#handset type

[cyclesprefectpress]

[image description: photos of The Disco Elysium Tarot, printed letterpress in an edition of one from handset lead type and linoleum blocks. It is a complete 78-card tarot deck printed primarily with white text and illustrations on medium grey cardstock, in a custom dark grey hardcase box with a hand-marbled orange and yellow endsheet. The backs of the deck are decorated with an illustration of a sprig of may bells, and a quote from Smallest Church in Saint-Saëns: "None of this matters at all." The interpretive meaning of each card is expressed on its face with a small excerpt of the game's text. The Minor Arcana are divided into four suits of Harry's Attributes—Motorics, Psyche, Physique, Intellect—and each card in that suit is a quote from a skill under that Attribute. The Major Arcana are assigned quotes from other sources like NPC dialogue or Thought Cabinet problems & solutions. Pips for the Minors are counted with diamonds like the game's skill points; each actor or title is printed with their in-game color, but made shiny & metallic with bronzing powder.

each piece of text was set in handset lead type, assembled from individual pieces for each letter and space, and printed relief on a chandler & price clamshell press. end description.]

🎊🎊 Desert Bus for Hope starts for 2023 on nov. 11th and i have made an item this year for the craftalong that will be up for giveaway between 6am-12pm on Monday the 13th! 🎊🎊 It is a full tarot deck based on Disco Elysium and it has several pieces of my heart & soul in it but NOT my blood because i put a bandaid right on that :) donations for this and any other auctions & giveaways for Desert Bus go to Child's Play Charity.

notes: i did not make a whole new interpretive model for this deck, apologies, that was outside of my scope. it's generally compatible with a Rider-Waite model, with Motorics for Wands, Psyche for Cups, Physique for Swords, and Intellect for Disks. (full distribution of text listed by card, linked below. any spelling or transcription errors you find there, i promise i fixed them in print—that's copied from my digital mockup which was copied hastily from screenshots.)

i also do not track hours on these kinds of projects because that way lies madness, but i will say: i knew how much time it would take to print it. it was a lot but i was not worried about it, i know how to print. i was very worried about how much time it would take to absorb the sheer amount of text, and distribute it across the cards, and really get an array i believe in. i was right to worry, and i have absolutely had a few anxious nightmares about discovering the Perfect excerpt that should've gone in and i missed it, and the suit of Intellect made me want to lay on the floor a few times, but still! i believe there's many versions of a deck you could make from this game and this one is a good one.

i think the Minors fit really well with the double-edged sword of Harry's skills, their advice, their priorities. the circular way the Fool-World assignment works out makes me smile every time. The colors on The Star came out so nice. i think Justice fulfills some of my favorite things about Kim's character & purpose in the story. i worried sometimes that editing to such short clips would lose too much of the politics of the game, but of course you can't really take them out and they're especially present in the Majors—the Devil and the Hierophant, The Star and The Sun. i've wanted to design a tarot deck for years and i love this game deeply and i let this idea percolate for a few months and it never stopped making me laugh so here it is, & given a beautiful purpose :)

i also literally could not have done this without xyrilin's Disco Reader and the FAYDE On-Air Playback Experiment to navigate the dialogue and skill checks. Really couldn’t have tied the whole concept & colophon in its final bow without the Disco Reader :)) thank thank thank, they're so fun to investigate that it was honestly very difficult to focus on my task instead of veering off and exploring every branch in an extremely disorganized way.

actual printing went well honestly, very few problems! i think that means i'm getting pretty good at planning one of these monstrosities, although perhaps it also means i'm not challenging myself enough. hmm. no that's silly there's 78 ding dang cards in this thing. anyway the drop & replace formes worked well, no registration issues. mum convinced me to overprint another half a deck's worth of cards when I was printing backs & borders and of course she was right :/ there were a handful of cards that actually had better line breaks and fewer lines total in true type than in the digital mockup, so i needed all the spares I had to put those new short quotes into the appropriate border breakage. next time i will not question her.

handset in Garamond, Eden Bold, and secret Neuland.

WIP : full text card assignments

bonus photo of the kind of trash notes i always take to plan things like how many borders were printed with space for short excerpts vs long excerpts, and how many of those are majors vs. minors, because they have a slightly different frame at the bottom edge, etc.

[image description: they are truly garbage notes, i tell you. half of it is written at angles to the other half, many numbers in the math problems are not labeled, mistakes are scribbled over. it gets me there but it doesn't look pretty. end description.]

[uwmspeccoll]

Spotlight: A Day in June

Today I was searching the collection for something to post about and ended up looking at what we held by Sylvia Plath, thinking of the rich descriptions of summer scenes I’d read recently in her unabridged journals. Much to my delight, I found A Day in June, an uncollected short story from 1952 by Plath whose descriptions of a bright June day seemed to fit with what I’m seeing outside our windows today. 

Published in 1981 by Embers Handpress in an edition of 160 numbered copies, the text is hand set in Monotype Garamond and printed on handmade Barcham Green ‘Hayle’ papers. It was printed at The Fish Inn in Sutton Gault, Ely, England. The cover paper was handmade in the Auvergne by Richard de Bas.

The description of a June day reads:

“It’s one of those perfect days in June you try to describe but never quite can. Take the smell of fresh washed linen; of sweet grass drying after a rain; take the checkered twinkle of sunlight in a meadow; the taste of mint leaves cool on the tongue; the clear-cut brightness of tulips in a garden; green shadows, thinning to yellow, thickening to blue... the dazzle... the hot touch of sun on your skin... blinding arrows of sunlight glancing off the deep glassed blue of the water... the exhilaration... bubbles rising, bursting... the gliding motion... the liquid singing of water past the bow... shifting specks of color dancing: all this to love, to cherish. Never again such a day!!”

I hope you can get out and enjoy this perfect June day—maybe go down by the lake and put your toes in the cool water with the sand beneath your feet, or rent a swan boat on the lagoon at Veteran’s Park. 

-- Alice, Special Collections Department Manager

[reflexletterpress]

More atypical work: 14pt hand-setting today. Let’s hope this is the start of a trend. #letterpress #bostonprinter #printing #bostonpress #popmembers #crankclickyankback #type #lead #tin #antimony #vandercook #stovefactory #Charlestown #ink #paper #inkonpaper #handset #handsettype #goudyoldstyle https://www.instagram.com/p/Coc1937uxt1/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[jobean12-blog]

Collide

Pairing: Javier Peña x female reader (sorta enemies to lovers)

Word Count: 2,283

Summary: You and Javi have been working together for a while and have a volatile relationship...until something finally gives.

Author's Note: Since I can't seem to get his man off my mind here's my second Javi fic. He's so sexy I can barely manage. Thank you to my lovely friends @lizette50 and @tripletstephaniescp for always feeding my Pedro obsession so well! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely Daisy @firefly-graphics thank you!🥰

Warnings: some tension, sassiness, flirting, but lots of softness too, Javi is super sexy because duh

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

When the phone rings for the fourth time you stomp your heels on the ground and push back from your desk with an exasperated huff.

“What the hell is he…?” you mutter as you look down at the screen and see Steve’s number. Again.

You push the door to Javi’s office open without a knock and fold your arms across your chest.

“Want to answer the phone some time today?”

Javi looks up from the open drawer of his filing cabinet and narrows his eyes.

“I’m busy.”

When he dismisses you with the drop of his head, refocusing on his papers, you growl out a curse.

“Don’t you dare…”

Your threat is cut off when the phone in his office rings. He looks up and gives you a warning glare, daring you to answer it.

You throw him a fake saccharine smile and start to turn around, only to spin back toward his desk and rush for the phone when he’s no longer looking.

His low “fuck,” is all your hear before you grab the receiver and pick up with a friendly, “hello, this is the office of Javier Pena, how many I help you.”

Javi crowds you against his desk, his hard chest pressed to yours and his breath warm against your cheek as he exhales.

You swallow hard but square your shoulders and focus on the call.

“Oh sure Steve, he’s right here…mm hmm.”

You keep your eyes on his, refusing to back down even as your own body betrays you and you lean closer.

Javi rests his hands along the edge of the desk on either side of you and dips his head until his lips brush the shell of your ear, his whisper deep and low. “I said I was busy.”

Thankful that he can’t see your face you drag your teeth over your bottom lip before gathering yourself again to chirp into the phone, “oh he’s not busy at all, one second.”

You cover the mouthpiece and smile. “It’s Steve. He’s been trying to reach you all afternoon.” Your tone is dripping with fake sugariness.

Javi just stares, his dark eyes sweeping over your face until they land on your lips and linger.

He scoffs and wraps his hand around the handset, covering yours with his calloused but warm skin.

“What?” he says into the phone as he keeps you trapped against the desk.

You pull your hand free of the phone and flatten your palms against his chest with a push.  

He doesn’t budge, his gaze still locked on yours.

“Move,” you grit out under your breath and give him another shove.

He takes a slow step backward, just enough to let you brush past him and as you do your scent fills the air and he inhales deeply, his eyes fluttering closed.

Even as you walk out of his office you feel the persistent heat of him still close and your traitorous body trembles.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“What was that?” Steve asks through the phone.

“What…nothing. Fuck.”

Steve sighs on the other end and Javi pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What do you want Steve?”

“Man she really riles you up huh?” Steve teases.

“Who…what?” Javi stammers, now rubbing his temple. “Just tell me why you called four times.”

You’re typing something up when the door to Javi’s office opens with a slam. He steps out with his tie hanging haphazardly around his neck and his jacket thrown over one shoulder.

“I’ll be gone for the rest of the day,” he says indifferently as he walks by. “You can leave all my messages on the desk.

“You’re tie is completely crooked,” you spit back at him.

He stops a few feet from you and looks down and you take the opportunity to get a good look at his ass. It makes you angry that he’s so attractive and that you’re so attracted to him and when he turns your way you have a scowl on your face.

“Didn’t know that was such a problem for you,” he says as he drops his jacket on a nearby desk chair and starts to fiddle with his tie.

You watch as he struggles with the material and clearly grows more frustrated with each passing second.

With a roll of your eyes you stand and step into his space, smacking away his hands until he drops them with a sigh.

“Can’t answer the phone…” you start, “can’t even tie your own tie…what are you going to have me do next Javi?”

As you’re rattling off his shortcomings your fingers are deftly working the fabric until it’s perfectly secure around his neck.

Your last question has him suck in an audible breath and when you meet his eyes they are intense with unspoken promise.

You tighten his tie with an abrupt push and then release him. You barely catch his “thanks” as he practically runs out of the building.

After packing up your things and heading to your car you decide to take a detour before going home. It’s been a long day and a bite to eat and maybe a drink at the nearby bar will do you some good.

It’s still early enough that when you walk into the dimly lit space there are a lot of open stools at the bar. You park yourself at the far end check out the daily specials.

It isn’t until you’re about to take the first sip of your drink that you feel the weight of his gaze. You make a subtle turn and meet the familiar dark brown eyes of Javi.

He blatantly stares, his lips hovering just above the rim of the glass of amber liquid dangling from his hand.

Your eyes shift to Steve who gives you a head tilt and a smile. You return it before looking back at Javi.

You had no idea they’d be here and they’re most likely working a case so rather than expose them or yourself you turn your attention back to the bar.

The feel of his eyes endures and even though you can’t see him you can still feel the way his body pressed against you as he held you by his desk. The way he smelled. The feel of his skin on yours. It sends a shiver down your spine even as your body heats up.

A group of young men enter the bar in a cacophony of loud voices and scuffling feet. They find a space in the middle of the bar and you study them out of the corner of your eye.

It doesn’t take long for one of them to notice you and send you a flirty smile. You quickly turn away, uninterested.

Before your food comes out you decide to take a bathroom break and slide off the stool and move toward the darkened hallway.

The same guy from before catches your eye and blatantly watches as you walk by, making some inaudible comment to his friend.

You quickly glance at Javi to see his jaw set tightly and his knuckles white as he grips his glass, his own eyes following your every move.

As you disappear around the corner you don’t even hear the footsteps and when you’re whirled around and backed into the wall you almost let out a scream of terror but a familiar hand covers your mouth.

When your eyes meet his you deflate and grab his wrist, pulling his hand away.

“Javi,” you whisper shout, your eyes flashing angrily. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“You need to leave,” he says.

Stealing yourself you stand up straighter and square your shoulders.

“No. I don’t. I don’t have to do anything,” you argue.

“Angel,” Javi pleads, the term of endearment melting your fury instantly. “Please.”

“I was about to have my dinner,” you explain weakly. “Why don’t you want me here.”

Your eyes fall to the ground.

You know why but you want to hear him say it. You want him to tell you it’s because you’re not safe and he wants to protect you.

His fingers touch the soft skin of your jaw, guiding your chin up and your eyes back to his. The calloused pad of his thumb brushes back and forth as his mouth opens to speak.

But footsteps along the creaky floor alert you that someone’s coming and Javi’s body tenses, his eyes filling with worry for a split second before he kisses you.

It isn’t a soft and sweet kiss. No more gentle caresses, no slow tasting. He kisses you like he’s done it a hundred times before and you’re his to kiss.

Your hands reflectively lift to his chest, and for a second he thinks you might push him away, but instead, your hands curl around his tie and you pull him closer, holding him in place.

His head angles to taste more of you, needing more, and he nips your bottom lip when you don’t give in. Your surprised gasp is all the advantage he needs to slip his tongue inside your mouth.

You melt for him, meeting his intensity without restraint. He pushes you harder against the unyielding wall and your arms slide up and around his neck. He rocks his hips and you moan into his mouth.

He swallows the sound, desperate to hear it again and again.

“Ahem,” a too-close voice says.

Steve.

You startle and Javi jumps, your mouth leaving his as you follow the sound.

“Sorry to break up the party,” Steve smirks. “But we need to move.”

“How long were you standing there watching,” Jave grits out, giving Steve a thunderous glare.

Steve’s hands lift in surrender. “I just got here. Those first footsteps you heard were from one of the targets. Looked like they were going to follow her back here but you beat him to it. Thankfully. Good cover too.”

At Steve’s last added words your face heats and you press your fingers to your swollen and tingling lips.

Javi nods. A simple agreement and dismissal. Steve nods back at Javi then smiles warmly at you before he turns on his heels and heads back.

“You need to leave,” Javi says again, his hand now resting along the wall by the side of your head.

“That’s it? I’m just supposed to leave?” you counter, unable to quell your sassiness when it comes to him.

He sighs dramatically. “Angel…you heard Steve. Just go. He’ll will make sure you get to your car safely.”

You study his face, tracing his features with your eyes and unable to resist the feel of his skin even in your disappointment at his obvious disregard. You lean in and press your lips to the corner of his mouth, the brush of his mustache making you tingle all over.

With that you slip from his hold, keeping your head high as you walk away and go to grab your things, thankful when Steve subtly acknowledges you and makes sure you get safely to your car.

The next morning Javi doesn’t leave his office at all and you sit just outside and stew, replaying every moment of the kiss. When lunch time comes and goes you can’t take it anymore and knock hard on his door.

“Yeah,” you hear from the other side before you push it open and find him seated at his desk, his forehead creased in thought.

“You missed lunch,” you state.

He grunts in acknowledgment and goes back to his papers.

Your hands land on your hips and you step into his office, slamming the door shut.

“So that’s it?”

“What?” he answers.

“You’re just going to pretend like it didn’t happen?”

“Like what didn’t happen?” he shoots back.

“Don’t you dare!” you shout and point a finger at him. “Was it really all just a cover?”

He stands with such force that his chair flies backward and hits the wall with a thud.

Instead of answering he let’s out a frustrated grunt and runs a hand through his already mussed hair.

Somehow it looks better than before and you inwardly curse him out for being so sexy.

“What?” he says as you continue to stare.

You inhale sharply, holding his gaze while you hold your breath.

With unsteady steps you move forward until your close enough to smell him.

“I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that kiss didn’t mean anything to you.”

At your challenging words he clamps his mouth shut. But his eyes say everything and before the moment is gone you reach up and trace your fingers over the fresh cut above his eyebrow.

The feeling of your fingers on his skin makes him exhale softly.

“It’s fine,” he whispers.

“It looks like it hurts. What happened last night?”

“Nothing for you to worry about angel.”

“I’m sorry if I made any trouble for you…”

Your voice trails off, and you look up at him with questioning eyes. Wordlessly you slide your fingertips down the line of his jaw and he leans into your touch.

He turns into your hand and presses a gentle kiss to your palm.

Your name falls from his lips, more of a sound than a word, a rough growl deep in his throat. He looks as if he wants to say more but with one swift movement he has you pressed against the edge of his desk, caging you in with his arms and either side.

You gasp and he captures the sound with a kiss. And not just any kiss. A kiss that steals the breath from your lungs. A kiss that rivals the one from last night. Fiery. Desperate. And very, very real.

@lorilane33 @hiddles-rose @kmc1989 @littleseasiren @blackwidownat2814

[chiefdirector]

Hostage Taking | Tim Bradford | The Rookie

Act One | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19

Content Warning under cut: Episode 3x05. Themes of Racism (Doug Stanton, at the end), bombing and other canon typical plights. Read at own risk.

“So when do you think you’ll be back from court?” (Y/N) asked, walking alongside Harper towards the evidence lockup.

“Eh,” Harper said. There was nothing Harper hated more than court duty, especially when the case was so clear cut that she didn’t need to be there. “Hopefully soon, that way I can enjoy having Nolan on front desk duty for the rest of the day. Let him enjoy the general public”

“Is he really that bad to ride with?” She stopped at the door.

“No, and that's what sucks. He’s too nice, and sometimes I don’t need all that positivity.”

(Y/N) just shook her head as Nyla just winked at her as she entered the evidence room. Turning on her heel, (Y/N) passed Lopez as she wandered back to her desk, trying to figure out what to do with her day. Most of her cases were closed, the Damian Barrett case had all but run dry and Grey had all but forbidden her from working on her own case alone, despite how much she wanted too.

Sitting down, she gathered all of the papers on her desk, stacking them neatly, before organising them alphabetically, and then chronologically. Next on her hit list was the pen pot. Grabbing the container, she tipped them out, testing them one by one on a loose post-it.

She had only just opened the chess on her computer when the radio belonging to the blonde officer who worked opposite her rang out. “Sargent Grey, this is officer Nolan, go to channel nine.”

(Y/N) stifled her laugh as she moved her pawn two spaces, of course it was Nolan she thought. Even in her short time back in the precinct, Nolan’s reputation had been shared with her. Her good humour was cut short as the rest of the conversation rang out through the handset.

Grey replied quickly “Nolan this better be important”

“Sure is buddy” An unknown voice rang out. (Y/N) closed the chess game as she began to listen more intently.

“Who’s this”

The stranger’s voice rang out again. “The guy sitting in your parking lot with an ammonium-nitrate fertiliser bomb.”

Without hesitation, (Y/N) rushed up from her seat and made her was over to where she could see Nyla and Grey looking down at the radio, officers silently surrounding them, all listening to the bomber

As she got closer, she could hear the stranger’s voice again. “I have cameras on every exit. Do you understand me? If anyone leaves, everyone dies”

“I can confirm the cameras, sir.” Nolan’s distant voice chimed in, “Our bomber has a dead man's switch, sir.”

“Okay,” Grey said, voice solemn and serious, “You have my attention. Tell me what i can do for you.”

“Rectify an extreme miscarriage of justice. I demand the immediate release of Donalf Feltt from the Primedale Department of Corrections.”

(Y/N) moved to the computer near her, typing in the given name as Harper moved beside her. His record showed immediately. Donald Feltt, ID no: 4076696, sentenced to life without parole on multiple charges: Possession of an illegal substance, undocumented concealed firearms, animal abuse, drug trafficking, battery, and murder.

Grey tensed his shoulders as he read the screen out loud to the bomber, trying to confirm that they were both on the same page.

“That's him,” The man confirmed, “and it’s not going to be a back-door parole for my boy. Feltt walks out of there today.”

“Back-door parole?” (Y/N) asked, looking up from the screen

“For when you die in prison,” Harper replied. “Our bomber’s done time.”

“Most likely with Feltt,” Grey lifted his radio up again, “All right. That’s a big ask. It’ll take time.” He lowered the radio and looked to Harper, “We need someone on the outside.”

“I’ll call Lopez, she left already.”

Grey nodded his head, raising the radio again, now on the general channel to alert the units, both in and out of the precinct of the tactical lockdown and what to do. Once he was done, he turned to face (Y/N). “You should go down with everyone else to the parking garage, you’ll be safe there.”

“Like Hell I am, now what do you need me to do?”

----------

“It’s morse code.” Grey said, looking at the camera feed pointed towards the brown van, (Y/N) moved to get a dictionary, only to be stopped by the Sargent raising his hand. “S-C-R-L-I”

“He has a scar?”

“On his left eye. Good man, Nolan.”

“So,” (Y/N) said, opening the laptop she had bought over, typing as she spoke. “If we assume he did time with Felt. We know that he is a white male with a scar on his left eye.” Pressing enter, she quickly read the results aloud. “Graham Porter. He did three years at Primedale, a couple of misdemeanours prior. Nothing that screams mad bomber.”

“How does a guy like this get on with a guy like Feltt?”

“Let’s hope Lopez can find out,” Harper said, returning from the parking garage.

----------

“So Graham Porter is in desperate need of money?” Nyla asked as she regrouped with Grey again, this time joined by Chen and both Bradfords.

“So why not demand a ransom?” Grey responded “Why give us a head fake on Feltt”

Chen stepped forward. “Maybe it’s not a head fake. Maybe Feltt’s paying Graham to bust him out of prison.”

“Feltt’s a murderer, not a cash-heavy narcos.” (Y/N) said, looking over to Tim, allowing him to finish her statement off.

“If this Feltt’s gambit is smoke, we’re chasing our tails trying to free him. Meanwhile, an accomplice robs a bank or something.”

Grey considered the next step for a moment. “Contact West and Stanton, have them check out a nearby check cash-in place. I’ll contact the chief to see if we can get more boots on the ground.”

Nyla nodded, going off to make the call, leaving Tim, Lucy and (Y/N). The three stood in silence for a moment before (Y/N) turned to her laptop again.

“What are you doing?” Tim asked, looking over his wife's shoulder.

“Googling him.”

----------

It didn’t take long for Grey and Harper to find their way back to the other three. There wasn’t much luck on either end, apparently everything was “Code Four” with Stanton and West, and the rest of the LAPD was spread thin by having an entire precinct down so that not many more men could be spared.

“We found something.” (Y/N) crossed her arms. “I ran his name through the web. He had a YouFundMe, set up by his girlfriend, Kelsey Adams. I asked Lopez to run her down, there was nobody there, no cell answer either.”

Tim moved to stand near (Y/N), disliking this whole situation. “This whole thing is weird. Kelsey is using an assumed identity. Her social security numbers are fake. No record No picture.”

“According to Lopez, Kelsey and Graham are inseparable. So she is likely involved.”

“But how?” Harer asked, If it's not about money or Feltt…”

They sat in silence, contemplating Nyla’s question. (Y/N) uncrossed her arms, letting her hands fall down and began to play with her ring.

Lucy was the one to break the silence. “What if this is all a distraction meant to pull our focus outside the station, when we should really be looking inside?”

“What kind of woman would be crazy to be inside a building ith her boyfriend parked outside with a truck full of explosives?”

Tim rolled his eyes at Nyla’s question, before sending an incredulous look towards Lucy. The two of them had a silent conversation before taking off towards the parking garage, leaving the three officers with the words “Freegan Frida.”

As the pair left, Grey looked at the two detectives. “What the Hell is a ‘freegan?’”

----------

(Y/N) and Nyla moved through the corridors with their guns raised, silently sweeping each room for Adams. Tim had alerted them of the woman’s presence when she had left the garage, leaving the other’s trapped. Grey had taken one half of the building, whilst the detectives took the other. The two had found nothing until they approached the evidence room, finding the door broken.

On Nyla’s silent command, (Y/N) entered the evidence room, looking around for the suspect whilst she called Grey, alerting him of the situation and that a search was underway. As Harper spoke, (Y/N) moved through the evidence locker, looking down the aisle. It only took moments for her to find Kesey, rummaging through a secure bio-evidence bag.

“Hands up.” she commanded, “Don’t move.”

“Please, I have to find it,” the woman begged.

Harper approached from behind. “Find what?”

“He thinks I’m dead, If they run my prints…”

“Are you trying to destroy evidence?” Harper asked, moving closer to Kelsey.

“No,” Kelsey exclaimed, panic and desperation clear in her voice. “It’s my husband. He’s a loan shark in El Paso. He hurt me. I ran away three years ago, got a new identity, the works. So he would never find me. Then there was a robbery where I work. The cops took a bunch of stuff, things with my prints.”

“So when they run the prints, they will get a hit on the real you.” (Y/N) stated. The tree women stood in silence for a moment before (Y/N) continued speaking. “Look, we will try and help you but you need to get Graham to stand down.”

----------

(Y/N) listened to Grey speak to Graham as he told him to stand-down. That he knew what their plan was, that Kelsey had told him that the bomb was fake. That he was going back to prison for a long time. She also listened in as Graham demanded the S.W.A.T team back off, and when he threatened Nolan’s life if they didn’t.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and that grew at the threat. She hated this whole situation. She hated that it was Nolan that was trapped, she hated how the entire precinct was shut down because of this madman, she hated how there was nothing that she could do to help Nolan. She hated it all.

She only began to feel marginally better when she heard Nolan’s voice ring out on the radio. “Sargent Grey, this is Nolan. One is custody. We’re code four.”

Although, hearing the click ring out afterwards reassured her somewhat.

----------

“Oh God, what happened earlier?” (Y/N) said, curling up on the sofa as Tim grabbed two beers from the fridge before joining her.

“Stanton let Jackson get assaulted. Bastard did nothing.”

“Is Jackson okay?”

“He was taken to the hospital. Bruised and beaten but nothing he can’t recover from. Physically anyway.” Tim moved to wrap his arm around (Y/N)’s shoulders, pulling her into his chest. “Stanton is on administrative leave. Grey took his gun and badge.”

“What happens now?”

“This will be the end of Stanton, I don’t see him coming back from this.”

(Y/N) nodded, processing the information. “We should go see him tomorrow. See how he’s doing, if he needs anything.”

Tim just hummed in agreement, moving to place a kiss on the side of (Y/N)’s head.

Act One | Chapter 19 | Chapter 21

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Tags: @xceafh @kmc1989 @buba424 @salty0cracker @iamasimpingh0e @malindacath @agentred27 @hufflepuffwhore13 @tessalynni @anaferreira-4

Tags are open :)

[foone]

I played with my roommate's VR headset a bit and now there's two things I want to build in VR:

1. 3D Movie Maker: VR edition. Not only would two motion controlled 3D tracked handsets be really great for making movies, the idea of sitting down in a virtual theater to watch low framerate 3D videos from 1995 is hilarious l

2. A game that's a sort of pastiche of Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing, but the goal of each level is just to type the basic sentence successfully. The catch? The keyboards are all designed by me, and they're nightmares of weirdness. The story would be that it's basically Mavis Beacon but for aliens, and they don't use keyboards like humans do. Some of them don't even have hands.

[happysadyoyo]

@theshitpostcalligrapher I feel like it's been a day's age since I reached out to ask if I could use your poem as a broadside but I finally have the (tentatively) finished piece! It's handmade paper with a silkscreen gradient, handset type, and yarn.

There's also a watermark but this sheet you can't see it too well.

[munsster]

Hi! Could you write a Robin x Fem! Reader? Where the reader does not feel pretty enough to be with Robin, especially considering that Robin spends her time talking about Vickie. Let it all end with a fluffy ending, Robin confesses her feelings to the reader, and for her to tell her that she is beautiful 🥺✨

come up short

A/N: i want this to happen to ME. when is it my turn to have a pretty and nervous girl confess her undying love for me and then we fall in love????? is it so much to ask

Pairing: Robin Buckley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Robin is stunned you don’t see yourself the way she always has. 1.6k words.

Warnings: fluff, angst, miscommunication, jealousy, major insecurity, body issues, a kiss, cursing

Robin’s spread out across your duvet, limbs wild and stretching as she exhausts her ample knack for storytelling. Only you've grown to hate this story. You've heard it too many times before. Always the same girl with cropped orange hair and freckles like flakes of fairy dust and a smile like a movie star.

So you stand in front of your full-length mirror, leaned over and poking at the skin of your cheeks while she blinks up at the ceiling and tells you about her crush.

"And before I could catch it, the stack of tapes crashed to the floor. I mean, I'd spent hours inputting and organizing them, and suddenly, it was all ruined, and I just..." she sighs, "I didn't care. It was amazing. Besides, she helped me pick them up anyways, so..."

You know you should be happy for her. Robin's not the type to just not care. But apparently Vickie's baby blue eyes and elf nose and wicked taste in earrings do that to her. Change her. Make her into someone else. Someone other than your best friend and favorite girl. Turns her into a drifter that skips out on weekly movie-nights and cuts phone calls short because she's waiting for someone else. Someone other than you.

So you're stuck listening and fixing your eyeliner, trying not to engage, knowing it'll break your heart. "Oh. Yeah. That's cool," you huff, "hey, uh... forgot I have a thing due for Anderson tomorrow, and I should probably get started on it—"

She sits up and watches your reflection with furrowed brow. You're chewing at your bottom lip, fussing your hair about and tugging at your sleeves. You meet her perplexity with a shrug. But in that moment, she's hyper aware of what you want. You want her out. She just doesn't see why.

"Stats? But… we don't have anything due tomorrow."

"Late work. My extension ends next class, and you know how he gets," you say, devoid of the usual melody, falling from your mouth like bricks. Like you're reading it off a page. A script.

"Oh. Makes sense," she hums, sitting on the edge of your bed and watching you turn away to change your shirt. But she can't even remember the last time you did that. Deliberately hid from her. Tucked yourself away into the open face of your closet and tugged on a Sex Pistols shirt, scratching your elbow because you know it was an unusual thing to do. "I just have to call Steve and let him know I need a ride."

You nod. "Phone's all yours." And your voice cracks. On yours, you break and flinch, wrapping your arms around your own torso and feeling like you haven't slept in days. Like you've just kicked your person out after lying to her face.

She dials slow, glancing back at you pacing in a circle while she holds your pale yellow handset to her ear.

"Hey, Steve... could you… yep... perfect, thanks."

And the phone clunks back into place alongside the dread ebbing in your ears. Pounding when she looks at you. Because it feels like a test. Smile the wrong way, and she'll dock your grade. Smudge your mascara a little bit, and you've failed. Maybe she'll suspend you for not looking like Vickie. For not being good enough or pretty enough.

And now, she's looking at you, doe-eyed.

"You okay, honey? Look a little—"

"I'm fine," you bark, "don't worry about it. I'm fine."

She holds her breath, "just checking. You've been kinda quiet all night."

"Worried about the assignment."

"Right."

The assignment. Some assignment. Numbers and fractions and percentages and standard deviations are easier to handle than your own body. Tugging at the back of your shirt so it’s not touching your skin.

“What’s wrong?” she mumbles.

And you snap, “why do you care?”

“Because clearly something’s bothering you.”

“It’s not. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, so you’ve mentioned.”

This is one stupid chess match, smacking the timer until someone lays the king down. Ending in a stalemate, needlessly drawn out and glaring at each other. You’re seething like a lion, lungs working furiously with your arms limp at your sides.

“Well. That’s because I am. I’m fine,” you huff.

“Say it again, maybe I’ll believe you this time”—she softens when you tilt your head back and your breathing gets a little shaky—"I just wanna make sure you’re okay. You know you can talk to me about anything—"

"Except I can't, can I, Robin? Why don’t you just go home and… and call your girlfriend and have movie-night with her and tell her she’s gorgeous and awesome and special in every goddamn way, especially the ones… that I could never be even okay in,” you pant, eyes dropping to the floor when her mouth closes, tight-lipped and stunned. Appalled, shocked. Disgusted, you think.

But she knows she’s worried. Over everything else, she feels the worry molding over in her guts, filling her with stuffing and cotton because she’s worried she should have asked before. Ages before. And now, even if it’s too late to salvage any of it, she’d die trying.

“Don’t you think that’s a little… I dunno—harsh?”

You scoff.

“So, I’m a bitch, and I’m not even pretty. Right? That’s why she’s so much better than I am, and why you talk about her for hours on end. I mean, I don’t know what you want from me, Robin—I listen and I listen while you gush on and on about her, and I never even got the chance to tell you—”

A horn blares from the street. She ducks to look out the window with a sigh.

"That's Steve." She grimaces at the sound of her own voice. Then she blinks at you, and you’ve gone blank, thumbing the sleeve of your shirt and itching at your knuckles.

"Okay,” you say with a shrug.

"I should go."

"Fine."

You still walk her to the door and wave at Steve from the porch, but your smile never reaches your eyes, and you prepare yourself to spend the rest of the night dry heaving over the way she says:

"I'll see you in class tomorrow."

And you just nod.

She trips down the sidewalk, deciding it’s best not looking back. Best to let it go until the morning. Apologize with a coffee in hand and the reassurance of rest. But she’d only be reassured knowing you got some. And right now it doesn’t seem that way.

You shut the door. It snaps into place. Her jacket lurches from it’s place on the rack. You stand with your back to the door, looking forward but not ahead. Watching the glassy shadows bend across the tile as the light outside shifts, and there’s a stinging screech of tires. Shoes bettering the pavement. A knock in the door.

You wipe the bleariness from your eyes, smudging the heels of your palms with gritty streaks of eyeshadow. And you open the door anyway.

"I left my jacket."

"I know," you whisper, holding the windbreaker with both hands. She looks down at it. Then at you. And she smiles, leaning in to kiss your cheek when she flops it over her forearm and fiddles with its stretch collar.

"Hey, I just wanted to let you know," she sighs, "I never felt that way for Vickie. I thought maybe if I talked about her enough, that shit would eventually come true and I could finally stop being obsessed with this... my girl. I mean, so obsessed it's kinda gross because she's definitely too nice to me—"

You duck your head, frowning at your bare feet and picking at your shirt.

"—even though she teases me all the time and makes fun of my pathetic flirting attempts... I swear I love her even more. She's perfect."

She shuffles closer in her boots, stepping onto your scratchy welcome mat and tapping your chin to get you to look at her. You lift your head, but you glance just past her, sniffling softly when a fat tear rolls down your chin.

"And beautiful."

Your shoulders lift with the promise of a deep breath, eyes flicking to hers, head falling to your collar with a sigh.

“Even if she doesn’t wanna see it. It’s always been her. Like the world didn’t matter whenever she was away from me, couldn’t focus ‘cause her laugh was so distracting. Thought about her all the time. She’d call me a creep for it. Definitely”—she laughs—“But… I think I’d rather be a creep than forget how much I love her…”

“… how much I love you.”

“But I’m not Vickie. I’m not her.”

“Exactly. I never loved Vickie,” she says, shaking her head, “I loved you. Still do.” She cups your face in her hands, jacket slumping to the brick of your doorstep because it doesn’t matter. It can collect dust or turn to it for all she care. As long as it’s you. As long as you curl your fingers into hers and lean in and let her breath the same air as you. As long as you kiss her. Like this.

With her lips soft and yours softer, a little wet and salty from the tears, but good with her eager tongue swiping against them. Your fingers weave across her scalp, and she hums, sliding her hand down your arm and pulling herself away.

“Me?” you whisper. She nods.

“You.”

“Me. All that time?”

“Mhm.”

“Wow,” you tease, “I think we might be the real dinguses.”

“I think you’re right.”

masterlist

[sunnysheadraws]

the little book i did for my book arts course last year! 🐶💖

the original, physical copies came in a dog-designed paper case with handset and pressed type.

[cyclesprefectpress]

[image description: 7 photos of a letterpress print, the formes of wood type, and the relief linoleum block used to print it. The print illustrates in orange a pair of human hands holding open a snarling dog's mouth; underneath in yellow are parts of the dog's skull and spine. beside it in burgundy, printed from rough, large wood type, is the text: "Something about the way I hold my teeth makes me prone to biting myself." The forme of handset wood type is assembled in the Vandercook press bed letter by letter, with more pieces of wood, lead, and steel as spacing between each letter, word, and line of type. end description.]

Some of me is freed from tension having finished this one. I have been turning images like this over and over and trying to suss out what they mean and then, at the dinner table, my sister said nearly these exact words for completely unrelated & normal reasons and I did a jerkwad Artiste behavior of scrambling for a piece of paper and writing it down in the middle of the conversation. I’m genuinely sorry, sometimes I am a stereotype of my profession and my mind is not present with you when we talk. It is somewhere else thinking about mammalian bite strength. 16x16 inches, cream BFK Rives. This was one of those Audience Of One (Who Is Me) projects when I was designing it, BUT I did make an edition of 25 (plus a couple slight misprints). Etsy or message me if u also wish to have this mood for your home :)

wip 1 : wip 2 : wip 3 : wip 4

[uwmspeccoll]

It’s Fine Press Friday! 

Today we’re taking a look at our 1987 Limited Editions Club release of poet, diplomat, and Nobel laureate Octavio Paz’s (1914–1998) Three Poems. Published as a bilingual Spanish-English edition of selections from The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz, 1957-1987 (translated by Eliot Weinberger, the primary translator of Paz’s work into English), this prodigious publication measures 56 cm and features lithographic illustrations by abstract expressionist painter and printmaker Robert Motherwell (1915-1991). The text was handset at Stamperia Valdonega (Verona, Italy) in Bauer Bodini Bold and Bauer Bodini Bold Italic typefaces, both of which were cast by Fundicíon Tipográfica Neufville (Barcelona, Spain). Lithographs were printed at Trestle Editions on hand-made Japanese papers and text was printed at Wild Carrot Letter Press (Hadley, MA), Stamperia Valdonega, and The Heritage Press on mould made paper from Cartiere Enrico Magnani (Pescia, Italy). It was hand-sewn and bound at the Garthegaat Bindery.  

The book was designed by Benjamin Shiff, LEC book designer and son of Sidney Shiff, who had purchased the debt-ridden Limited Editions Club in 1979. Under the leadership of Shiff, a one-time Wall Street broker, the LEC gained a broadened subscription base, increased the quality of their publications, diversified their roster of artists, and returned to profitability.   

Though minimal and modern in presentation, the production of this edition plumbed the depths of printing history. The Magnani paper mill was established on the banks of the Pescia river (known for its clear water- a necessity for paper production) in 1404, half a century before Gutenberg’s printing press was first put to commercial use. And the Fundicíon Tipográfica Neufville (operational 1885-1995), also known as Neufville Typefoundry, was the biggest 20th century supplier of the printing industry in Spain. After a number of ownership transfers, the company, alongside  Bauersche Gießerei (a German typefoundry, operational 1837-1972), was succeeded by Bauer Types, which would leverage ownership of the rights to many of the original typefaces from both foundries to lead the way from lead type production to digital typography.    

--Ana, Special Collections Graduate Intern

View more Limited Editions Club posts

View more lithography posts

View more Cartiere Enrico Magnani posts

View more Stamperia Valdonega posts

[beewolfwrites]

The Oar in the Sand - Chapter Twenty-Seven: Release

Hey guys! Sorry again for such a delay. 

Personally, I admit I kind of just wanted to get this chapter over and done with. I'm not a huge fan of how this game turned out. But oh well! I’m just looking forward to the reunion. 

Thanks so much for continuing to read, even with my super slow updates! :)

___________________________________________________

If there was one thing I knew about Hearts games, it was that there was always a solution hidden in plain sight. 

I had only played a handful of them, but during the Laser Tag game, the sign by the counter had told us to choose a gun without specifying which type. And then there was the Witch Hunt. If only we had burned Momoka’s body first, we could have avoided such catastrophic destruction. There was only one thing connecting the two. 

The rules. 

Sitting at the desk in my hotel room, I talked myself through the rules of the game once again. Izanami had been rather open about the fact that she was only telling us some of the rules, but in actuality, the only ones she didn’t mention were related to the point system. 

‘But what else is there?’ I murmured. 

‘Round 13: In a logical argument, and in mathematical proof, a symbol consisting of three dots arranged in an upright triangle is used to represent which word?

1 - Because

2 - Therefore

3 - However

4 - Respectively’ 

I paid little attention to the question that appeared on the screen. Instead I traced the wooden surface of the desk, mentally going over and over the same rules and wondering what I could possibly have missed. 

There has to be something! 

I tapped my fingers on the desk in an attempt to jog my memory, but it wasn’t working. I was wary of the timer ticking away. Even though the game was designed for us to cheat, five minutes still seemed like an absurd amount of time, especially if we were just sitting here at a desk, bored out of our minds… 

My fingers stilled. 

I looked up, suddenly aware that yes, I was in a hotel room. I was in a hotel room with old red curtains, dismal brown walls, a phone handset on the desk, and a plush bed with starched white pillows. This whole time, I had been so focused on the screens that I barely registered where I was. 

That’s it. 

‘Five minutes.’ We had been given five minutes to allow us to cheat without being caught. ‘But that’s not the only reason.’

I remembered now. 

At the Beach, right after we had burned Momoka’s body, we had all walked out of the hotel together. Arisu and Usagi had been walking a few paces ahead of me, but I caught snippets of their conversation. 

He was telling Usagi about how he’d won the The Four of Hearts. He had described it grimly, how there were only five players, and that they had had to climb into window cleaning lifts dangling over the side of an office building. Apparently, the game had involved answering questions, but the questions became more and more ridiculous as time passed. Arisu was adamant that he would have died if not for one thing. Down in the lobby where they had waited for the game to start, there was a stack of leaflets on the reception counter. He had skimmed through a leaflet just to pass the time, but in fact, the leaflets contained all the answers to the questions. The solution was right in front of them all along.  

Perhaps… could it be? 

I looked around at my hotel room. Yes, we were sitting at these desks in front of the monitors, but we weren’t strapped into our seats or confined in any way. If anything, we were free to sit on the bed, or use the ensuite bathroom if we wanted. It would be risky, and the King could potentially assume that we were cheating if she saw us wandering around the room, but there was nothing stopping us. 

I glanced at the timer. Three minutes.

I yanked open the desk drawers, rummaging through them one by one. The only thing inside was a dusty stack of individually wrapped teabags and a sachet of instant coffee. Leaping from my seat, I rummaged around the room, opening the wardrobe doors and dropping several wire hangers in the process. The clatter was as sharp as nails. 

I froze, glancing at the monitor across the room. 

Four more players were dead, having been caught cheating under Izanami’s watchful eye. There were now ten of us still alive. Ten lives. 

If I find a solution, I can still save ten people. 

Raking my hand under the pillows, I searched the flimsy bedside tables, finding nothing but a yellowed room service menu, dead flies and more dust. I felt like cutting my losses and settling for choosing answers at random again, but there had be be something here. This couldn’t all be for nothing. 

My eyes slid to the timer again. One minute and twenty seconds left. 

Come on! Please let there be something. 

I moved across the room towards the ensuite, wondering whether there was something hidden inside. But then a thought struck me, and I stopped in the doorway. 

The room service menu. 

Backtracking, I opened the bedside drawer and pulled out the flimsy laminated sheet, briefly scanning it over. At first glance it looked like an ordinary menu with various meals and drinks on offer. Nothing special. But then my eyes caught a section of writing at the top. The Japanese had been translated into English below. 

‘If you are ever in need of assistance, please don’t hesitate to call reception.’

I flipped it over, checking the back cover too. ‘There isn’t even a number for reception on here.’ 

There was a phone handset on the desk. It couldn’t be a coincidence. But then, the questions… 

There’s no number for reception, but there are numbers for each round. 

Scrabbling back to the desk, I slid into the chair and picked up the phone handset, holding it to my ear. There was grainy static on the line. There was no way to tell if this would work, but it was worth a shot. 

‘Round Thirteen,’ I muttered, punching the numbers one and three into the receiver. My eyes lifted to the timer.

There’s only 40 seconds left. 

At first, there was just that same static buzzing down the line. Then the phone suddenly cut to voicemail. A calm, professional female voice read out a message in Japanese, before switching to English. 

‘Thank you for calling Reception,’ the voice said. ‘Unfortunately we cannot take your call right now. However, please note that the answer you are looking for is option number two, “However”.’ 

The phone dropped from my hand with a clatter and I grasped the remote, punching the button for option two. 

There were still seventeen seconds left. 

I kicked the wall twice, hoping that it wasn’t too late to save my mysterious neighbour. Two kicks thudded from the other side. Once again, in front of the webcam, I trailed my eyes over the monitor, pretending to be deep in thought with my fingers resting against my chin. I drummed them in twos, creating a pattern just like Chishiya had done in the Jack of Hearts. 

Ten seconds! 

On the screen, I could see that so many of us had died. Out of the survivors, I recognised the teenage girl and the young man with the green cap. The teenage girl was grimacing, looking back and forth between the two screens. Meanwhile, the man was strangely calm. 

Three. 

Another player’s collar exploded as he held up up two fingers. We were now down to nine players. 

Two. 

I could still save nine people. 

One. 

The results were in. Option number two glowed green, as expected, and most of the players had received my message. My points jumped from 27 to 30, with everyone gaining three points aside from the man in the green cap, who had lost five. His points were now down to 20. As harsh as it was, I didn’t feel sorry for him. He had tried to trick everyone once, there was no telling what he would do now. 

The next question appeared, and with the phone beside me, I felt a surge of confidence. 

‘Round 14: Which body of water was called “Mare Internum” by the Romans?

1 - The Black Sea

2 - The Caspian Sea

3 - The North Sea

4 - The Mediterranean Sea’

I had a strong feeling that the answer was number four, the Mediterranean Sea. Even the latin, “internum” could be translated into “internal” - the internal sea connecting each of the countries spanning the Mediterranean. But there was no room for chance, and with five minutes on the clock, I dialled the number 14 into the phone handset. 

‘Thank you for calling Reception,’ the same voice said, a little more fuzzy this time. ‘Unfortunately we cannot take your call right now. However, please note that the answer you are looking for is option number four, “The Mediterranean Sea”.’

That fuzzy tone hadn’t been there before. It could only mean one thing: there was a limit on how many times I could dial reception. It would have to be kept as a last resort. 

With no time to lose, I kicked the wall four times under the desk. As inconspicuously as possible, I drummed my fingertips in a pattern of four against my lips, disguising the motion as a nervous tremor. In the previous times I had tried this, the others had seemingly picked up the hint. However, I noticed that two more players had been eliminated, leaving just seven of us to go. 

This game wouldn’t last much longer. That much was obvious. 

From the corner of my eye, I noticed the young man in the green cap flashing two fingers at the screen. It made me wonder whether my tapping was obvious enough. I could try again with a message that was easier to understand. But was it really worth the risk? 

No. 

The timer dropped to zero, and my heart sank a little. Thanks to that little trick, courtesy of the man in the green cap, most players had selected option number two. Only myself, the teenage girl, and the man himself had chosen correctly. The three of us gained one point. 

It was infuriating, seeing him ruin things for everyone so easily. However, it wasn’t the end of the world. So long as I knew the right answers, I could keep screwing up his plans. But as for the teenage girl…

I just hope she trusts in me. 

Several rounds passed by, and there were only four players remaining. There was myself, the young man, the teenage girl, and an older woman who kept nibbling her fingertips, probably out of anxiety. After all, she had been reduced to a terrifying four points.

‘Round 21: What biblical name can you translate the HD 140283, one of the most ancient known stars at over 13.5 billion years old?

1 - Tirzah

2 - Jethro

3 - Methuselah

4 - Ananias’

Once again, I was stumped. 

I hated relying on something other than my own knowledge, but I wasn’t going to overlook a solution when it was offered to me. Giving in, I dialled the number 21 into the phone handset, this time having to focus intensely to hear the voice through a barrier of static. 

‘Thank you for calling Reception. Unfortunately we cannot take your call right now. However, please note that the answer you are looking for is option number three, “Methuselah”.’ 

Option number three. I kicked the wall three times as usual. Surprisingly, my neighbour was still alive, although we were limited in spreading the message. As more of us had died, wall-to-wall communication was no longer an option for most. There was no choice but to use the webcam. On the monitor, the main with the green cap frowned deeply, then quickly flashed four fingers at us. I shook my head. 

‘Not a chance, asshole.’  

The older woman ceased biting her fingers and looked over her shoulder anxiously. I pursed my lips, curling a single finger over my mouth. 

It’s option one, take it or leave it. 

The teenage girl nodded once. The woman saw the gesture, but her eyes shifted back and forth. I looked over at the man. He flashed four fingers once again. 

‘Don’t do it!’ I hissed. ‘Don’t listen to him.’ 

I could see that familiar desperation in her eyes. It was a glint I recognised all too well, having witnessed it in twisted faces frozen by death, and in the final surviving moments of games. She wasn’t thinking clearly, she was just desperate for an answer. Any answer. The timer ticked away to zero, and I sat back in my chair, hands shaking around my remote. 

Of course he had done it. He’d tricked her. 

The bastard! 

And now, the woman was the only player to choose incorrectly. Her points dropped by five, hitting minus one. She began to hyperventilate. Her fingers curled around the collar, scrabbling to pull it off. It didn’t budge. A sickening few seconds passed… it was too long, too uncomfortable to watch. The collar burst open in a mess of pulp and blood. 

I looked down. Earlier, I had watched the same gruesome event over and over with a cool detachment. But now, something had switched. 

With the woman gone, there were only three of us left. I had 37 points, whereas the teenage girl was at 24. The man in the green cap had 36. 

‘Round 22: In which book is “Zembla” the name of a fictional country?

1 - Pale Fire, by Vladimir Nabokov

2 - The Memory Police, by Yoko Ogawa

3 - Catch 22, by Joseph Heller

4 - Lonely Castle in the Mirror, by Mizuki Tsujimura’

I almost laughed. In the previous world, I had spent an entire summer flipping back and forth between the pages of this book. The layout of the novel was like a convoluted maze, a puzzle to crack. 

As a test, I kicked the wall once. My neighbour kicked back. 

So it’s definitely one of those two. 

This would be interesting. So far, they hadn’t tried to trick me. However, reaching a Game Clear would be so easy. It wouldn’t take much to feed me the wrong answer through the wall, whilst lying to the remaining few on the screen. I knew I wouldn’t stoop so low, but would my neighbour? 

No, there would be no point. Once the trust is broken between you, there would be no going back. It was hardly as if a wrong answer meant automatic death. 

The man in the green cap mouthed the word “two”, probably banking on neither of us having read these books. But I didn’t react. I simply kicked the wall again - one kick, one answer. The reply was instant. One kick. 

I smiled. 

The man shook his head, frustrated. Then he mouthed the word “two” once more… right before his collar erupted, blood spewing over his monitor. 

Karma really does work in funny ways. 

Now, it was just me and the teenage girl, and so long as she continued to trust me, I could get us both out of this stupid hotel. 

The timer reached zero, and just as I thought, the teenage girl and I had both chosen option one. When the next question appeared, it didn’t really matter which answer we chose, or even whether it was correct. All we had to do was choose the same answer to gain points. I met her gaze through the webcam, offering a reassuring smile as I kicked the wall. She returned a kick, nodding with silent agreement. 

Deep down, I was glad that she was my neighbour. The memory of darkness and trickling blood now seemed a distant memory. 

Perhaps I can finally redeem things.  

As four more rounds passed, we kicked our way to completion, mutually agreeing on an answer rather than agonising over which was correct. Before long, her points had climbed all the way up to 48, whereas I was already in the clear, standing strong at 58. 

And now, this would be the final round. 

‘Round 32: What is simultaneously the colour black in printing, potassium in chemistry, and a strikeout in baseball?

1 - R

2 - K

3 - Q

4 - J’

I knew nothing of baseball or printing, and Chemistry had been my weakest subject in school. I barely knew my covenant bonds from my ionic bonds. Although I did know the answer to this question. I had paid enough attention to remember seeing the letter K on the periodic table, even if it had been years since I last studied the subject. 

I kicked the wall twice, and the message was returned. 

Waiting the full five minutes was agonising. But I reminded myself to have patience. Soon we would be leaving this hotel the same way we entered. 

After the longest five minutes of my life, the timer finally dropped to zero and option two, K, glowed green. As did our point counters on the screen. 

‘ALL REMAINING PLAYERS HAVE REACHED 50 POINTS. 

GAME CLEAR - CONGRATULATIONS.’ 

I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes with a sigh. The collar clicked, releasing itself. I pulled it away and left it on the desk, although I could still feel the burning imprint of the metal against my neck. 

Shaking lightly, I stood, gripping the back of my chair. I almost couldn’t believe it, that luck had spared me from death once again. The door was right there, across the room, but it felt like a distant dream. I was scared that if I opened it, I would wake up from a deep sleep, only to realise that I was in fact still trapped here. 

Slowly approaching the door, I took the card key from my pocket and tested the lock. As promised, it released. I emerged into the dark hallway, and at the same time, the door next to mine opened. The teenage girl noticed me, her expression lighting up with pure joy. All at once, I felt the weight of my guilt dissipate within me. 

I was finally able to save you.

‘It was you, all along.’ She stopped in front of me, gripping her card key like a lifeline. ‘I would have died if it was someone else.’ 

‘勝ててよかった,’ I replied. It was a relief to see her standing in front of me, alive. I’m glad the two of us made it. 

Before either of us could speak further, footsteps sounded from deeper within the hall, and I turned to see Izanami walking toward us, crown angled perfectly on her head like a true King. She didn’t seem angry or hurt that we had cleared the game. Instead, her eyes glittered under the dim yellow glow from the wall lights.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ she remarked, flashing me that sly smile from earlier. ‘I’ve heard about you. They say you’re a strong player when you want to be.’ 

‘Who’s they?’ 

‘Nobody you need to know about.’ Izanami finally acknowledged the teenage girl hovering behind me, and gestured to the elevators at the end of the hallway. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘You’ve won the right to live another day. You should make the most of it.’ 

The girl was practically bouncing on her heels. She bowed a little too deeply to each of us in turn. ‘Thanks again Onee-san,’ she said to me. ‘If I see you again, I owe you one!’ 

I wanted to thank her too. If not for her secret messages, I would likely have died. But before I could say anything she had already disappeared into the elevator, eager to embrace her freedom.  Meanwhile, Izanami was leaning against the dark panelled wall, watching me closely. 

‘You two must have had some secret code. In those last few rounds, neither of you tried anything on camera.’ 

‘壁を共有しました,’ I admitted. We shared a wall. ‘ルームサービスの策略が探し出します’ And I figured out your little room service trick.

Izanami smirked, pleased with herself. ‘You know, only one other player actually bothered to explore his hotel room. He didn’t make it to the end though.’ 

In the dim lighting, Izanami’s face looked darker and older, like a shrouded statue. Her slyness had disappeared, and now there was something grave in her expression, as though she knew more about me than I did.  

‘賢かった,’ I said quietly. ‘パノプチコンを作成酒ました。だから、みんながプレシャーに晒されていた.’ It was clever. You created a panopticon to keep everyone under pressure. 

‘And did it work?’ 

I shook my head. ‘意志がすでに失われた.’ I’d already lost my motivation. 

Izanami pouted lightheartedly. ‘That’s too bad. I’ve played this game several times now since the second stage started. Usually the players were either willing to risk being caught if it meant they could trick everyone else into choosing a different answer, or they were so scared of being caught, they just picked any answer at random.’ She paused, nodding to herself. ‘But I’d heard about you before. The foreigner girl who almost figured out Mira’s Eight of Hearts game.’ 

Mira? 

There was no mistaking it. Of course, I knew that she was one of these “citizens”, but that was the extent of my knowledge. 

If Mira was behind the Laser Tag game all along… 

Had she known about the other games? About me meeting Chishiya two games earlier? For how long had she been watching us? 

‘You shouldn’t think too hard.’ Izanami’s blunt tone shattered my thoughts. ‘That’s why you lost your will to keep going. If you overthink too much about the what-ifs and why-nots, eventually you start to wonder if there’s any point in trying.’ 

I tried to find the right words, but they escaped me one by one. ‘I want to keep going,’ I muttered in English. ‘I want to make things right. But I just don’t know how to fix everything.’ 

Izanami chuckled and adjusted her crown. ‘I have no idea what you just said. But I do know you need to slow right down. You’re alive. Start with that.’ 

She took a step back. Her steely gaze was filled with resolve and acceptance. She took off her crown, dusted it with one sleeve, then placed it firmly back on her head. 

Her time was up. 

‘Life isn’t a race,’ she said. ‘It’s a labyrinth. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up going round and round in circles. But if you look hard enough, you might just find yourself.’ 

Her expression relaxed into a bittersweet smile. It was peculiar seeing such an expression on someone like her, as though she had released the burdens anchoring her to this cruel world. With a bright red flash, a laser shot through the ceiling. Her body crumpled to the ground before me, the plastic crown hitting the carpet with a thud and rolling away down the hall. 

I stood there, unable to keep from looking at her. That smile of relief was still etched on her face, frozen in time. 

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

2. "Is Alec Tricity there? I need to speak with Alec Tricity, please."

PAYPHONE - "No, but I got a feeling Al Kickurass is gonna make an appearance if you ever call this number again. Have a good one, asshole!"

Phone hanging up.

Disconnect tone.

Ok, that's enough-

Put 10 cents in and dial a random number: 005-99-77-313.

[Leave.]

Um. Harry?

PAYPHONE - Calling...

Calling...

Calling...

Still calling...

*Still* calling…

"Stop calling me, man!" Someone picks up. The voice on the other end is slightly hysterical.

"I'll get you your money, alright? I just need 'til tonight. Let me work."

"Uh… who is this?"

"Yes, but a slight change of plans -- I want this delivered to the Whirling-in-Rags in Martinaise."

"We could all be a bit kinder to each other, don't you think? Consider your debt paid, my friend."

"You seem to be in some sort of trouble. Maybe I can help you, I'm a police officer."

PAYPHONE - "Tethys, I uh..." The young man realises something. "Hey, you're not Tethys! Screw you and don't ever call here again, you're fucking with some *serious* people!"

Disconnect tone.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Khm..." A single *khm* lets you know the lieutenant is ready to move now.

Kim is right. We should stop.

Put 10 cents in and dial a random number: 005-11-11-313.

[Leave.]

PAYPHONE - Calling...

"I'm tired…" A man answers, fast this time. His voice is hoarse from cigarettes. You hear typing in the background.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Medium: Success] - Sounds like he hasn't talked to anyone in quite a while.

"What are you tired of?"

"I'm tired too."

"Is there anything I can do to help you? I'm with the police."

PAYPHONE - "If I could go just one month without writing. No, two months... I could regenerate my brain. Fucking liberalism..."

The man disappears with a sigh.

You do not hear the customary disconnect tone, just silence in the handset -- the machine is still waiting for you to dial a number.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] - Seems like it did not have time to swallow the coin. This sometimes happens.

INTERFACING [Trivial: Success] - Lucky you. The call went too fast for the payphone to register. You can still make a new one without paying.

[Interfacing - Medium 10] Dial a random number -- with your eyes closed.

[Leave.]

+1 White mourning... +1 Smells like betrayal...

We no longer have the thought, but we would also get +1 from Sorry Cop here.

INTERFACING [Medium: Success] - You close your eyes and put your index finger on the rotary dial, then pull down on the number, then move one up and repeat the motion, twice...

Strange. This is not how you started before.

Wait -- what did I just do?

Keep dialling...

Stop!

INTERFACING - You dialled 001. This is not the area code of Revachol. It is another destination -- on another isola. Some far-off nation state.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] - 005 is Revachol ZoC -- 001 is Graad, on the Graadian isola, where the telephone was invented. The next two digits you dial are the area code for the city of Mirova...

Keep dialling...

INTERFACING - 41 -- 44 -- 47 -- the rotary dial feels cold from the sea air.

Keep dialling...

INTERFACING - 11 -- 17 -- 361 -- your fingers keep moving like a spider, every time the ring rotates back with a little ring of metal, like a bell tolling.

There's more?

INTERFACING - Yes. 451 -- 67 -- 451 -- you are going deeper now, into some unknown place. Far away from this island of matter and its telecommunication networks....

Finish it.

INTERFACING - 451 -- you have dialled god knows how many numbers. The headset has been waiting silently to relay a signal -- surely nothing can come of this, you think. But it does. A connection.

PAYPHONE - An ultra-long-distance call. Your ear fills with a crackle, the wash of a strange ocean full of white noise. A little bird starts ringing in there, not like the local calling tone before. No, a small ring in a cage of distortion, far away, a distant network of phones...

Calling...

Calling in the night....

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - The saddest sound in the world.

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success] - Both pitiful and terrifying. You feel your pulse rising with each ring...

PAYPHONE - Calling still...

ENDURANCE [Easy: Success] - The handset starts slipping from your sweaty palm... your breathing is heavy.

"Kim..."

[Volition - Impossible 18] Hang it up.

Let it call more.

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant is too far away to hear your yelp. The sea wind blows...

2. [Volition - Impossible 18] Hang it up.

VOLITION [Impossible: Failure] - You can't. Some strange force is keeping the headset glued to your hand, your ear listening to the ring in the speaker...

PAYPHONE - Calling...

Calling...

Calling...

Calling...

Calling still...

Then the ocean breaks. Out of the depths, a woman's voice emerges. Small. The dearest thing you've ever heard.

PAYPHONE - "Hello." She sounds sleepy.

"Hello."

"I want to die."

"Who is this?"

"I'm a revolutionary servant of humanity. I will free mankind and abolish the classes. I will raise the dead." (Proceed.)

"Your voice is so beautiful."

"Good bye."

PAYPHONE - "Mhm," she hums, her voice warm from sleep.

"Who is this?"

3. "Who is this?"

PAYPHONE - "Dora." She's still confused. "Who is this? The connection is bad..."

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - Dora. The name feels like a *gift*. A gift that was meant for you -- to make it possible to live.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Medium: Success] - In the distorted distance you hear someone turning next to her. Bedsprings rattle.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] - Don't react. Whatever you do, don't react to that last thing.

"Is someone *there*?"

Don't react.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) - It doesn't matter if you react or not. You still think you hear a *man's* voice in the background. It's covered in pain and white noise...

2. "I want to die."

PAYPHONE - "What?" It takes a second for her to realize what you said.

"I don't know why I said that."

"Your voice makes me want to turn into dust."

"I want to live -- with you..."

PAYPHONE - "Oh no... is that you?" Her voice sounds like she's waking up now. Still plaintive, tired...

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] - This is too much... You need to recede...

"A creature is a creature. I wish I was the wind."

"No."

PAYPHONE - "Oh no, not this... what time is it?"

5. "Your voice is so beautiful."

PAYPHONE - "No-no..." She's waking up now. "It's *you*, isn't it? It's you..."

6. "Good bye."

PAYPHONE - A sigh. She heard you, but she does not hang up. And neither do you. You can't.

4. "I'm a revolutionary servant of humanity. I will free mankind and abolish the classes. I will raise the dead." (Proceed.)

PAYPHONE - "You're not a revolutionary, Harry... You're drunk."

-1 Morale

LOGIC [Medium: Success] - You only have two, maybe three things left to say before the change runs out.

"Harry? How do you know my name?"

"Harry? Who's Harry -- are you sleeping with him? I'm also Harry!"

"I'm not drunk."

"Okay I'm drunk, what does it matter? I'm still *me*!"

"I'm not drunk -- I'm *high*."

"I'm not drunk or high, I'm just... hurt... why does it hurt to talk to you?"

PAYPHONE - "Because it's me... Look, I don't understand what you're saying or why you're calling me. You seem drunk."

4. "I'm not drunk or high, I'm just... hurt... why does it hurt to talk to you?"

PAYPHONE - "Oh god..." There's silence, it's heavy as tin. The white noise howls.

"Hey."

"Ooo... are you there?"

Say nothing.

PAYPHONE - "Do you know what time it is? It's so late here..." Sounds like she's looking for a clock on the night stand.

"It's four o'clock, Harry! I need to wake up in two hours."

It's four o'clock there regardless of what time you call. Blame it on entroponetics, I guess.

"Do you want to party?"

"I want to talk about me. Who am I? You sound like you know me."

"You're in Mirova, right?"

"Where are you going in two hours?"

"I am the law. I'm a detective. I'm doing a case. There's a hanged man."

"Is someone there with you?"

(Hang up.)

PAYPHONE - "No, I want to go to sleep..."

2. "I want to talk about me. Who am I? You sound like you know me."

PAYPHONE - "What do you want to talk about? That we haven't talked about already..."

ENDURANCE [Legendary: Failure] - This is bad, you feel your right hand on the handset cramping up with pain...

-1 Health

3. "You're in Mirova, right?"

PAYPHONE - "Yes, I'm in Mirova. Sleeping."

4. "Where are you going in two hours?"

PAYPHONE - "To work."

"Where?"

Say nothing.

PAYPHONE - "The Academy. Where I work."

"The Academy? That sounds better than my job. I'm happy."

"My job is sad and terrible. It has dead bodies in it."

"Pfft, Academy... my job is *real*."

PAYPHONE - No response, only a sigh. The connection crackles, like burning paper.

-1 Morale

VOLITION [Easy: Success] - What are you doing to yourself right now?

I'm making a funny prank call.

Catastrophic damage.

I don't know... I don't understand what's happening.

VOLITION - You need to stop. Harry. You're killing yourself.

*Can* we?

6. "My heart hurts. I'm gonna have a heart attack."

PAYPHONE - "Oh no... please stop. Please let's just hang up..."

7. "Is someone there with you?"

PAYPHONE - "Yes."

5. "I am the law. I'm a detective. I'm doing a case. There's a hanged man."

PAYPHONE - She does not answer anymore.

"I'm gonna solve it."

"It doesn't matter. This case doesn't matter."

"None of it matters -- not anymore."

"Can you help me solve it? I need to solve it. They won't take me back if I don't."

PAYPHONE - "Harry..."

Disconnect tone -- the machine ran out of money.

Put 10 cents in and dial the long phone number again.

[Leave.]

[dsaf-confessions]

For the wet willy thing, I dont think it would be any part of the handset itself. Yes the receiver could be seen as an ear; but I think it would be more like. Where the cord connects to the phone itself? I forgot the exact name; but that’s just me guess., I mean, I get the speaker Idea but also I feel like,, none of the phone guys would let anyone touch their handset. If that makes any sense,,, just me silly ramble

If I remember correctly; unlike the other phoneys like Peter, depending on the year and type; you literally cannot remove the cord

.

[flownwrong]

expectations (a due south fic)

F/K, 1.5k words, additional tags: first kiss, stupid phone conversations, drama over a duffel bag

I'll tell you what I told ao3:

"My writing hit a wall a while back. To deal with it, I decided I'd write the only way I can now—short fic I can seat-of-my-pants in one day. A piece for each ship/fandom/idea where I have wips or thoughts that I can't make into actual works. This is the first one.

Thanks to @nigeltde-fic for dragging me down with this ship, and generally being a champion. <3”"

Maybe it really is a damn Groundhog Day type situation. Only twice as boring and nobody gets the girl, like, ever.

One thing he never pictured when he thought of the after-fraser-life, which he didn’t do very often, or, well, maybe he did, but he didn’t like doing it, point being—one thing he didn’t imagine was that it would be the same. As in, poof, never happened, must have daydreamed it, off you go, Stanley, play well with the boys.

And, well, it isn’t really a never-happened kinda deal, because Fraser, he just lives in a pocket in Ray’s head now, twenty-four-literal-seven, like friends do, you know, or something close. And what with Vecchio and Stella fucking off to Florida and Frannie doing her thing all while they were still doing the big adventure stuff, between all that it’s hard to not notice the change. But other than that—it’s the same job, the same desk (his desk, The Kowalski Desk), the same bottle in the cabinet above the sink and the same—the inside of his head is the same, too, giving him trouble like always.

more under the cut or on ao3

The way they left things—if that’s even what happened, left things, huh—it’s not what he feared. Not what he expected, either—and it took him many, many frozen-through adrenaline-drunk days to put a finger on it, that there was an expectation. And now back here, it’s like one of those tip-of-the-tongue moments he’s so familiar with, only with that expectation; it circles him all predatory with every lonely shuffle around his dance-apartment-floor and every stupid late night reruns session and every finger of drink he takes with that, and then it wafts away on the wind, leaving him feeling like he missed a step and twisted his ankle. Which is kinda stupid, when you come to think of it, since it looks like all his worst-case scenarios solved themselves and left him with a cushy little offering while he was playing explorer, and wasn’t that what it was all about.

And maybe it wasn’t, because Fraser calls, like he does, which floors Ray a little every single time for reasons he can’t even begin to articulate, he calls on a Friday and brings him up to speed on Dief’s aversion to the nearest Tim Hortons (nearest being a few hours’ trip to Yellowknife) because quote he says it’s cheating and Chicago ones tasted better and frankly it’s insulting end quote and how you pay and pay and pay and how he fixed up the cabin now and the second bed is new and really much better than the one Ray had to deal with up there, he made sure of that (felled the best tree he could find, Ray wagers), and Ray finds himself nodding and humming and gripping the stupid station handset, knuckles gone white, biting his cheek, hell if he knows why, not like his smile could do any damage at this point. “There isn’t a waiting list for that bed, is there?” he says, no reservations worth stopping for. And, “no,” says Fraser, and there’s that expectation, clarion as you please, ten-four, roger that. “Greatness,” Ray says, and hangs up, and does a little shimmy he’s not even ashamed of.

And then Fraser doesn’t call for three weeks, in which Ray is very productive, managing to vent drunkenly at Turtle who looks so unimpressed Ray thinks he actually hears him sigh, pack the bag, unpack the bag, consider terminating the lease, call in with Welsh then come in anyway, chase the latest case into almost three whole days awake and get sent away by Welsh anyway once the Bonnie and Clyde of small-time food truck GTA are locked up, pick up the phone roughly thirty-seven times, put it down thirty-six, and that last time, Fraser picks up and calls out for him softly and he’s too much of a chicken to do it back. Where exactly they tripped in a dance Ray felt resonate in his bones, he can’t guess.

Week four, Fraser calls, only it’s Ray’s doorbell that rings this time, and he picks himself up faster than he would the phone.

“Fraser,” he says first, then swings the door open, “Frase,” gripping his wrists way too tight, “what in god’s name was that—scratch that, don’t say, one thing it was is not buddies.”

“I don’t see what you mean, Ray,” Fraser says, and it’s supposed to make him angry, this far in, only this time Fraser is wrapped up in a soft green-gray flannel instead of the red walking coffin and he has his beat-up bag and the stupid hat on, so even Ray can see through the reflex of it. Fraser tugs gently at him. “Ah, Ray, if you could just let me put my bag down—thank you kindly.’

“You do, Frase, I know you do.” He lets Fraser’s wrists go for half a second it takes for the bag to thud onto the floor—other side of the threshold, damn it—and not a moment longer. “Did you come to stand outside my home and bullshit me?”

“Yes. I mean, not for that, no, but yes, I forgot about—oh, darn,” he says and tugs one hand free to take his stetson off, which is how you know, if you’re Ray, things are afoot. Big things. Momentary events in history. So when Fraser steps one foot in and leans back against the doorjamb and pulls him near—with hands snaking under his arms to land just below his shoulder blades, one half of a hug not yet given, a freakish way only Fraser would go with, which fires Ray up instantly, heat flooding his face like a punch he has to close his eyes against—when that’s done, Ray can find his mouth blind he’s so ready.

“You’re off,” he mumbles, because Fraser is the one with eyes open and he still landed somewhere around where Ray’s lips turn into his cheek, and then only corrected half an inch down, catching the corner of his open-eager mouth.

Fraser presses a kiss there, with intent. “Not,” he says, and then, then he hits the bullseye, fucking A, bingo, job done, you get a sticker—or a mouthful of tongue, because that’s faster where they stand.

“Momentous,” Fraser says into Ray’s hair, some breathless minutes later, and Ray says, “wha—’ and Fraser says, “you said, or rather mouthed, something about momentary events, if my memory serves—well, it must, it’s only been three minutes. I suppose you meant momentous, given the context.”

“Jesus, Shakespeare, come the fuck in, what do I have to offer to get you both feet inside.”

Fraser straightens but doesn’t move an inch to displace Ray where he’s giving him the second half of a hug. “Well, Ray, I didn’t mean to stay, per se.”

Ray disentangles them and tugs at the lapels of Fraser’s really very soft shirt, whenever he’s grabbed those, huh. He blinks once, twice, and thinks about how many bottles he will have to get for that cabinet now, because fucking hell. The bastard didn’t even have the courtesy to rub at his eyebrow, so to him it all makes sense somehow. He looks down and frowns.

“What’s with the bag?”

When he looks back up, Fraser smiles, an honest to god I’m-back-in-ten-foot-snow-and-alive-again grin, eyes kind of superglued to Ray’s face. “Promised Dief to get some of those Chicago donuts, which are, apparently ‘the right kind’.”

Ray steps back, shoves at Fraser’s chest, no way-like, and folds in two with laughter. Fraser looks at him all affectionate, and the absurdity is so familiar it gives Ray a headrush. Or maybe that’s all the wheezing he's doing.

“A bag? A whole bag of donuts?”

Fraser gets this look where his eyes get all liquid and light, and now that Ray’s got the manual he knows that translates to scared and hopeful in downright unhealthy measures. “I didn’t count on being back to Chicago soon.”

Ray can feel he’s doing the superglue thing now, too.

Fraser clears his throat. “Oh dear. Unless—I didn’t mean to presume, it’s only that on the phone—”

Ray cuts him off in a voice that’s too rough to seize the reins of, so it will probably break in there somewhere but it’s all a-okay now, isn’t it—says, “You’ll have to get in here, Frase. I think I’ll want some pants with my donuts, and I’m now in the bag-unpacked phase—uh, anyway.”

He heads inside and hears Fraser shut the door and toe off his boots. 

So maybe there was no tripping after all. Just Fraser and his insane moves Ray always learns, dancing skills be damned. Good thing he isn’t Bill Murray—would be awkward to explain this to the girl.

[plumoh]

a prayer and a coin; chapter 1

Natsume Yuujinchou & Noragami crossover fic.

Rating: G Wordcount: 2213 Characters in this chapter: Natsume & Yato Summary: Takashi calls a god. It makes things easier. Note: AO3 link. The first few chapters will cover the setting for this crossover when Natsume is still a child, then the following ones will most likely be standalones.

Takashi thinks it's worth a shot.

He's tried everything up until now, and nothing worked. He tried telling his guardians that something was lurking in the house sometimes, he tried asking for advice at school but the teachers weren't of big help, he tried the little tricks he saw in books like putting salt in front of doors. He is running out of ideas and the monsters keep following him everywhere he goes.

So one day, he scribbles down the phone number he sees on walls and billboards on his way back from school, thinks that this Yato god must be fake but… but the phone number is tagged in large and ugly handwriting and nobody seems to notice it. People would have gossiped about vandalism if they could see it. So that means this is a real god, right? A god who is only visible to those who need help?

Takashi runs home to avoid encountering any monsters. He pushes the door open, throws his backpack on the ground and quickly surveys the apartment to make sure his guardians are still at work. Only silence greets him, which makes him sigh in relief. He retrieves the piece of paper from his pocket, ambles towards the house phone, and dials.

He feels like his hammering heart is going to crash through his ribcage. There is one ring, then another, and these are the most nerve-wracking three seconds of his life.

And finally, someone picks up.

“Hi, thank you for calling! Fast, cheap and reliable, delivery god Yato at your service!”

Takashi slowly moves the phone handset away from his ear, and blinks. He’s not sure what he expected but it is…not that.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Takashi fumbles with the handset in his haste to reply. “Y-Yes, sorry. Thanks for answering my call.”

“Oh, a kid. What’s troubling you?”

“Um. I don’t know how to explain it.”

He hears something like a sigh on the other side. “Do you need help doing your homework? Did you lose something? Are you bullied at school?”

Takashi winces a little at the last suggestion, but this is not an issue he can’t resolve by himself, so he swallows and goes for it.

“I…I see monsters sometimes. They like scaring me and nobody believes me when I say they’re here. They all think I’m lying.”

Takashi nervously glances around the room, suddenly aware that any of the little monsters could have entered the apartment when he opened the door. He doesn’t hear or see anything hiding behind the couch, or flying over his head, so he’s probably safe for now.

Yatogami is quiet and doesn’t answer right away. Takashi’s heart drops to his stomach at the thought of a god not believing him either. Red-faced, his throat is getting dry and he feels panic rising in his body.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called,” he mumbles.

“No, no, kid, that’s alright,” Yatogami says hurriedly, and he tacks on a cheerful laugh at the end of his sentence. “You were right to call! So you’re telling me you can see ayakashi? Big colorful monsters with lots of eyes looking at you like you’re a feast?”

Takashi wracks his brain to find a monster similar to that description.

“I think I’ve seen small ones around on my way to school,” he says. “Like spiders? Or worms? But the monsters I usually see look like ghosts, or sometimes like people. They often wear traditional clothes or have masks.”

Takashi easily recognizes this type of monster (ayakashi?) because there is something unsettling about them—the one-eyed mask, the crooked fingers, the sinister smile. And they always specifically address him, even in a crowd. Then they follow him home and try to eat him.

The little colorful ayakashi don’t bother him as much, but he never expects to see them so close to other people or hiding in the cracks of the pavement, so that makes him anxious in a different way. What if they climbed on people and got into their homes?

“Hm… Well, you’re sensitive to both ayakashi and youkai, which is kind of rare,” Yatogami muses. “Do you mind if I come over to explain a few things? That will be easier than over the phone.”

Takashi startles at the request. “I-I’m not sure it’s a good idea… My uncle and my aunt are going to be home soon, and I’m not supposed to have guests over.”

“Don’t worry about that! They won’t be able to see me, and I can disappear just as fast as I appeared.”

And, probably to prove his point, someone materializes next to him. Takashi drops the phone and scrambles back against the wall, stupefied, while the man in front of him grins and lowers his cellphone.

“See? Divine teleportation!”

Yatogami is…a man no older than some of the cousins he sees at family dinners. He’s wearing a tracksuit. Takashi was imagining formal wear, like a kimono or at least a grown-up’s suit, so he’s completely taken aback by the ordinary person he’s seeing.

These blue eyes, however, are the most god-like feature on Yatogami—sharp, bright and all too knowing. Takashi feels pinned by that gaze, even though the rest of the god’s face is nothing but friendly.

“So, what’s your name, kid?”

Takashi does his best to refocus on the conversation, despite the odd feeling running the entire length of his body. Maybe being near a god naturally makes people uneasy.

“I’m Natsume Takashi,” he replies slowly. “Should I… Should I call you Yato-sama? You look so normal.”

Yatogami snorts. “Well, that’d be weird if ‘god’ was written on my forehead!”

“I mean, you’re wearing normal clothes…”

“They’re comfortable and perfect for the kind of jobs I do. And if you want to call me ‘Yato-sama’, go for it, Takashi!” The grin that splits Yatogami’s face in two looks genuine enough. “I’m a god after all, call me whatever you prefer.”

Takashi nods. “Yato-sama then.” It’d be rude if he doesn’t address a god with propriety, even if the god in question looks like he’s about to go on his morning run.

“I’m going to give you some advice, since you’re having trouble with ayakashi and youkai. Some people consider them the same thing, but in my experience ayakashi are less intelligent than youkai. Ayakashi are creatures that simply feed off people’s negative energy, while there are all sorts of youkai. You’ve probably seen many of them. Do you have paper and a pencil?”

Wordlessly, Takashi goes back to the front door to bring his backpack over. He reaches into it and retrieves the requested items (Takashi is giving Yatogami his math notebook, so he hopes there will be enough pages left for him to use at school). Yatogami takes them with a thanks and starts sketching on a blank page of the notebook with inhuman speed. He shows the results to a surprised Takashi.

“I’ve seen that one,” Takashi blurts out, pointing to a one-eyed, round body. “And the kappa. And some others that look a bit like what you drew.” He meets Yatogami’s eyes. “You’re very good at drawing.”

“One of my many hidden talents.” Yatogami winks. “What I’ve drawn are youkai. Most of them are capable of speech but they have varying degrees of intelligence. You should ignore them if they start talking to you, and if they’re really persistent, run to a temple. They don’t like their sacred grounds. Ayakashi will also leave you alone if you go to a temple, but you don’t have to worry about them as long as you don’t have strong negative emotions.”

Takashi frowns. “You said that… ayakashi like negative emotions? Like anger?”

“Anger, sadness, frustration, guilt, all sorts of things that humans don’t like feeling. So you’d better keep yourself in check, especially since you can see them.” Yatogami draws more figures on the paper, and this time the drawings only depict strange shapes with many eyes on their bodies. “They look kind of gross, right?”

Takashi gives a tiny nod. He doesn’t remember seeing huge creatures resembling the drawings, but maybe he just wasn’t paying attention. The small ones probably think they’re discreet enough to pass through the cracks and get closer to humans without them noticing.

“Thank you for telling me what these monsters are,” Takashi says, bowing his head. “I can’t talk about it with anyone, so I’m really glad you don’t think I’m a liar.”

Yatogami stills his hand, and his gaze settles on Takashi. There is…a dangerous glint in these blue, blue eyes.

“Humans are so frustrating to understand,” Yatogami sighs, shaking his head. “You’re just a kid, so you’ll grow up and become someone different. Surround yourself with people who like you for you.”

It’s easier said than done. All the friends Takashi tried to make eventually left him because they found him weird and scary—but he’s not going to tell that to Yatogami, who is only trying to help.

Yatogami sets the notebook and the pencil on the dining table, and with his back to Takashi, he says, “I can’t teach you how to defend yourself from youkai and ayakashi, but you can call me whenever you’re in trouble, alright?” Then he whirls around, and his gigantic grin is back on his face. “That will only cost you 5 yen!”

Takashi blinks. “5 yen?”

“Yeah! I’m not going to steal from a kid. Give me a 5-yen coin every time you call me and that will do.”

This is the oddest payment Takashi has ever heard of. He didn't even think about payment in the first place; he saw the phone number, a promise to help for any kind of issue and the hope of living a better life. But Yatogami seems sincere and he isn't looking at Takashi like he's pulling his leg or going to withdraw his offer. There is a sort of reassuring presence that emanates from the god—the aura of someone who knows what they're doing.

Takashi, despite the weird encounter, likes Yatogami. He's only had one conversation with him but he already looks forward to their next meeting.

“I probably have some coins in my bag… I'm not sure I have 5-yen coins, so if I give you 10 yen, does it mean I'm paying you in advance?”

Yatogami shrugs. “I usually only accept 5 yen, but I can make an exception.”

Takashi digs into his school bag, in the inside pocket near the bottom. He only gets enough money from his aunt and uncle to buy a snack every week or so, which means he should be really careful about storing it to avoid losing it. He pats around the pocket and finally fishes out a few small coins. There is no 5-yen coin, but like he suspected, he has a 10-yen coin.

“Here.” He hands the coin to Yatogami, who picks it up with a smile. “I don't know when I'll call you again, but I have your phone number written on a piece of paper so I won't forget it.”

Yatogami’s mouth quirks up, like he's resisting making a joke. He shakes his head, then flips the coin to toss it in the air and catches it in a swift motion.

“Thanks for the money. Be sure to call me back one day, because you'd be losing 5 yen if you don't!”

“It's only 5 yen,” Takashi says, puzzled.

“You have to start small to become rich, kid.” Yatogami looks around, stares at the front door a little longer than necessary, then says, “Well, I have to go now. Avoid trouble when you can, call me when you want me to deal with whatever problem you have! See you, Takashi!”

“Ah, uh, goodbye, Yato-sama!”

Right as Takashi’s words leave his mouth, Yatogami vanishes in a dance of light and the front door opens.

“Oh Takashi, you're already home?”

Takashi jumps towards the table to take Yatogami's drawings and stuff them into his bag. His aunt doesn't seem interested in what he's doing and simply heads towards the kitchen. She is humming a song that often gets broadcast on the radio, and Takashi hears some rustling from plastic bags. She is probably going to start on dinner, which means he should go back to his room and do his homework.

Takashi stuffs back Yatogami’s phone number in his pocket and lugs his backpack to his room. He should put the piece of paper somewhere that will be easy to reach—maybe in the pockets of his coat, or in the front pocket of his backpack. If he’s not at home, he can use a payphone to call. He should actually write the phone number on multiple pieces of paper, in case he loses one of them. And leave one under his pillow. That way, he’ll be able to call Yatogami whenever he needs to.

Satisfied and kind of giddy, Takashi sits at the tiny coffee table in his room and starts his math homework. Yatogami’s drawings are staring at him all the while, but Takashi, for once, isn’t scared of looking at these strange and awful creatures. They exist, and there are other people who can see them. He’s not alone.