#McLaughlin Scorpler

[rabbittraps]

old art from 2020: my first blaseball fanart and the first visual depiction of mclaughlin scorpler

[fabledivine]

scorp and frasier!! frasier and scorp

[glassgob]

commission for @jirnkirks of their scorpler design!

[Image ID: Digital illustration of Mclaughlin Scorpler from Blaseball. Scorpler is a Iranian man with black fat-tailed scorpion traits including an exoskeleton, multiple eyes, and chelicerae. Scorpions are crawling across their off-white bomber jacket. They are backlit, holding a minotaur token to their eye. End ID.]

[jirnkirks]

between two bedrooms

richardson games sleeps with famous owens in a fit of spite and ends up in the middle of some kind of romcom

technically famous owens/richardson games, actually light scorpler/famous

[CW] : light recreational drug use (MDMA), references to having sex & sexual humor, adultry (gamesbands troubled marriage era in TDE)

Why Richardson was back at the old Apartment wasn't important. So maybe it was because Cornelius had called them incompetent, an egomaniac and self absorbed with delusions of grandeur for weeks on end. Maybe Richardson had snapped back, just once, and said at least their delusions didn't kill anyone. Maybe it was the way Cornelius had shut down and didn't even bother kicking Richardson out because fuck him right? Dick was just his fucking husband.

Anyway. The point is. The fucking point is- the Millenials and Tigers went from fighting it out in the finals to being kicked out barely a week into postseason. Richardson's sure the... Moist Talkers or Wings or whatever were having fun. But the Millenials and Tigers had a longstanding tradition of pickling their immortal livers and trashing whichever house they're in at the smallest excuse, and the end of elections was as good as any.

No one even cared Dickson was in the Apartment looking for his next mistake- it takes him a shitty screwdriver, half a kegstand and a round of beer pong to go screw it and stand next to Famous Owens. Who was, probably, gorgeous, Dickson thinks, if not for the way half their division talked about them.

What matters is this-

Maybe Famous really is into homewrecking because it only takes ten minutes before they've got Richardson on their lap, a bit of molly passed to Dickson with their tongue licking into his mouth.

And it was painfully easy, for once, to be able to look at Famous and call them pretty with their hands around Richardson's waist. When those hands, calloused and surprisingly strong, pulled them into one of the bedrooms.

Richardson wraps a hand around Owens' shoulders, and it is divine when Owens makes their hips grind against each other, and it's easy to beg them to touch him and under the haze of molly, it's good enough.

Richardson, upon pain of death, will admit he understands Famous' reputation.

In fact, dying would have been preferable when Scorpler fucking slams the door open, jolting Richardson awake. Richardson lets out a groan, as the horrible fucking light of day tries to open his eyes. "What the f-"

"Good morning, Scorpler," Famous cuts in. Richardson is not awake, but he musters enough energy to squint at Famous. The fucker's already sitting up, their head a rat nest and sprawled out like a king. Even with the eyebags and pillow creases.

"Shut the fuck up and get in the car," Scorpler snaps and, fuck, Dickson had never hesrd that from Scorpler before. Was their voice fucking trembling? Underneath the hissing and the fucking scorpion mouth things clicking, there's a tremor Richardson has never heard before.

Slowly, half asleep still, Richardson starts to rewind through all the bullshit gossip Dom texts him.

Famous pats Richardson back- even groggy and barely sober, it feels contemptuous, which is another thing Dickson already hates about them. "I can't leave poor Dix," and that was even weirder, "alone, now can I, darling."

"Wha-" "Famous, is that what this is about?!"

Dickson jolts as Scorpler snaps at Owens, louder and sharper than he thought the scorpion capable of, and nearly rolls onto the floor with their dick out. The other two ignore him. Fucking great.

Dickson snaps his mouth shut. Famous seemed as unbothered as ever while Scorpler.. Stops whatever scorpions do and stops hissing.

Richardson grabs his fucking pants as Scorpler crosses the room.

"Famous-" and fucking hell, Richardson didn't know Scorpler could sound that soft either. The scorpion always had that veneer to them, the kind of thing Richardson thought was as bad as Owens'. They definitely did when Dickson had slipped and called them babe and Famous had answered by slipping their pants off and shutting Richardson up.

"Enough. Richardson, sit the fuck down."

Richardson does not move for a moment.

Then they fucking booked it, just as Scorpler sits on the bed to hold Famous fucking Owens' hand with the weirdest, most tender expression-

"Better get out of here Dick," and of course it's Dom. Of fucking course. And Richardson is fucking naked with their jeans awkwardly held over their dick.

Richardson yelps. He's not afraid to admit. He turns around, fumbling into his jeans. "Fuck, did you know they were like this?" Richardson complains as he zips up. When he turns around, Dom looks at him with a sort of pitying amusement that makes Richardson frown even more. Hidden behind the couch, Nagomi Meng starts fucking laughing.

[blaseballshipbracket]

BLASEBALL SHIP BRACKET ROUND 1

64 ships enter, one ship leaves! who will reign supreme? how will your faves fare? it's a tlournament for the ages!

this is a seeded bracket generated from ships suggested in a google form. round 1 begins thursday, 03/30/23 and will run for one week. propaganda is encouraged - tag this blog and i'll share it!

ROUND 1 MATCHUPS:

Megan Ito/Parker MacMillan VS Leon Duncan/Andrew Trebek

Finn James/Kennedy Loser VS Hewitt Best/Yeong-Ho Garcia

Flattery McKinley/Niq Nyong'o VS Jessica Telephone/Betsy Trombone

Tillman Henderson/Declan Suzanne VS Don Mitchell/Percival Wheeler

Baldwin Breadwinner/Alyssa Harrell VS Axel Cardenas/Miguel Wheeler

Dominic Marijuana/Andrew Solis VS Eduardo Ingram/Leach Ingram

Pedro Davids/Valentine Games VS Anathema Elemefayo/Patty Fox/Hatfield Suzuki

Stevenson Heat/James Mora VS Baby Triumphant/Castillo Turner

Yosh Carpenter/Sebastian Woodman VS Cannonball Sports/Bees Taswell

Igneus Delacruz/Howell Franklin VS Mcdowell Mason/Sexton Wheerer

Allison Abbott/Kichiro Guerra VS Eugenia Garbage/Ziwa Mueller

Caleb Alvarado/Isaac Johnson VS Conner Haley/Sebastian Telephone

Brock Forbes/Adalberto Tosser VS Domino Bootleg/Theodore Honeywell

Lenny Marijuana/Chorby Short VS Moody Cookbook/Landry Violence

Margarito Nava/Nic Winkler VS Riley Firewall/Geraldine Frost

Inez Owens/Bees Taswell VS Paula Turnip/Hiroto Wilcox

Tyreek Olive/Landry Violence VS Fitzgerald Blackburn/Math Velazquez

Val Hitherto/Nerd Pacheco VS Ortiz Lopez/Pitching Machine

Luis Acevedo/Tot Clark VS Derrick Krueger/Sebastian Telephone

The San Francisco Lovers VS Gita Sparrow/Jayden Wright

Tillman Henderson/Mike Townsend VS Famous Owens/Mclaughlin Scorpler

Alaynabella Hollywood/Magi Ruiz VS Nerd Pacheco/Lars Taylor

Nagomi Mcdaniel/York Silk's Mom VS Qais Dogwalker/Grollis Zephyr

Jacob Haynes/Alaynabella Hollywood/Moses Mason VS Burke Gonzalez/Brock Watson/Joshua Watson

Jaylen Hotdogfingers/Jessica Telephone VS Juice Collins/Sutton Dreamy

Sandford Garner/Don Mitchell VS Famous Owens/Nerd Pacheco

Rivers Rosa/Lou Roseheart VS Jode Crutch/Rush Ito

Declan Suzanne/Edric Tosser/Baby Triumphant VS Lady Matsuyama/Bottles Šuljak

Cornelius Games/Richardson Games VS Mags Banananana/Eugenia Bickle

Workman Gloom & PolkaDot Patterson VS Shannon Chamberlain/Kennedy Loser

Caligula Lotus/Beck Whitney VS Steals Mondegreen/Silvaire Semiquaver

Summers Preston/Stephanie Winters VS Haruta Byrd/Bright Zimmerman

[fictionkinfessions]

RIV moody cookbook, elijah bates, mclaughlin scorpler, antonio wallace, dominic marijuana, murray pony, sebastian telephone, yazmin mason, frasier shmurmgle, workman gloom, boyfriend monreal, and miguel wheeler.

i wrote your names down on paper and brought it to my local baseball diamond to pay my respects this afternoon. i buried it at the pitching mound and had a moment of silence.

i hope you know i never meant to hurt you or put anyone in danger, and had i been in control i would never have done so. one day maybe i'll stop apologizing for something i didn't choose, but today is not that day. i'm so sorry.

if you have made it here to the material plane too and are out there somewhere, please honour the life i took from you by doing all you can to be safe and kind to yourself and hold onto joy in the one you have now, especially amidst the heaviness of this week (and this extends to EVERYONE who was affected, not just the casualties. the survivors, the witnesses, the grieving, everyone). if you have not... rest in violence. i'm thinking of you.

- Jaylen Hotdogfingers (#sparkler🔥🎇)

x

[thehallstara]

got to make a playlist about jesús koch, tyler violet and mclaughlin scorpler for @polyboros as part of @waveridden's blaseball fanmix exchange!!! tracklist and annotations under the cut.

Laugh Track – Ben Hopkins

The Art of Letting You Go – Ewan J. Phillips

Peeling/Heaven – Jemima Coulter

Unchained Melody – Lykke Li

Neon God – KAYE

Keep Your Name – Dirty Projectors

Eyes on Fire – Blue Foundation

Almost Close – Blegh

Throwing Stones – Paula Cole

Paradigms – Sam Fender

[queen-eevee]

Famous Owens is lucky.

That’s what everyone likes to call them, always for a different reason. Lucky they made it past tryouts. Lucky the Tigers let them pitch. Lucky they’re so pretty. Lucky no one’s punched them in the face yet.

It's not a word Famous would use to describe themself.

(12 snippets of the life of Famous Owens, Season 1-7, and the many, many masks they learn to wear.)

[zayphora]

blasetober day 2: election. or, the day a guy named scorpler got headphones to listen to synthwave on and inadvertently changed the timeline as we know it

[waveridden]

“The two of you, you’re like magnets,” says Dunlap.

“Magnets,” Famous repeats skeptically. “Because they can’t stay away from me, no matter how much I want them to?”

She laughs. “Hardly. The opposite, in fact. You’re too similar in the wrong ways.”

(A 12x100 about Famous Owens, Mclaughlin Scorpler, and getting too close. For @queen-eevee, who invented this ship and sold me on it, hard.)

[snafubravado]

mclaughlin scorpler of the hades tigers

[if you enjoy my art, please consider following me on twitter @/snafubravado]

[leonstamatis]

hiroto wilcox is visited by the ghosts of three tigers past.

(do i know anything about the tigers? not really. thanks cola @queen-eevee for helping me figure it out. also, this is an extension of a song exchange/fic challenge with jaz @waveridden as well, so thanks dear!)

There’s something wrong with Hiroto’s coffee. It tastes burnt, almost ashy in her mouth.

“Well,” Moody says, offering a smile, “that’s typical here, you know.”

Hiroto swirls the drink in her hands, watches the foam cling to the sides of the mug. “No, not… not this badly.”

Moody hums and clicks their tongue, flagging down a waiter with one hand. The café is new; the name is painted onto all the mugs, but the font is too elaborate for Hiroto to read.

“You seem tense, Hiroto,” Moody says. They place a hand over hers, pressing her cup back down into its saucer. “What’s on your mind?”

The waiter brings another latte and sets it down. This one smells like peanuts; Hiroto thought she asked for lavender and vanilla, but her memory has been terrible lately. She hardly remembers getting out of bed this morning. The harder she tries to remember, the foggier it feels.

“I think,” she starts. Closes her mouth. Tries again. “There’s just so much pressure to do well, Moody. How do you manage it?”

Moody hums thoughtfully. They link arms with Hiroto and guide her around two people standing in front of a store window, admiring a display of corsets and gowns made of cloth so fine it looks like spiderweb. The toe of Hiroto’s shoe catches on a crack in the sidewalk, but Moody’s steps don’t falter even as they catch her weight.

“You have to learn to carry it,” Moody says. They tap two fingers on the inside of her elbow. “When you threw your first pitch, you didn’t know all of the steps. But now you’ve learned, and you can do it without thinking about the details. It’s the same thing.”

Another crack in the sidewalk. This time, Hiroto carefully steps over it, and catches Moody smiling down at her.

“This isn’t just about throwing pitches, though,” Hiroto says. “There’s more to it. I want to…”

She can’t finish the sentence. There’s more to it; there wasn’t always, but now, she knows the team is counting on her. For what, Hiroto isn’t exactly sure anymore.

“You want to lead,” Moody finishes for her. “An admirable thing, and one you won’t know how to do right away. It took me a number of years to get it right.”

They pass a café. Hiroto thinks it might be new; something about it looks familiar, and yet she knows this corner used to be something else. An apothecary, or maybe an oracle’s den. She tries to read the name, but can’t make out the words.

“I could never be as good as you,” Hiroto says, and wonders why that matters, why she feels as though that’s something she has to do. She’s only a pitcher.

“Don’t try to be as good as me, then,” Moody says. Their voice is soft, gentle. Hiroto appreciates it; she’s not sure she’s in the mood for a lecture. “Try to live up to your own potential. We all have faith in you.”

They pass a storefront full of evening gowns. A couple steps out of the doorway, covered in cobwebs and silk. When they reach the street corner, Hiroto tries to figure out what intersection they’re at; she thought she knew Hades well enough to avoid getting lost, but somehow, she keeps getting turned around.

“Moody,” Hiroto says. There’s a crack in the sidewalk again, a canyon through which flowers are sprouting. “You aren’t really here, are you?”

Moody turns to face her. They’re no longer smiling, but their eyes are gentle as they take her hands in their own.

“Hiroto,” Moody says. “This is where I say goodbye.”

“But why?”

A bell sounds in the distance. It’s a deep, resonant sound, one that reminds Hiroto of watching newcomers gather on the pier to wait for the ferry.

Moody nods and reaches into their pocket. “Technically, this is against the rules,” they say, pulling out a ball of twine. “But we can bend them, just a little bit.”

They press the ball of twine into her hands. Lightning flashes in the sky above; for a moment, everything is illuminated – not with white, but with a deep, aching blue. Hiroto hears waves crashing against stone.

“You need to find your own way,” Moody says, “before you can show anyone else.”

Their eyes are black, so dark Hiroto can nearly see her own reflection. She moves to pull away, but Moody holds tight to her hands for a moment longer.

Lightning flashes again. A bell sounds.

“Well jeez. What do you think that’s all about?”

Hiroto is in her hole. It’s nice in here, cozy; there’s blankets, and snacks, and quiet. So why Scorpler has decided to dangle their feet down and bother her makes absolutely no sense at all.

“The weather?” Hiroto asks, glancing up at them with a frown. The floor of the hole is muddy underfoot, clinging to her shoes. She’ll have to use the tarp as a cover today. “It’s supposed to storm today.”

The sky is so dark it feels like midnight, even though it’s the middle of the day. Hiroto wonders, although she can’t say why, if it is still the middle of the day.

“What time is it?” she calls up to Scorpler.

“You got somewhere to be?” they ask. “I can drive, I know the way.”

The ladder on the side of the hole is more worn down than she remembers. The wood feels damp under her fingers, mildewed and rotting. She feels a little unsteady as she climbs her way out; Scorpler offers a claw to help when she gets close.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to drive me,” Hiroto says, once she’s safely at the top. She shoves her hands in the pockets of her jacket.

There’s a ball of string in one side; she rolls it between her fingers, tries to remember where it came from. Whatever the explanation, it’s lost to her; she’s been having trouble remembering things, lately.

“Is this because I don’t have a license?” Scorpler asks. Their jacket is lying on the ground beside them. Hiroto thought there was a tiger on the back; but with the way it’s folded, it almost looks like a skull. “I told you, I’m cleared by Ubler.”

It isn’t the license. Hiroto knows it isn’t. But she can’t think of exactly what it is.

“You can walk with me, if you want?” she offers, pushing off the ground to stand. “I don’t really want to be alone.”

The lights of the stadium are blinding. They’re shining so brightly, and from so many directions, that Scorpler doesn’t even have a shadow. They throw their jacket over one shoulder and kick up dirt with the toe of their cleat.

“You don’t have to be alone,” they say. “You have the whole team behind you.”

It doesn’t always feel that way. The Tigers love her, Hiroto knows that, but there’s a difference between being loved for who you are and being loved for what you can do. Scorpler, for all their flaws, has always been the kind of person people wanted to be around; Hiroto can’t say the same.

“How do I get them to like me?” Hiroto asks, a question she’s never dared to put words to before. “The way that they like you, I mean.”

“Oh, you know,” Scorpler shrugs, jacket falling slightly. The design looks like a squid, almost, the stripes of the tiger branching out like tentacles. “Grand larceny, mostly.”

“Scorpler, I’m serious.”

She doesn’t know why it’s bothering her so much. It’s not that she’s bad at what she does. It’s not even that the team doesn’t appreciate her. But she wants to be remembered as more than just the girl who throws a good shutout.

“No, I’m serious!” Scorpler says, gesturing at the empty stadium with their claw. “If none of them appreciate you, that’s their problem. Do what makes you happy. Steal a car! Kill an ump! Dig more holes, or whatever.”

The dugout seems far away. Hiroto, somewhat impulsively, pulls the string from her pocket. It’s a rough twine, stiff against her fingers. As she unspools it, it winds around her fingers.

“Oh, cool,” Scorpler says, reaching to grab the end of the twine. “Moody give you that?”

They wrap the end around the tip of one claw. Hiroto watches them tie it into a bow. Or rather, she thinks she does; somehow, she blinks and finds they must not have grabbed it after all; it’s trailing on the ground behind them, a pathway leading her back to her hole.

“Oh, right,” Scorpler says. “I’m really not supposed to ask you this, but could you lend me some spare change? Pennies, preferably.”

“Why?”

Lightning flashes, and the world goes white. A deep, echoing tone sounds across the stadium. Something about it reminds Hiroto of whale song.

Scorpler grins. “For the ferryman. You forgot to leave them on my ashes.”

There are two pennies in her pocket. She’s not sure where they came from, but she pulls them out and hands them over.

The spotlights flicker, and suddenly Scorpler is shrouded in shadow, claws and tail made of what might be barnacles. Their teeth still catch what little light remains, though their face looks gaunt and skeletal. Hiroto remembers, suddenly, watching Scorpler stare down an umpire it prepared to light them on fire.

“Sorry,” they say sheepishly, once again kicking the ground with their shoe. “Forgot they like to go by The Monitor here.”

Hiroto’s heart aches. She reaches out, suddenly desperate to touch them and prove to herself they’re there. “Scorpler, where are you—”

They take a step back just as a curtain of rain falls over them both. Hiroto tastes salt; she’s not sure if it’s the raindrops or tears.

“Somewhere you can’t follow,” they say. “But don’t worry. You’ll be fine without us.”

The thunder is loud enough to rattle the ground under Hiroto’s feet. She didn’t put the tarp on her hole. She didn’t think to grab an umbrella. She didn’t think, she never thought, how is she possibly going to do everything they need—

Lightning flashes again. A bell sounds.

“Scorpler!”

Landry snaps his fingers. “That’s right, it must have been Scorpler.” He pulls out a glass from under the bar and pours her a cider. “Thanks, kid. This one’s on the house.”

“Wait,” Hiroto says.

The bar is lit by dozens of candles that smell like cinnamon and cloves. No one else is around; it must be early. For some reason, Hiroto is having trouble remembering why she came here. She’s having trouble remembering why Landry is here.

“No, no. No need to backtrack now,” Landry tells her, shaking his head. “Scorpler is absolutely the type to fill the leaderboard with swear words, you don’t need to feel bad for ratting them out.”

Hiroto sighs, resting her head on her hands. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Of course not.” Landry slides her glass over. “Here, take this.”

It’s delicious, like honey and pear and something spicy underneath, but even the warmth of alcohol can’t fight off the chill running through her. Hiroto pulls her sweater sleeves down over her fingers.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to drink things here,” Hiroto says.

Landry tilts his head to one side. “And where, exactly, do you think you are?”

Hiroto doesn’t know. She thinks she remembers water, or a lighthouse. Things have been hard to remember, lately. She looks down; there’s a ball of twine in her lap.

“I think we’re far from home,” Hiroto says softly. “I haven’t been this far into Hades before.”

Landry leans across the counter, tilts her chin up with his fingers. “Your home and mine are very different now, I’m afraid,” he says, and winks like they’re sharing a joke.

Whatever it is, Hiroto doesn’t understand. It feels like Landry is three steps ahead in this conversation, like she can’t possibly hope to catch up. The feeling is a familiar one, by now. Water drips from Landry’s fingers to the table; he must have forgotten to dry his hands after washing the dishes.

“Where are you?” she asks. The question comes to her unbidden, from a place in her brain she can’t seem to unravel. Trying to make sense of it sets off a sharp, bright pain behind her eyes.

“Somewhere you cannot follow,” Landry says, “though I must say I’m not sorry about that.”

The twine in her lap is unwound. She doesn’t remember doing that, doesn’t remember leaving so much of it behind. Someone should have stopped her, she thinks, and told her she was doing that. It seems so silly to leave it on the ground. Unthinking, Hiroto starts to wrap the frayed thread back around her finger.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Landry says. “Moody was right to give it to you. Getting home will be harder without a guide.”

“How do I get home?”

“The same way you got here. You walk.”

He makes it sound so easy. Landry has only ever been this way, a pillar for everyone else to lean on. Hiroto wonders if he ever found that tiring.

Found. Past tense.

Landry is gone. Just like Scorpler, just like Moody.

Something rumbles outside. A wind blows through the bar, though none of the windows are open; with it, dozens of candles flicker out.

“How can I be brave?” Hiroto asks.

“Hiroto,” Landry says, and it’s the same voice he used when he reminded her to rinse out her dishes when she finished her tea. “You already are.”

Another breeze blows through the room. More candles vanish, and when Hiroto looks at the window, the remaining flames are not reflected back. Something dark lurks just outside, beyond the door. But that’s where the twine is headed, the direction Hiroto knows she is supposed to go.

"I wish you could come back with me."

Landry shakes his head. "You know I cannot."

She does know. It isn't all clear to her, not yet, but she knows this journey is hers alone.

“I’m scared, Landry,” she says, staring at the twisting path of the twine across the hardwood floor.

He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. It’s hard enough to make her wince, enough to ground her in the moment.

“You know how to lead, Hiroto,” Landry says. “And you also know the rules. Never look back.”

She takes a deep breath and stands, pushing her chair away from the bar. Just as she’s told, she doesn’t look at Landry as she walks toward the door. It swings open without her help, revealing endless water on the other side.

But the twine floats within it, drifting in the current on the ocean floor. Hiroto takes a deep breath and steps into it, watches the water part around her boot. The second step is easier, and the third, and the fourth.

The twine rubs her hands raw. The sand turns to pavement, split apart with cracks that look like canyons. Holes line the sidewalk on either side, lit from below with fire that looks like ice. Still, Hiroto keeps walking. Still, she keeps her eyes straight ahead.

The stadium, or a close approximation of it, appears on her left. Still, Hiroto keeps walking.

Through the shadowy water she sees a café she can’t read the name of, a storefront full of cobweb and corsetry. Still, Hiroto keeps walking.

The bell of the ferryman rings, and rings, and rings. Still, Hiroto keeps walking.

She does not look back. But if she did, she would see shadows gathering there, each and every one of them cheering her on.

When she wakes, the streetlight outside her bedroom window casts the room in a deep, orange glow. Hades has never been the most welcoming place; for now, it is the only place Hiroto wants to be.

[cryinginblaseball]

So we know what Unstable does now...

[namidragons]

Debts

YO HOW WE DOING BLASEBALL AND PARTICULARLY HADES TIGERS/MOIST TALKER FANS HOW ABOUT THAT GAME 32 AND GAME 33 HUH.

Turns out I had some feelings to get out and wrote a fic about it

sad stuff be forewarned it’s about incinerations

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26488783

[jirnkirks]

3k, Famous Owens & Tigers

The world starts to end (again) and Famous, unwillingly, is not alone in it.

(—or; Famous & Lottie, Hiroto, Dunlap and Scorpler in Season 24)