is saved
the moment the gods disappear from the sky, esme is already moving.
stu nearly reacts quickly enough, reaches out, and esme feels her fingers brush her wrist, too slow to grasp. she climbs over rows of seats, shoves teammates and bystanders out of her way. the red malevolent light is consumed. the eerie blue glow is fast fading. by the time she reaches the barrier, the stadium is shrouded in unnatural darkness. she manages to grasp the railing, and vaults out of the stands, and falls to the field. she had banked on the muscle memory of the girl from moab, of teenage years spent largely in places she shouldn’t have been, hopping fences - instincts honed by decades of heists - she knows how to hit the ground right, how to swallow her momentum in a forward roll, but in the pitch black she cannot judge the distance to the ground. she impacts ungracefully, twists her ankle and topples sideways and slams into the grass.
she doesn’t slow down. in seconds she is on her feet, staggering forward in the dark. she is shouting three names.
there are stars in the sky again, and the shroud is lifting, and her eyes are adjusting to the dark. there are shapes on the field. there are not enough of them.
she is screaming raw from her lungs. the names rake up her throat. she is crying out for morrow, the paired half of her heart, dust in the garden so far from her hands. she is shouting for gloom, her brother in all that matters, struck dead by a murderess, turned to cinder as he ran for home. she is hollering for jess, jess, jess, cracking skin and white hot eyes, made puppet, made weapon, made vice-grasping hand of god -
morrow, she is screaming, god, morrow - and she feels strong hands on her shoulders, turning her around, strong arms in the dark pulling her in, looped around her, holding her to a chest heaving with hard breaths. her head falls against a familiar collar, and she knows the body against hers.
esme wraps her arms around jess’s waist with all the strength she has and gasps her name.
“right here,” jess murmurs. her voice is low and warm, her head dipped to press her cheek to esme’s temple, her breath stirring her hair. “i’m here. you’re okay. i thought -”
esme barely pulls away, only cranes her neck - misses the first kiss, and the second, pressed messily to her jawline before jessica gets the idea.
send me a ship and a number and i’ll write a short fic
ivy + hobbies
https://archiveofourown.org/works/31156511
my response to this ended up being 1.2k words long so
ivy in the shell trying to figure out how to spend their time
have fun!
blaseball asks: 4, 6, 12, 14, 30
blaseball asks
4: team you’d be most likely to flute to: i’ve seriously considered fluting to the dale on multiple occasions!! now that the spies arent what i’d consider a small team anymore i do kinda miss those vibes :”) plus i’m never fluting to a team that’s not in the wild low division
6: storyline you keep coming back to again and again (e.g. mike townsend arc, jaylen hotdogfingers’ resurrection, snackrifice, tillman henderson’s return): oh for sure i have to say jaylen’s storyline for this question. but also i think abt the separate tragedies of jessica telephone and donia bailey ALLL the time
12: favorite team aesthetic: probably garages or dale for this tbh!!! i love the spies very very much & the spy/noir aesthetic is very good in theory but we do NOT have a handle on it. meanwhile i cannot say no to blindingly bright neons & im a lesbian i already dress like im on the garages
14: favorite “minor” character (player who’s rarely discussed): DONIA BAILEY! the spies still talk abt her but she goes largely forgotten lol umm here’s a quick(?) rundown (i’m not checking on the wiki for this so excuse any inaccuracies):
she was such a bad pitcher that her lore was literally that she was hired by an enemy agency to sabotage the team
at the beginning of s5, though, she finally gave up on the enemy agency that hadnt contacted her for 5 years and started to let herself care about her teammates, as much as that’s possible for her— she hasnt had a genuine non-self-serving relationship with another human being for years at this point. and then she pitched a cluster of rly good games!!
but after that it became clear that, like, even when she tried she was still. not a good pitcher. and at least she wasn’t lonely anymore but constantly failing the people you love is its own kind of hell
so we campaigned hard to get a blessing that would swap her in as a batter, where she had significantly better stats!
it didnt happen in s5, but then in s6! there was a blessing that would swap our best-pitching hitter at the time, alexandria rosales, in as a pitcher, & there was a chance that this would then swap donia into the lineup! so we went for that
also in s6, there was a blessing along the lines of, like, experimental cloning or something, where the team that won it would get a clone of a random other player in the league. we were also very interested in this, largely for the sinister spy shenanigans of it all.
s6 elections roll around and woo! look! we win the cloning blessing! but uhh. the player we got out of that was evelton mcblase ii. & the player that got kicked off the team— sent to the shadows— in return was donia bailey.
eviltwin is known for being cartoonishly evil and remarkably bad at blaseball. it is for this reason that i think the agency that hired donia removed her from the team in order to plant a more effective saboteur after it became apparent that she cared more about her teammates than she did about working for them.
add insult to injury: we won the pitcher-batter swap blessing, and.. alex took donia’s spot in the rotation, making eviltwin a batter. if we just hadnt won the clone blessing then donia would finally have been able to bat, and maybe she’d have been happy on the team for the first time ever.
instead, she was sent to the shadows alongside mike townsend & unlike him, never got out. she never got the recognition he did, either. she’s just stuck in there! forgotten! i miss her terribly
oh! donia trivia: she’s a cowboy, incredibly abrasive, and was a beloved & irreplaceable member of her roller derby team.
30: favorite song off the garages’ collab albums, if you listen to those: who? by yung tilly. i am not taking constructive criticism at this time.
(ok real answer might be where is your spirit, the tug, shutout, or sunstripes. i have taste i prommy) (who by yung tilly is also taste though <3)
shaqderrick + darkness
superhero/villain au because i sure am thinking about it
The apartment spare bedroom is dark, and Derrick and Shaq stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the doorway, both staring at the prone form on the small, unmade twin bed.
“We should tell his sister,” Derrick says, at the same time that Shaq says “So we're keeping him, right?”
They exchange a look. Shaq opens his mouth to say something else, and Derrick grabs them by the arm to drag them backwards down the hall and into the kitchen, because if they’re going to have an argument then they can’t have it here.
“Ow, babe,” Shaq whines, wiggling in his grip until they manage to wrench themself free. “Don’t be mean -”
“You want to keep him?” Derrick hisses.
Shaq crosses to the fridge and bends to grab a can of some energy drink or another. They glance over their shoulder to throw him a capital-L Look - lips pressed together, eyebrows raised meaningfully. Derrick raises his eyebrows back at them, a little meaner.
“We can’t fucking go to the heroes about it, they’ll think we kidnapped him,” Shaq says, thumbing open the tab of the can in their hands. “We do villain shit for a living, dude, we’re as good as arrested no matter what we say.”
“So we drop him off anonymously,” Derrick says. Anonymous jobs are his specialty, anyway. It wouldn’t be hard. Definitely easier than keeping a whole third person - a whole ex-hero - in the apartment and under wraps, especially with Shaq’s camera drones hovering around everywhere.
“You still like him,” Shaq says, pointedly.
And, okay, yeah, that is admittedly kind of a wrinkle in this plan. Derrick leans back against the stove and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to tap into a reserve of patience he’s not even sure he has.
“That’s not the point,” he says, after a long moment of deep breathing.
“Uh, it kind of is,” Shaq says. “You went off the fucking deep end when he died, babe. And you want to just, what, ship him back to his sister? After he turns up on our fucking doorstep?”
“If you have a suggestion,” Derrick says, “you’d better be working your way around to it.”
“What if we get him to do villain shit with us?” Shaq asks.
Derrick thinks they’re joking up until he opens his eyes and finds them looking actually pensive, mouth screwed up into a tiny frown, staring intently at the magnets on the fridge.
“This is a scheme,” Derrick says.
“It might be.”
“You don’t fucking do schemes.”
Shaq grins, and takes a long sip of their drink. “We could start.”
crime au + safety
“- should ever leave me, though life would still go on, believe me -”
The voice is as clear as a bell. It doesn’t wake Edric up so much as lull him gently out of sleep, and he’s sure the song is coming from the radio at first until he cracks his eyelids a fraction of the way open to see Quill’s lips forming the words, fingers keeping time in a steady beat against the steering wheel. Their eyes are fixed on the road, blond-and-pink curls blown gently across their forehead from the wind through the cracked window. And they’re smiling.
“- would living do me, God only knows -”
“You’re singing,” Edric murmurs, finally blinking the sleep from his eyes. He’s never heard Quill sing before. It feels impolite - or voyeuristic, maybe - to pretend he’s not listening in. To not let them know they’re being seen.
“Oh,” Quill says softly, not quite startling. They glance over to him briefly, then back to the road, eyebrows furrowed just the slightest bit in worry. “Did I wake you up?”
“S’fine.” He stretches in the passenger seat, winces as the seatbelt bites into his bad shoulder. “I’ve never heard you sing before.”
“I usually don’t.” Quill taps their fingers on the wheel. “Around other people.”
“I’m not other people?”
“Eddie, come on.”
“I’m kidding.” He cracks a grin at them. “It’s pretty. Your voice.”
Quill laughs. “Should I sing for you more often?”
“I wouldn’t say no,” Edric says, and watches them smile again, the red-orange glow of the setting sun illuminating the flash of their teeth.
