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astaroth1357 · 1 year

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The OM Cast as Househusbands

Inspired by my recent rant about domestic Solomon.

Contents: Pure fluff and unhinged roasts.

~♡♡♡~

Lucifer

A-tier. Generally a solid choice skill-wise.

Cooks decent, cleans well, budgets FANTASTICALLY, has a good list of connections/spells for all home repair, and even has a stern (but caring) parenting-style if so desired.

In short, Lucifer can run a house very well. He practically already does! Hope you like having a big, extended family because the brothers are coming with.

Really, the biggest downside to Lucifer is that you'll be constantly worried that he's bored... Man can run a house and then some. He probably has the daily chores done by noon, and then what?

He just has so much extra potential, is what I'm saying. Very "big, beautiful bird in a cramped cage" energy. But then again, maybe making him chill the fuck out and have a low-maintenance lifestyle for once is better for his blood pressure in the long run. Your call.

Mammon

B-tier. He ain't perfect, but he can learn quick.

If you can give Mammon anything, it's that he's a capable guy when he wants to be. He may not be good at cleaning up, cooking, or anything like that on his own, but with some encouragement...?

Big improvements made practically overnight! Shower him in praise and "thank you's" for every little thing he does and he'll start get greedy for it. Then he'll do even MORE around the house and he gets better each time.

Show him how to cook what you like, and he'll never forget. Remind him to fold up the laundry, and he'll get it done. Praise him for keeping the floors clean, then suddenly he's nagging YOU about tracking dirt on the carpet...

And he'll get so proud about it too... Like, he's your first man and you NEED him now. What would you ever do without him?? Now hand over your shirts because he has some ironing to do, dammit!!

The only downside is you'll have to handle the finances... The words "Mammon" and "budget" go together about as well as "grainery" and "match." He'll blow through it and then some. Earners beware.

Leviathan

Hovers around C-D tier. Levi can play the role of good househusband for a VERY particular kind of partner, otherwise he's a lost cause.

He is a surprisingly decent househusband ONLY when sufficiently motivated and playing out his "domestic slice-of-life" fantasies are that motivation.

He can cook (anime-inspired dishes), he can clean (if you convince him to treat the house like he does his figurine collections), he can even sew/mend (though the majority of what he makes may be cosplay related)!

He won't leave the house to shop, but deliveries are fine. He also can't keep to a budget that doesn't include a MASSIVE chunk carved out to maintain his otaku lifestyle. He'll throw a fit otherwise.

Really, Levi's biggest problem is that once those "domestic fantasies" become mundane, he'll get bored and go back to his shows and games again.

Anyone with him would need to keep feeding into his role with new "quests" or different tropes to try out like a DM running an irl campaign. Could be fun for a little while, but it'll be too much trouble for you both long term. Best give him a skip.

Satan

S-tier. Very good choice, and he's proud of that fact.

Cooks well, very conscientious of your needs, knowledgeable on many topics from recipes to home repair, actually knows how to do laundry in a timely manner... a very good man indeed.

100% the kind of husband who sees that it's going to rain, so he treks out to wherever the hell you are to make sure you have an umbrella. Can't have you getting sick.

Get him a cat and the house will become his own slice of the Celestial Realm. He'll even text cute pics/updates on what your cat is doing like they're your literal child.

Only downside is cleaning. He's a book horder and will argue until he's blue in the face to keep Every. Last. Pamphlet. An in-house library is a MUST and expect to need expansions. Otherwise, perfect man. Much approval to be had.

Asmodeus

B-A tier. Another decent choice, just a little eccentric at times.

Asmo is that partner who will happily play the part of the trophy househusband buuut he absolutely won't do anything too strenuous or dirty.

Cooking? Totally fine! He isn't amazing, but he's not awful either. Laundry? Say no more! Your clothes will never have a wrinkle again. But cleaning...? Like the floors, attic, or ESPECIALLY the bathroom??

Nope. Nuh-huh. His cute-ass hair and his cute-ass nails in his cute-ass clothes will not stand for it! He's going to beg for a maid immediately.

I guess in exchange you'll be hosting some killer dinner parties, though! Asmo has that "suburban wife who flaunts her amazing life" energy. Also keeping his influencer game alive with tutorials galore.

In short, Asmo is willing not just to spoil you, but elevate you as well. You just need to give him a little pampering in return, kay?

Beelzebub

B-tier. Most of his problems are, predictably, food related...

Beel really, REALLY tries but you are probably never going to have a meal on time (if there's somehow any food left at all).

It isn't that he won't cooking, arguably, he spends TOO much time cooking because he'll spend just as much time eating! Or running to the store because he ate the ingredients again...

Surprisingly, though, he's actually very good at cleaning and caring for another person. That's because it's what he does for Belphie. You think the seventhborn is picking up their room AT ALL? Don't kid yourself...

Probably a good time to point out that another downside (or perk??) of husband!Beel is you also get Belphie! But he's just as spoiled as ever so... Hopefully Beel's overwhelming amazingness will make up for that.

If you like Belphie and don't mind an empty cabinet, Beel is a good choice. If not, there are better options available, I promise.

Belphegor

D-tier. Shit househusband. Doesn't even try.

Won't clean, won't cook, won't shop, can't fix, can't budget, and don't even get me STARTED on the state of the sheets!!-

He is a decorative plant of a househusband. Meant only to make the room look nicer by his presence. I've seen dogs more capable and self-motivated to maintain a household than this man will ever be.

Should you somehow get him to exert the effort, he will whine and complain the entire time. And even then, he won't do much more than put some things away and order takeout.

The only upside to Belphie is that since he's always asleep, it's not like he's making the house any dirtier. Vacuuming around his unconscious ass is home life now. At least you probably get Beel too.

Diavolo

C-B tier. What he lacks in experience, he makes up for in enthusiasm.

So... he basically can't do anything but since he's never had to, you can cut him some slack. He loves the idea of TRYING though, so you have an eager student!

He finds cooking to be a fun challenge and he isn't terrible at it. Cleaning is a drag but he likes to see you happy. You'll have to teach anything laundry/clothes related, unfortunately, and sending him to the grocery store without a very detailed list may result in him buying an entire aisle if he doesn't know what to get.

At least he'll genuinely love to hear about your day and have the biggest smile and warmest greeting for you every time you come home. He's like a big'ol puppy, just thrilled with your existence!

(Honestly, if something has him stumped, he'll call for Barbatos to help. He'll try to hide it because he wants to show that he can do things himself, but at the end of the day your happiness wins over his pride. Now let the butler fix your plumbing.)

Barbatos

SS-tier. So good, it's literally not fair.

He's been caring for another person for centuries. He has every possible skill he would need permanently etched into his DNA. He is the Grand Master of Domestic Life that all others should strive for.

Meals are at perfect temperature by the time you sit at the table. The house is so spotless that you could eat off the broom closet. Anything that breaks gets fixed/replaced within the day. He even leaves words of encouragement in the little notes packed up with your lunch. You'll start to wonder if he's an angel who's infiltrated too deep....

Barbs also seems to have a sixth sense for whenever you've had a bad day. You come back dragging from exhaustion? You favorite meal is already cooked, the bath is ready to be drawn, and would you like a shoulder rub on top of that? Feel free to vent, he loves to listen to whatever stories you have to share!

There are only two downsides to Barbatos: the first is that you are absolutely sharing him still with Diavolo and the young master is his top concern. So sorry.

The second is that moment he gets even the hint that there may be a rat in the house, he'll nuke the place with all of your stuff still in it. So keep some traps out and keep'em fresh, yeah? You'll be fine.

Simeon

S-tier. He even comes with pre-installed parenting skills! (If you're into that kind of thing).

Simeon may not have Barbs' "live to serve" mentality, but he is truly an angel to a fault. The man already acts as Den Mother of Purgatory Hall, so what would you expect?

He cooks well enough to own his own business and you can't run a business without being good with your cash. He probably has book royalties too... Plus, he cleans up after Solomon's messy ass in canon, so-

He's gonna be that husband you take to the office party and nobody will leave you alone about him for the next week. People are going to ask if he has a brother or some shit (give them Raph's number, I dare you)

Admittedly, home repair (especially of the electronics he's guaranteed to break) should probably go to someone else. Also, he is a package deal with Luke. That child is your unspoken son now, and you'll just have to deal with that.

Otherwise, he's trophy material. Marry him and carry him over that threshold! He's worth it, truly.

Solomon

I've already ranted about Solomon here. But if you aren't aware, he's D-tier saved only by the fact that he's really trying his best.

800 year-old bachelor be like: "Oh, you're supposed to change those...? They don't smell that bad after a month."

"Of course those dishes are clean! Yes, I can see that there's still food on them, but I washed them with soap. That's what makes them clean."

"What do you mean, 'Don't set the table with beakers on date night?' Isn't this one your favorite??"

"Dinner's almost done, honey! Just let me finish clubbing this octopus!" 😁

Disaster husband. Just leave him to his delusions and get used to takeout...

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ludibriadormonoteista · 3 months

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Knock Knock

Blake: *Opens Door* Ruby?

Dog!Faunus Ruby: *Holding Several Pamphlets* Hi! Miss Belladonna, is it? So nice to meet you!

Blake: …Ruby, you live here. You already know who I am.

Ruby: You’re absolutely right! Let’s skip introductions, shall we? *Clears Throat* So, I’m going from door to door to see if anyone’s interested in becoming Jaune’s pet today.

Blake: Ruby, is this some sort of attempt of yours at starting a cult centered around Jaune? …Again?

Ruby: Amazing question, you’re such a good girl.

Blake: *Ear Twitches* Go on…

Ruby: So basically, you become Jaune’s lap-dog, or lap-cat in your case, and you get to enjoy all kinds of benefits!

Blake: Benefits?

Ruby: You get to sleep around him whenever you want, he takes you on walksies, helps clean your ears, feeds you…

Blake: He feeds you?

Ruby: Oh yeah! His strawberry shortcake is to die for, believe me. OH! Remember that fancy tuna dish our teams had at our last get-together?

Blake: *Profusely Sweats* Yes…?

Ruby: Jaune cooked it himself. Family recipe, he says.

Blake: *Licking her Lips* Wait, *Shakes Head* You don’t take issue over the fact that he will be spending time with me?

Ruby: I thought so too at first, but I soon realized that Jaune deserves all the love he can get! More so than lil’ ol’ me could ever provide. Besides, we are just friends!

Blake: Uh, hum… Look, I’m sure this is nice and all, but I will admit this is a little weird even for me. And considering the type of stuff I’m into, that is saying something. Sorry, but my answer is no. *Grabs Doorknob*

Ruby: WaitwaitWAIT!

Blake: …What?

Ruby: Head pats.

Blake: …H-Head pats?

Ruby: Every. Single. Day.

Blake: *Both Ears Twitch* …On second thought, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try.

Ruby: Amazing! Now before you sign up, would you like to hear a few encouraging words of our sponsor, Mama Arc?

#rwby #rwby shitpost #ruby rose #blake belladonna #jaune arc #lancaster #knightshade #ruby x jaune #blake x jaune #dog!faunus ruby #cat!faunus blake #Isn't she already a cat Faunus?#Shut up

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ms-demeanor · 6 months

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I hope someone steals you art with ai and doesn't credit you for it

It's hard to steal something that I'm giving away, and it's nearly infinitely easier to just right click on the image so you've got a clean copy instead of attempting to duplicate it through prompt generation. Feel free. I'd love to see what you do with it. You're absolutely 100% clear to use any of my art for any purpose as long as you're willing to let people use the results of that creation in the same way. @ms-demeanor-art-blog is where i keep most things so you won't have to scroll forever - I think the moving eyes illustration is probably the coolest thing I've drawn in a while and it would be really cool to see remixed and shared but i'm not gonna lie, it would be very funny if someone used AI to claim credit for my Venom/Eddie pornographic miniature dollhouse.

If you want a clean scan of any of my zines to distribute please let me know - i've made some of them printable but a lot of them were made since I lost access to my scanner so they just got uploaded as photos.

While you're at it, please feel free to "steal" the de-googling pamphlet, the death book, and the college-level guide to writing an essay in my pinned post. Gosh it would be just horrible if somebody widely disseminated those things without my name on them and gave free copies to everyone they knew and took credit for it. And I don't know what I'd do if people started pretending that they'd come up with my gluten-free recipes while baking them for friends.

Please for real though i actually do want as many people as possible to see the death book and i do not give half a shit if i get credit for it, if you want to strip out all of the formatting and find that last "fuck" that i forgot to delete and remove it and just print it out as a word document to give to your grandma and you tell her that you made it for her I do not care please just talk to your loved ones about end of life planning.

#also i'm not particularly interested in licensing my art #but if you want to commission a pornographic miniature dollhouse #i'm down #but that shit will be expensive

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blueywrites · 1 year

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new skin

The diner’s signature dish: Fresh-baked soft pretzel knots with sweet Georgia peach jam, topped with bitter trauma. Recipe includes a dash of pining, a sprinkle of faith, and a generous heap of healing love.

Linecook!Eddie x Waitress!Reader. 60s Diner. Slow Burn.

Follows canon, except Eddie lives, and Vecna is defeated after causing the 'earthquake'. This is written in second person 'x reader' format, but you've been given a name. The name and nicknames that appear throughout the story are listed below; use the InteractiveFics extension to replace them if you'd like!

full name: emmaline louise. nicknames: emma, emmy

series content warnings -> eventual sexual content (18+), fem!reader, plussized!reader, fatphobia, domestic violence, domestic abuse, miscarriage/pregnancy, discussions of suicidal ideation, significant religious themes, found family, hurt/comfort, slow burn, angst with a happy ending

chapter content warnings -> 18+ for mature themes. mentions of blood, numerous Christian religious references, disordered eating habits, anxiety, references to emotional abuse and manipulation, body image issues, internalized fatphobia

one: an empty room (10.3k) | next | masterlist | playlist | AO3

You surrounded me

and my windows are breaking

Something is rotten inside of me

I have to find it and

cut it out

House Song — Searows

It was a mortal man who drove you away but divine providence that guided you to Hawkins.

You’d been dropping off the key to your motel room when you saw it: a cockeyed paper pamphlet in the dusty wooden holder mounted beneath the counter. Stuffed beside “Indiana Caverns” and “The World’s Largest Ball of Paint,” it advertised a place where fissures had unfurled like the spindly legs of a spider, all radiating out from the center square. ‘Visit the town that hosts the gates of Hell,’ it read. You knew the town couldn’t really host the gate of Hell because Hell is a lake of fire and not a crack in the earth, though even the thought made a chill of foreboding shudder through you. Still, as you gazed at the name written in big red letters across the faded paper, you rolled it around in your mouth, seeing how it felt against your molars and exploring the way it tasted on your tongue.

Hawkins.

You’d expected bitterness. Ash and fire and brimstone, if the leaflet was to be believed. Instead, Hawkins tasted of pine, of sweet corn, and drugstore laundry powder. And that was odd, certainly. But maybe odd was what you needed— something wholly unfamiliar, nerve-wracking in its foreignness but peaceful in the knowledge that, if nothing else, you know he would never expect you to escape to somewhere like this.

You’d been cutting a path from your home in Georgia due north, aimless and wandering, restless like a frightened prey animal consumed with nothing but thoughts of flee, flee, flee. The instinct had brought you from parking lot to roadside fuel-pump to motel six day after day, bouncing as the stacks in the cashbox wedged beneath the passenger seat began to dwindle. A pawn shop helped resupply your reserves, and your ring finger was lighter for it, but the running is beginning to wear on you. And there's just something about the taste of Hawkins lingering in your mouth, yeasty like wheat and clean in a way you haven’t felt since the day after Christmas when the bleeding began.

Your fingertips twitch before you snatch up the folded paper from the holder, spilling out into the gray of early morning. You cut a path back to the crack of warm light leaking from your room, where you’d wedged a stone against the metal edge of the door to prop it open. You slip inside one last time before you depart.

There isn’t much to gather. Inside, there's just a musty floral bedspread and a side table with a bolted-down lamp. You flick the switch, leaving the room cold and dark in preparation for your departure. Your few personal belongings are already packed away in the car waiting outside, and it’s with a sense of familiar shame twanging at your heartstrings that you duck back into the tiny tiled room nestled in the corner of the bedroom. The pamphlet crinkles as you fold it and slip it into your coat pocket, freeing your hands to do what they will.

This place is just one in a long line of stark rooms, transient nests that shelter you briefly as you flee. It's what made you think you were aimless and wandering, but you weren’t. Not really.

During your flight from Georgia, you’d stopped in Lexington, Kentucky. And when you drove on, you could have, just as easily, chosen to go northeast, toward Columbus, perhaps curving over toward western Pennsylvania. But you decided to go northwest instead, dipping into the southern edge of Indiana, avoiding Cincinnati and its choked smog until you nestled into fields and farms again. It was divine providence that guided you that way, that bid you stop at this motel for the night, that helps you now discern the notes of flavor you hadn’t noticed back in the office as the leaflet crinkles in your coat pocket. Because beneath the unfamiliar— pine and corn and laundry powder— there is the familiar musk of fresh hay, mown on a sweet summer morning by your pa as soft whinnies huff from the stable. It warms you, though the January wind cuts through to the bone as you scurry back out of the motel room and let the door thump closed behind you. Your eyes dart for lookers-on, though the sting of self-consciousness isn’t quite as acute now as the first few times you’d waddled to the pastel blue Lincoln and fumbled the back door open with laden hands.

When you found that pamphlet and chose Hawkins, Indiana, as your final nesting place, God was calling you home. You will know that in the end, but you don’t know it now. Now, you’re just a scared girl carrying toilet paper, satchets of soap, and tiny bottles of mouthwash in your fists, pilfered from yet another temporary room. They tumble to join the pile of stolen treasures in the backseat, right beside the pillow from Tennessee and the scratchy blanket from Kentucky.

You've known since you were small that you aren’t a lamb— only Jesus is the lamb. Still, you'd hoped you are a sheep, pure and white, close to Him. Yet it turns out you’ve been wrong all this time. It turns out you're just a dirty, thieving crow, poking your beak in the dirt to search for shiny things to sustain you. As you stare at the pile of your baubles, the shame tugs again at your heartstrings, clawing up to settle heavily in the base of your throat. Thick like the beginnings of tears.

You slam the back door and climb into the driver’s seat, sitting motionlessly for a long moment as you speak with your Father. You've always talked to God as long as you can remember but never had your prayers been so consistent as they've been this past week. First the waiting. Then the bleeding. Then the forsaking. Then the stealing. In all, you ask the same.

Please, Father. Forgive me.

You pull the leaflet from your coat pocket, unfolding it carefully, avoiding the inflammatory language about gates and fissures as you search until you spot the tiny map and the star in its center that demarks the location of Hawkins. The instructions say that, from the south, you should take route four-thirty-one to route three north.

Your aimless crawling has suddenly gained a clear direction; with it, your prayers shift for the moment. A hymn comes to mind, and you close your eyes as its melody plays in your head: Lead me, guide me, along the way. For if you leave me, I will not stray. Lord, let me walk each day with thee.

“Lead me,” you sing, a breath of a whisper as your eyes open. “Oh Lord, lead me.”

Beside your Lincoln, a businessman is loading his trunk into the passenger seat of his station wagon.

You crank down your window hastily, resting your fingers against the doorframe as you peek out without making a sound; working yourself up to speak with this strange man takes some effort. He has just closed the door and is about to cross around the front bumper when your voice finally comes, timorous but sweet as Georgia peaches. “Excuse me, sir,” you say, brows tipping as he turns to you. “Do you happen to know the way to route four-thirty-one from here?”

The cloud cover never wanes as you meander along the highways that lead to Hawkins. Even as the hour deepens to late afternoon, there is no glow of warmth from the sun; only cold bright grayness follows you as your gas gauge edges toward a quarter-tank, and you pull off to find a gas station and something to fill your aching stomach. You shade your eyes as you stand beside the pump and squint across the street, gaze catching on a familiar mascot: a swirl of hair like a dollop of black whipped cream and the red suspenders of Frisch’s Big Boy. The sight promises cheap food which will almost certainly be filling enough for your single midday meal.

The place isn’t overwhelmingly busy inside, but you still need to wait by the empty hostess stand before you’re taken to your seat. Against the long smudged window, shiny stickers and little childish baubles crowd the twenty-five cent machines, but your interest lies in the considerably more drab newspaper dispenser beside those colorful globes. You aren’t quite at your destination yet, but you’re close enough that local ads will likely provide you with a taste of your chosen home before you reach it. You purchase one quickly, wedging the newspaper under your arm and jumping almost guiltily when the hostess returns and finally chirps a greeting at you. You feel as if you’ve done something wrong as you trail after her, though as she hands you a menu and leaves you with a pleasant smile, she implies nothing of the sort.

You don’t spend long perusing the menu before you make up your mind. You order with a soft voice as the waitress scratches across her pad, promising to bring your orange juice and coffee in a jiffy. “Thank y’ma’am,” you say, small with your hands folded one over the other in your lap.

You wait eagerly, stomach rumbling in earnest now that it knows your meal is well on the way. If you had to choose one type of food to eat for the rest of your life, breakfast would surely be it. A smile plays on your lips, and your mouth wells up with wanting as you picture it: crispy fried potatoes, eggs any which way, fluffy sweet milk waffles, cream of wheat with maple syrup and cinnamon. That one’s mama’s favorite. Pa’s is country fried steak, with a crunchy crust but tender and pink inside. Paul’s is—

You hedge from the thought, skipping quickly along to yours: dense, crumbly biscuits and thick, well-seasoned gravy, with little savory bits of sausage mixed in. They hadn’t had that here, so you ordered the pancakes and sausage links with a side of over-easy eggs, plus the coffee and orange juice. You’d gotten into the habit of eating once a day, mostly because it was easier to eat one big meal than try to stop for several smaller ones. That means that, as you sit there waiting, the scents of the kitchen and the clinking of silverware quickly become a dizzying reminder of your hunger, one that necessitates a distraction. So you spread the newspaper out against the table, turning each page slowly as you scan for the town that tastes of fresh laundry and hay.

You spot it once you reach the classifieds. It’s in an ad blazoned with one bold word across the top: vacancy. Forest Hills Trailer Park, the paper reads. Ready-to-move-in trailers, spacious for singles and small families. Just a five-minute drive from downtown Hawkins. In tiny font, tiny enough that you need to scrunch your nose and draw your face close to the paper to read it, the ad remarks, No background check or references required. First month’s rent plus deposit due at lease signing.

Forest Hills Trailer Park will clearly be a far cry from what you’ve left behind, but it checks all the necessary boxes, especially the most important ones.

You fold the newspaper, creasing it carefully with your fingernails before tearing bit by bit along that manufactured edge until the advertisement comes free. You’ve just carefully deposited the clipping into your pocket as the food comes, steaming and succulent, making your mouth instantly water.

“How’s it look?” Your waitress asks as if you aren’t itching to pounce on the plate the second she goes away, devouring your sustenance like a starved animal.

“Looks great,” you assure her, tiny and sweet and small and docile. “Thank you so much.”

But even once she leaves you to it, your manners forbid you from such a thing. You keep your elbows off the table and cut the pancakes with little even saws of your knife, spearing each square daintily with your fork before raising it to your lips. You eat your meal as if everyone around you is watching, even though no one is.

When your waitress returns with a refill for your coffee, you ask her for directions to Hawkins. For the first time, her eyes rove over you, taking in the winter coat you haven’t removed and the glinting silver cross at the base of your throat that peeks above the collar of your starchy dress. She squints at you and asks, “What, ya visitin’ family?”

When you don’t reply, she gestures with the coffee pot. “Take thirty-five west and keep drivin’ ‘til you reach the barn with the cow out front. Then turn left there. Y’can’t miss it.”

The ‘cow out front’ turns out to be a cow statue, bigger than any real cow you’ve ever seen and certainly not one you could miss, as she said. You slow and turn left, finally abandoning the highway for a scenic road lined with pine trees that stand like silent sentinels as you carefully guide your vehicle along the road to…

Home.

Your new home.

Now that it feels so imminent— this decision you’ve made to build your nest at the feet of the supposed ‘gate of hell’— doubt begins to creep in, freezing at the edges of your ribs and creeping toward your center. You’ve driven more than twelve hours from your origin-place, and America is vast— so vast— with more motels than stars you can count across the expanse of the sky on a clear summer’s night.

And you’ve set your mind on this place because you saw it in a pamphlet?

Your fingers tremble as you pass tree after tree, branch after branch, leaf after leaf, a sea of unending forest stretching to enclose you and the road you follow. Might as well’ve spun myself around at the treeline, pointed a finger, and started walking, you think to yourself, the leather of the wheel creaking under your wringing hands. It is one thing to run aimlessly; it is quite another to plop yourself down the same way.

'Trust in the LORD with all your heart; and lean not unto your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct your paths.'

“Proverbs,” you whisper, your trembling beginning to subside with each exhaled word that passes through your lips. “Chapter three, verses five and six.” The fingers of one hand unpeel from the steering wheel to clasp instead around the silver at your throat. And by the time your fingers have warmed the metal, your doubt has calmed, and a sign on the right interrupts the treeline, declaring you’ve arrived.

Hawkins, Indiana. The forest gives way to typical small-town life, though the evidence of what occurred here almost three years ago is still evident in the divots of scarred earth now frosted over with ice, like sharp gauze packing a wound. Some buildings are in permanent disrepair— collapsed, crumbled, roofs caved in, wood and brick sinking into the earth like sinew and bone, partially covered over by hairy weeds that expose the steady march of time. But as you drive slowly toward the center of town, where is rebuilt is teeming with small-town life, not unlike the place you’ve come from. As the sun begins to wane, warm lights slowly blink on inside cozy split-levels and ranches to take its place. Wives welcome husbands home from work before sitting down for supper; children are called in from the streets as mothers stand in breezeways, dropping bikes to be left abandoned in the frosty grass until tomorrow. Despite the present bleak midwinter and the past tragedy that befell them, life goes on for the people of Hawkins, Indiana. That fact conjures a sense of peace as you wander through, searching idly for Kerley— the road that leads to the trailer park. This is the place described as hosting the gate of hell? As you pass bare cornfields and sleepy suburban streets, Hawkins feels so far from it that your earlier fear seems suddenly silly.

You meander the town in your pastel blue Lincoln until you happen upon Kerley Street. By the time you finally reach the turnoff for Forest Hills Trailer Park, the black of night has fallen like a curtain over the vague rectangular structures that crowd beyond the gravel entrance. Your headlights swing and illuminate a slapdash sign that designates the land manager’s residence, and you’re relieved to see a vague glow seeping through the crack below the door and between the curtains, persistent despite the clear attempts to keep it concealed from the outside world. You park the car and hold onto the doorframe as you emerge onto gravel, which you waver over in your low heels until you reach the stairs at the base of the porch. There’s a cracked flowerpot on the bottom step, but instead of the husks of flowers you expect, it’s loaded with cigarette butts, decaying in layers of paper and used nicotine.

You stare at the door for a moment before announcing yourself. You’re nervous to be confronted with the unfamiliar person beyond; foreboding clenches in your chest, but it can’t be helped. A rap of your knuckles conjures the man who’d tried so valiantly to hide that he was home. His shirt is dirty, his pants sag, and his shave isn’t close to even; he eyes you wearily as you stand on his stoop. “Locked out?” he asks dully, and you flounder a moment before replying, swallowing to wet your throat and hope your voice stays steady.

“I don’t live here,” you say, “but… I’m lookin’ to. That is, I saw in the paper you had vacancies—” You shove your hand in your coat pocket and pull out the newspaper clipping, passing it over. The man surveys the ad perfunctorily, one bushy brow quirked. The toothpick between his teeth bobs as he plays with it, his eyes sliding to you as you ask hesitantly, “...Do you still have vacancies?”

His chuckle comes so fast it’s startling. The sound is raspy, like he needs to clear his throat. “‘Course I have vacancies.” He pulls the toothpick from between his lips, flicking it heedlessly away. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

When you shake your head, he jerks his toward the doorway spilling light across the porch. “Come on, then. Let’s get this done.”

You forget his name almost as soon as he tells you, but your land manager seems nice enough. Brusque, sure, but harmless as you sign the papers and pay for the first month’s rent. He waives the deposit— literally waves your words away like irritating wings are fluttering near his ear— and explains, “Place is mostly unfurnished, but you got a bed at least.”

You can’t do anything but stand there stock still as he tells you your house number— seven— and drops the key into your open palm. “Don’t bother callin’ me f’somethin’ breaks. I’m useless at plumbin’ and ‘lectrical. You’ll need to call someone in the profession.” You curl your fingers over cold metal, and the grooves of the key bite your palm as he wags a finger at you. “Y’lose your key, it’ll cost you a fiver to replace.” He waits until you’ve nodded enough to satisfy him, and then he sends you on your way, closing himself away again. The light leaking from the crevices is extinguished by the time you reach your car door.

You guide your car carefully along the gravel path, driving past darkened trailers, past a red dome made of bars and a picnic table, past a trailer with a caved-in roof you stare at as you pass. A great crack churned up the porch floorboards, and between them now sprout tall, dry, brittle grass made feeble by winter’s bite. There's a streetlight nearby, but it's broken; the moonlight that plays on the dilapidated structure makes you shiver. Still, there isn’t much time to react before you’re at your place. Your trailer is a carbon copy of the well-kept rectangular box beside it, except the other has a chain-link fenced-in yard at the front. A clothesline denotes the edge of your side yard from your neighbors’.

As you cut the engine, the world goes quiet. You sit in the stillness, and for a moment, there’s just you, your car, and your new home beyond a scraggly dirt yard.

You think of the other places you’d called home before your temporary motel rooms. You think first of your childhood home, and your mouth fills with peaches, with the hollowness of piano keys and the rich dirt from under the wraparound porch. You think of that tall white house, where your delighted shrieks echoed through warm wood hallways as you ran out the back door toward the stables beyond. Your clumsy fingers had carved your name over your bedroom door in elementary scrawl. Pa’d been so angry when you did that, but he relented and ruffled your hair in the end, shaking his head. He always was too fond of you.

Then you think of the home you could call your own— not your parents’, but yours. Yours and Paul’s. Stately, proud, with more of a brick landing than a porch leading up to the dark oak door. Inside are gauzy curtains and rich wallpaper; plump pillows line the couches just so, and the servers display decorative crystal. As you remember, your mouth fills with powdered sugar and water lilies, the gloss of fine china and the silk of ruffled bed skirts. But there’s metal on the back of your tongue, the copper acrid and biting as it overwhelms the rest. You shudder a breath, breaking from your recollections to finally emerge from the car and face your newest home.

In the moonlight, you can see that it also has a porch, but it’s sagging. You mount its stairs, and they’re rickety, creaking under your heels. Inside, when the screen door cracks back into place behind you, the interior of number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park feels like a void of stillness. The light switch flickers erratically before coming to life when you nudge it with your fingertip as if it hasn’t been called to do its job for quite some time. A long narrow hallway directly across from you leads into darkness, with a living room on your right and a kitchen on your left. All of what you can see is empty aside from a thick layer of dust coating the window frames, which are cracked with dried paint, the drips of sloppy workmanship forever preserved in lacquer. There’s mildew growing at the corner of the wall in the living room, and you hesitate to explore it further, opting to head left instead.

At the threshold of the front door, you’d landed on a filthy, matted-down rug. You clack forward with hesitant steps as if afraid to disturb anything, as if this is someone else’s place, not yours. When you edge into the kitchen, cautiously pulling open the refrigerator door, the cold air leaking from inside is reassuring. But when it suddenly kicks and rattles as if sick or angry, the sound makes you tense and jerk away quickly. It’s empty in this room, too— every drawer and cabinet is barren when you tug them open, aside from the dried corpses of flies mounded in a strange pile on the linoleum in front of the kitchen sink. At least the land manager said there’s a bed. Vague unease begins to well in your chest; you hurry down that dark, narrow hallway, flicking the switch as you pass, but nothing changes. The light does not come on. In the back room, the bed is nothing more than the vague lump of a mattress, lonely on the floor.

The screen door snaps closed behind you as you rush back down the rickety porch stairs. When faced with the choice, you elect to wrap yourself in your scratchy Kentucky blanket, your winter coat, and some extra socks to sleep in the Lincoln despite the bleak midwinter.

Because number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park trips off your tongue; it doesn’t taste like home.

The sun streams cheery light through the windshield, and you wake at just after six, mouth dry as cotton weeds. Your back and neck are sore, cricked from their position against the headrest all night, and the muscles spasm when you stir. You rub your bleary eyes clear, holding your palms against your lashes as if reluctant to remove them and see the state of your new home as it was last night. Eventually, you relent; in the light of day, you peek again at the worn trailer with its gray siding, faded and covered with moss at the concrete base, that rickety porch, and the dull brass knocker concealed behind the screen door…

You take a moment to consider but can’t decide if it’s any better in the light of day.

With a handful of your stolen toiletries, you venture back inside, and the screen door makes you jump as it snaps closed while you’re standing closeby. Your heart hammers, blood rushing in your ears, and you chastise yourself lightly once it calms. I have to remember to lower the door closed, otherwise people’re gonna get mad with me making such a racket in the morning.

A quick glance past that closed door you hadn’t explored yesterday reveals that the bathroom is in a bad state, so you avoid it aside from what’s necessary. You brush your teeth at the kitchen sink, setting the toiletries— tiny bottles and sachets of soap— in a carefully-laid line along the side, conscientiously avoiding the pile of flies near the toes of your kitten heels. With minty freshness on your breath, you feel finally awake, and it’s clear what your first order of business should be: getting this place spic and span. No use living in a pigsty, as mama would say.

You take a moment to survey the trailer more carefully, walking in circles around the living room, the kitchen, and the singular bedroom as you peek into nooks and crannies and compile a mental list of the supplies you’ll need. You move gingerly as if you still do not want to disturb this place, though it’s not quite as foreboding as it was last night.

It’s just an empty box, after all.

You don’t bother unloading the rest of your meager belongings before driving into town for your cleaning supplies and other essentials: bedding and bath towels and cooking utensils and furniture to provide you with somewhere to sit and eat. It hits you then, as the ranches and yards subside into businesses and parking lots, how little you truly have. How much you’d relied on others before, how much you’d taken for granted.

Downtown Hawkins in the daytime is a bustle of quaint activity. The streets aren’t overly crowded because the town is not overly populated, but you can take your time perusing the shops you drive past. And you do— your eyes scan them almost desperately as you try to stamp down on the feeling rising inside that writhes in the pit of your stomach. A video store. An arcade. A laundromat. None of use to you right now, though the laundromat has you thinking of the dress you’re wearing, the way it pinches your arms and pulls tight around your stomach as you drive. You’d managed to ignore the feeling during your flight, but now—gasping and huffing on the comedown as you stop running, and with the enormity of your situation looming before you— the writhing is spreading from your stomach to your chest, pressing outward as if you’ll burst, and the wardrobe you’ve been wearing for months now is finally beginning to suffocate you.

Seeing the thrift store feels like a gust of fresh air has been breathed directly into your lungs, and you don’t even need to ponder it before parking and throwing the car door open to access the backseat. After all, there is no reason to endure any longer; no one is stopping you now. So you dump the contents of your two trash bags onto the Lincoln’s backseat and the remnants of your old life spill over onto the floor. Almost detachedly, you sort the contents into ‘keep’ and ‘sell’ piles; you keep your undergarments and pantyhose and shoes, and you stuff all the dresses— all their linen and gauze and luxurious cotton, all their structured hems and nipped waists and darted busts— into the trash bags to be sold.

If the employee behind the counter is surprised to see the quality of the items you’re selling, more suited to a department than a thrift store, he doesn’t show it. Calmly, you pull out each dress, laying the fabric out carefully before you slide it over the counter towards him. As the garments emerge from your trash bags, their associated occasions flash in your mind. The yellow gingham you’d often wear when visiting family. The pink peony was often seen in your kitchen, protected by an apron covered in flour. The blue linen, one of your old favorites, makes you think of Sunday mass. All get passed to the man on the other side of the counter, all but one that sticks in your memory, left laid against the bedspread back in Georgia.

The man examines each dress and punches staccato numbers into a calculator with the eraser of his number two pencil until they’re all gone from you, and in their place is a wad of bills you can use to shop for a new wardrobe.

If the employee behind the counter finds it strange that you’ve sold your department store dresses to buy thrift store ones, he doesn’t show it.

Gathering your replacements doesn’t take long because you know exactly what you want. Your new wardrobe should be modest and comfortable, comprised of a practical assortment of casual dresses and cardigans, a couple of nicer frocks for your Sunday best, and some loungewear for the house, including a bathrobe that makes your cheeks burn when it slides across the counter toward that same employee from before. After making your purchases, you carry the plastic bag into the dressing room, slipping behind the velvet curtain and pulling one casual dress out at random.

You rip down the tiny zipper on the starchy dress you've been wearing since yesterday, and the release of pressure is bliss. Though the cotton of your new dress is a little scratchier than what you’d been wearing before, you don’t hesitate in kicking the old fabric aside before gazing at yourself in the mottled thrift store mirror.

The new dress buttons up past your decolletage. It’s almost long enough to skim your ankles, and it is at least one size too big, maybe two. It looks more fitting for a forty-year-old than your twenty-one years; some might even call it frumpy. But it’s what you want.

Because when you think about the clothes you’d been wearing— think about how, over the last year, your breasts and hips and thighs and stomach had gradually broadened, softened, begun to press uncomfortably against the fabric even after your mother had let out the seams as far as they could go— frumpy doesn’t compare with what you’d experienced.

You remember the sympathy in Paul’s tawny brow as he stared down at you. ‘No, Buttercup, I’m sorry. Think of it as an incentive,’ he’d said kindly when you’d asked for an allowance to purchase bigger clothes. ‘I’m just trying to help you.’ You remember how the ladies in town could see the way the beautifully tailored dresses, once so flattering, now bulged and bunched around the heft of your changing body, especially around your midsection. And you knew, though they were always too polite to say it, that when you gathered with them after church or ran into them at the grocery store, they couldn’t help but glance at your tummy and wonder if you were pregnant. But you weren’t pregnant. You were just…

Fat.

The reflection in the mirror suddenly doesn’t feel like you. That’s not your soft jaw; those aren’t your round cheeks. Your dress wouldn’t balloon so far outward over your breasts and stomach, and your thighs wouldn’t rub together because that isn’t you. But those are your eyes, and your hair, and your lips and fingers. And when you twist to look at your backside, so does she; when you smooth your palms over your ample hips, she does too. So she must be you.

You just wish she wasn’t.

You pull your attention from your body and focus instead on your dress, trying to detach from that knowledge again. The important part is that this dress doesn’t restrict or cling or reveal any unsavory lumps and bumps, and that’s what you want. You pull on some woolen stockings and a loose cardigan since it is still January, and after sliding on your low heels once again, you leave the thrift store behind.

You can run from that dressing room— can slip back into your car, load the new plastic bag into the backseat and coax the engine to life— but you cannot run from your feelings. And seeing yourself in the mirror has left you hollow and wanting, exposing the void inside that begs to be filled in that familiar way, the way you’ve grown used to over the last year. Your kitchen at home may be bare, but from beyond your windshield, you can see what will help you fill it. There’s a bright spot down the road and across the way in the lot beside the general store.

Miss Daisy’s Diner.

As you leave your purchases behind in the car, your eyes glaze over the help wanted sign written in beautiful script in the diner window; you’re more focused on filling that hollow place inside you. And inside Miss Daisy’s Diner is more than enough to satisfy the ache.

There isn’t just the promise of good food waiting for you at Miss Daisy’s. There’s the scent of grease and salt on the air, sure, but there’s something else there too. Something that beckons you forward, light and almost ticklish, like the heat of panting breath, the softness of a furry ear dragging under your chin to the tip until it flicks off. Before you know it, you’ve taken two steps forward, and a waitress in a swish of skirts and a flick of her manicured nails has plucked a single menu from the stand.

“One?” she asks, chipper as you nod. “Booth or table?”

“Table,” you answer, and she leads you to one.

She leaves you with the menu, but you don’t yet look at it, consumed by the crowded atmosphere around you. The restaurant seems almost suspended in time with its black and white tiled floor, the retro-patterned tabletops, the chrome, the beveled glass windows, the teal and white booths and chairs that squeak with vinyl when you adjust in your seat. The walls are loaded with pictures and posters, memorabilia of the 50s and 60s: Coca-Cola bottles, old cars, Elvis and Marilyn, novelty signs advertising products for cents on the dollar. The effect is charming, made even more so when you realize that each table, including yours, is decorated with a white daisy in a glass of water. Somehow, the interior of this restaurant feels jubilant and comforting, like the bright joy of Easter, even though it’s January. Maybe that has something to do with how full it is— though it’s around ten o’clock on a Thursday, the place is no less than three-quarters full.

“Hey there, dear. You decide what you want yet?”

The croak interrupts your reminiscing, and you startle upon seeing a different woman than the one who’d brought you here— older, with gray hair coiffed into a beehive and pink lipstick crackled on her lips. “Oh!” You are immediately repentant. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry. I haven’t looked yet.”

The woman snorts, but it’s all in good humor. “Ma’am,” she echoes you, though where yours was respectful, hers is slightly sardonic. “No need to go reminding me I’m old, dear.” You crackle with nerves, but she grins at you with slightly yellowed teeth. “I’ll come back when you’re ready. Just flag me down, all right?”

You manage a nod, nerves easing as she taps the table with her wrinkled hand and leaves you to it.

The menu is not overly vast, but it takes some time to decide what will fill that void you feel, what you’re really yearning for. In the end, you settle on a Reuben sandwich with french fries and a chocolate milkshake. Though all the waitresses are dressed the same here to fit the theme, you’re grateful for your waitress’s distinctive beehive as you catch her attention, peeking at the nametag she has pinned to the right of her collar when she arrives. ‘Sherry,’ it reads, and oddly, there’s a little doodle of a shamrock beside it which looks to be drawn on in permanent marker.

“Comin’ right up, sweetie,” she promises you.

“Thank you, m—” you swallow the ‘ma’am,’ and Sherry’s smile widens as she wags a finger at you.

“Watch it, you; I heard that,” she says, her voice a croaking tease. “Don’t you start.”

You giggle, and when she leaves you again, it isn’t just the promise of food that makes you feel better.

The sandwich comes quicker than you expected, considering how busy it is, and it's delicious: creamy Russian dressing, salty corned beef and mild Swiss sliced thin, piled together with tart sauerkraut. The outside of the bread is grilled crisp and not too greasy, and the fries are hot and crunchy, a perfect balance with the thick, sweet coldness of your milkshake. It’s perfect; you couldn’t have asked for more.

As you eat, you watch the waitresses flit about in their matching yellow dresses with white collars, aprons, and cuffs, gathering behind the bar counter when not visiting their tables or pushing through the swinging doors to the kitchen. You watch them laugh and chat with one another, and it pricks at something familiar inside you. It’s been years now, but you still remember what it feels like to flit from table to table, to smile and serve, to share in that camaraderie behind the bar, though the place where you’d done it was nothing like this.

Once you’ve thoroughly cleaned your plate, Sherry stops by again just as the jukebox kicks on to play Baby I’m Yours by Barbara Louis.

“How was it?” she asks, and you tell her it was very good. “Any room for more?” She follows up, eyeing your empty plate, and there’s a sudden hot flash of shame, a moment where you think she might turn wolfish. But her tone and expression remain nothing but sincere, so it wanes. Still, you hedge on an answer, deliberating whether to accept the offer.

She notices your hesitation and perks her brows, coaxing, “We’ve got a mean pecan pie.” A little encouraging smile plays on her crackled lips. “Sounds like that might be right up your alley, judging by your accent.”

It is true— you love pecan pie. And that void was lessened by your meal but not quite filled. So you accept, and Sherry brings you the slice.

And you think maybe this is what does it— this slice of pecan pie. The crust all golden brown, the pecans placed so carefully on top, the filling gooey but not falling into a gelatinous heap upon the plate. Your sandwich had been so good, and your milkshake, too, and this, now— this just looks so good.

You take a bite of the mean pecan pie, and it is not good.

You chew slowly, nose scrunched, brow furrowed just slightly. It’s not… horrible. But it’s not good. Certainly not as good as the pecan pie at home.

Miss Daisy’s Diner is so inviting inside, suspended in time, straight out of the glossy world of dreams. The chrome is shiny, the teal booths pleasant, and each table is adorned with a single daisy. The doo-wop of the jukebox mixes with the hum of conversation; the waitresses in their yellow dresses laugh with patrons as they fill up their coffee mugs and emerge from those swinging doors with plates loaded with delicious food. But the pie isn’t delicious, and you would hazard a guess, as you crane your neck to peek at the display of cakes and muffins beneath the far end of the bar, that the rest of their baked goods are the same way: good-looking under the lights, but nothing compared to what you’re used to.

Nothing compared to what you can do.

'Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.'

When Sherry stops by the table to ask if she can get you anything else, your reply comes swift and easy. “I saw the sign in your window. Are y’all still hiring?”

It’s a quick affair, becoming a waitress at Miss Daisy’s Diner.

When you ask that question, Sherry’s brows flash, but she sits across from you right away, crossing her legs smartly as she asks you a series of quick questions. You used to work at the restaurant in a country club back home, and though it’s been a few years now, you know how to answer them all sufficiently. That kind of knowledge— the knowledge you gain from experience— never really leaves you. When you finish, she looks at you discerningly before shrugging. “Well, y’seem alright to me. Just wait here. I’ll get Willy.” She pauses half out of her chair as if a thought has just occurred to her. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Emma,” you tell her, and despite the croak of her lungs, your name flows like molasses off Sherry’s tongue when she repeats it back to you.

Willy is the owner of Miss Daisy’s Diner, and he looks nothing like the ‘Miss Daisy’ pictured on the menu. Where she appears crisp and plucky, Willy is doughy and lax. You learn that there is no real Miss Daisy, though Willy jokes, "All my chickadees here are Miss Daisy. That’s why they dress alike." He doesn’t even interview you after learning Sherry already talked to you; apparently, that’s good enough for him. Instead, he just rambles about scheduling, uniforms, and payroll, speaking in slow circles that loop back and around again until Sherry cuts him off.

“I’ll get her up to speed, Willy,” she says, and his face splits with a lazy smile.

“Sher’ll get you trained up,” he concludes as if it was his idea.

He begins to turn from the table, and you pipe up before he can leave. “When can I start?”

Willy shrugs lazily, looking towards his employee. “Tomorrow?” he offers, and Sherry concurs, and that is that.

When you leave Miss Daisy’s Diner, your Lincoln is parked down the street where you left it, the white plastic bag of your new clothes visible through the backseat window. When you get in, your pillow and blanket are beside you, reminding you of the lumpy mattress and the pile of dead flies that need to be tidied. Your original goal for the day still looms ahead.

But, God, you aren’t complaining. You swear it. Because Hawkins is a refuge, and you have a job, and the bleeding finally stopped this morning. And there’s security in the first chore you’ve decided to begin your new life with. You’re intimately acquainted with mopping, dusting, and scrubbing, having learned to clean well in the last three years. While you don’t particularly enjoy it, there’s comfort in making something dirty into something clean. By tomorrow, your trailer will no longer be a pigsty, and maybe you’ll sleep in your bed tonight. Tomorrow, you get to go back to Miss Daisy’s Diner, back to Sherry and the jukebox and the flowers on the tables, and maybe you’ll be laughing behind the bar this time.

‘For I know the thoughts that I think concerning you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you the end that you wait for.’

Thank you, Father.

In the few days following your first day in Hawkins, you learn many things. You learn that the daisies on the tables of Miss Daisy’s Diner are made of fabric and wire, and the water is dried glue. You learn that Willy— given name Wilbur— might own the place, but the girls run it. You learn that the coffee maker sometimes doesn’t spit out water unless you smack it hard and that you won’t get a shiny nametag to match the others until Willy orders one from a special shop, which may take a while. You learn that the yellow dresses and aprons might look cute, but they aren’t all that comfortable, though Sherry kindly accommodated your request for the largest size she could get. It's not quite as big as the dresses you'd picked for yourself, but she did her best.

Still, these cracks in the facade of Miss Daisy’s don’t make it any less charming to you. The pace is hectic, and though each restaurant has its own way of doing things, you fall back into that ebb and flow quickly with the help of all the girls, who don’t hesitate to welcome you into the herd. That’s another thing that helps— the waitresses are all kind and helpful, though more curious about you than you’d prefer, sniffing at your hair and shoes when you aren't looking. It becomes apparent very quickly that they’re all the same: goats who bleat at one another across the floor and nibble at the strings of one another’s aprons in friendly affection, yours included. You aren’t quite one of them, but they don’t seem to notice.

You can’t hide your accent, of course, so they know you're not from around here. There’s always that awareness in a small town— even your tables ask you about it. You remain vague about your past, reserved but polite with your coworkers and charming with your customers, treating them with hospitality just like mama raised you. The beatitudes guide your manner: meek and humble, righteous and merciful, pure of heart and generous. A peacemaker, bringing harmony to those around you.

It’s almost enough to make you think you might have white wool after all, though you can’t quite shake the raven feathers that shudder when you return home to your nest with its barren sticks and its piles of stolen trinkets you gathered on your flight to Hawkins. That’s why you spend as much time as you can at work, soothed by the dulcet tones of the jukebox as you flit from table to bar to kitchen and back again until all begins to feel familiar and comforting.

Safe.

By the end of your first week, you’ve also grown accustomed to the back of the house. Even the sight of Harry, the line cook, begins to comfort you. He is large, broad-shouldered and thick, but his movements are measured and gentle, set with a pace that speaks assurance that things will get done when they get done. In fact, his movements are so predictable that every time you shuffle through the swinging doors into the kitchen at the start of your shift, you anticipate the repetitive sound of his thick bull hands scraping the spatula slow and even as he works the cooktop.

So the sight that greets you now as you catch the door from Sherry is quite jarring.

Before the cooktop stands a man who is both shorter and thinner than Harry but somehow far more imposing. He’s angular and jagged, frenetic in his movements: booted foot tapping tile, elbow jutting sharp as he jerks the spatula, a wild mess of curls shaking as his head bobs exaggeratedly. And the sound of the kitchen isn’t at all soothing in his presence. There’s some kind of tinny howling coming from him, some unholy noise that nearly makes you halt at the threshold of the swinging doors before you realize it’s coming from underneath his hair and not from him, exactly. You quickly spot the thin cord running down to the tape player clipped to his tight dark pants, though the handkerchief swaying at his hip— old and spilling loose threads, black and white and emblemed with eerie skulls— has your nerves kicking up again just as quickly.

Sherry’s voice is hoarse from smoke and age but, to your surprise, not filled with even a hint of the same nerves as she greets the man. “Afternoon, Ed,” she says, sounding almost fond as she shouts to be heard above the music.

Almost instantly, the headphones are jerked down to hang around his neck, and when the man spins abruptly from the cooktop to face you both, your chest clenches again. His voice is brash and warm, mouth split wide to flash his eyeteeth as his gaze finds your coworker quickly. “Afternoon, Sher,” he says, mimicking her fond inflection, a teasing grin dimpling the corner of his plush pink lips. “How’s my best girl?”

Your eyes quickly dart from him to Sherry and then back, face frozen so as not to reveal your reaction: a mixture of wariness and confusion since he looks almost thirty years younger than her. Sherry just rolls her eyes and purses her lips, which are crackled with deep pink lipstick. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all your best girl, aren’t we, Eddie?” It’s said with long-suffering sarcasm like this exchange is akin to slipping on an old pair of shoes— worn in and comfortably molded to one’s foot.

The man, Eddie, doesn’t reply, though his smile does widen. Sherry nods your way but addresses him. “This is the new girl. Be nice,” she warns, wagging a gnarled finger.

“Whaddya mean, Sher? I’m always nice.” Eddie huffs through his nose, showily stretching his arms above his head and holding his clothed elbows as his eyes slide to you. Yours dip to the dark stains beneath his pits, the evidence of his toil and sweat that begs the question of why he’d be wearing long sleeves if he’s that hot. “Hello, new girl,” he says lightly, and his voice hums like there’s a secret joke he’s holding back from laughing at.

The cock of his hip, the sharpness of his limbs, the narrowness of his waist where the apron is tied hastily, the stretch of his ribcage against the dirty long-sleeved shirt, the tilt of his lips— it hits you suddenly what he is, just as suddenly as you’d realized that Sherry and the girls are bleating goats and Harry is a gentle bull.

This man is a coyote.

Suddenly, that feeling of safety is threatened. What else could explain that rush of tingling awareness pricking up your neck when he acknowledges your presence, if not the fear that a predator is near?

Instinct drives a prey animal when confronted in such a way. You’ve seen it yourself back at home: hens clucking and skittering in the dirt when they sense a fox, horses swaying uneasily in their stalls when a wolf prowls the woods beyond the paddock. And like a prey animal, your body can either freeze or flee. It chooses the latter.

You squeak out some semblance of a greeting— even fear can’t entirely overwhelm the graces you’ve been taught— and hurry around Sherry to duck into Willy’s office. You want to close the door, to wedge a physical barrier between yourself and those dark eyes and flashing white teeth, but you resist the urge knowing Sherry will be coming in right behind you, and the gesture is not only futile but potentially rude.

You’re tying your apron when she enters, and she catches your eyes immediately when you look up. Sherry purses her lips at the sight of your flushed cheeks and wide eyes; she chuckles, but there’s an edge of sympathy. “Oh, come on now, dear," she consoles you. “Eddie might look some type of way, but he doesn’t bite.” Her wrinkled eyes soften as she regards you, the tease in her voice gentling as she adds, “He’s a good boy.”

You force a smile, but her assurances can’t dispel the goosebumps prickling along your flesh. They don’t calm your trembling fingers as they slip your notepad into your white apron, smoothing along scratchy cotton afterward as if attempting to press out the bulge it makes against the front of your body. Your body whispers danger and your mind does, too. And if the spirit guides the flesh, then you know you feel this way for a reason.

Sherry’s platitudes are no match for instinct and belief.

After your initial spook, your shift progresses much the same as any other. You greet your tables, fetch them drinks, faithfully record their orders, deliver their plates, ask them if they need ketchup or hot sauce, chit-chat just a tad, drop the check, and bid them ‘have a good day now,’ parting with a smile. Your voice doesn’t even waver when you push open those double doors; your call of ‘corner’ is sweet and stable, less tremulous than how you began earlier this week. The only time fear squeezes your chest is when you must clip up your tickets. Because that means you’ll have to approach the coyote, draw near to his jagged elbows, those dark, angular legs, and the abundance of curls that cling damply to the edges of his pale jaw and conceal his expression from your view. At least facing Eddie’s back or side is considerably easier than his front; luckily, he’s so thoroughly occupied by the cooktop that he doesn’t acknowledge you before you scamper off. Your fear becomes a predictable wave: with each step toward him, your chest tightens, and with each step away, you feel the clench begin to ease.

You’ve just swung returned to the floor, loose and nearly chipper, when Samantha hurries over, holding a loaded plate, her ponytail and yellow skirts swishing as she skids to a stop before you. “Emma! There you are.” She beams brightly, and the words huff out of her as if just the sight of you is a relief. It makes you feel warm inside, and that warmth blooms in the smile you answer her with before asking,

“Is that mine?”

You look down at the plate as she nods, noting that the steak has just barely been cut on the corner, not even all the way through. “It’s from table four. She wants it cooked a little more. More like medium-well,” she explains, and you take the plate without a thought.

“Sure thing,” you say, and it isn’t until you’ve pushed back through those swinging doors into the kitchen that you realize what this task will require.

Your throat dries as you approach Eddie, eyes darting over the white of his shirt, how the fabric has gone somewhat translucent where it sticks to the planes of his back. His shoulders roll as he stretches to the side to reach a hoagie roll without moving his feet, which still tap along with the rhythm coming from the headphones slung around his neck. The sound of howling has since subsided to resonant thumping and the faint melody of some screeching instrument, which grows clearer as you edge closer with your plate.

Closer and closer still you draw until you can detect the faint scent of sour sweat, pungent smoke, and something earthy as the coyote turns his head back to the cooktop, still oblivious to your presence. You halt then, feet sticking as your clenched chest whispers that you’ve come close enough. Eddie continues to load chopped beef, peppers, and onions into the hoagie roll, and you hover some steps away until his chin happens to edge left, and he catches you in his peripheral.

His long eyelashes flick up as his gaze flashes to you, eyebrows jerking in mild acknowledgment, mouth soft and slack. The eye contact makes you hasty; you push out your voice and plate together, squeaking, “Can you cook this more? …Please?” You tack the pleasantry on, nudging your elbows forward as if urging him to take the plate as quickly as possible.

You want him to take the plate, but still, you must resist a flinch when his hand outstretches to receive it from you. His palm is broad, with callouses dotting along the meatiest sections, and his fingers are long and ruddy at the tips. Your breath hitches at the sight of his hand’s approach, but all Eddie does is grasp the plate. As soon as his fingers close around its edge, you snatch yours back toward the safety of your body. “Thank you,” you say, and you hazard a glance at his face.

A dimple forms on Eddie’s cheek as he grins, and his voice is warm and brash when he meets your eye and replies, “For you, sweetness? Anytime.”

And then he winks, a quick flash of those long lashes to conceal a sparkling brown iris.

Such a small thing, really, to say and to do. Thrown just as casually as a smile for a stranger who holds the door for you, just a brief moment of banter between coworkers as they cross paths in the diner kitchen.

But the swell of emotion Eddie’s words and wink conjures within you is not a small thing. You jerk away from him, a fierce spasm of your muscles to match the fist of fear that seizes you tightly and shakes you until you’re left trembling. The feeling is visible all over your body— in the tightening of your arms against your middle, the shrinking of your shoulders, the blanching of your face, the quiver of your lower lip, the widening of your wet eyes.

The sudden violence of your reaction clearly shocks him. Instantly, Eddie’s spine straightens, and his face falls. Those dark eyes go wide to match yours, confusion sinking into ruefulness as your back begins to bow— feet planted but spine arching, upper body inching back as if your only desire is to get away from him. All the warm brashness in his voice has deflated as he stutters, “Look, I– I was just— I’m—”

Had he gotten it out, would it have been an apology? An explanation? Would it have put you at ease, unclenched that feeling inside? Who’s to say. Because desperate to repair, to stop your backward flight, Eddie reaches out a hand toward you again. Soft, palm upturned, fingers slack. An entreaty to stay and let him fix things. Suddenly and acutely, your wrist aches at the approach of his palm; with that shock of pain, your freeze finally turns to flight.

In a burst of white and yellow, you skitter and spin toward the swinging doors, leaving your predator behind.

It’s a temporary balm, of course. You cannot avoid the coyote in the kitchen forever. After all, you have a steak to retrieve. This is your responsibility, and though the temptation to ask Samantha to fetch it for you is there, you know it would be wrong to give in to that impulse.

Out of the kitchen, in the front of the house, Miss Daisy’s Diner carries on as if nothing has happened. All is calm; all is bright. You hear the familiar clinking of utensils against ceramic, the swish of yellow skirts and the squeak of sneakers, the bleating of the girls mixed with the crackly doo-wop of the jukebox. Someone has put on Try Me by James Brown, and you whisper the words along with him as you shake off the tension like feathers ruffling to wick off water. ‘Try me,’ ‘hold me,’ ‘need you,’ you sing, the words repeating over and over like the lazy spin of a record on the turnstile. The slow beat eases you back into the rhythm of the floor as you steal precious minutes before you must return to the kitchen.

When you can delay it no longer, you edge back through those doors, breathing slowly to keep yourself from turning away as you anticipate the sight of his body, angular and jagged, coiled tight. But the slope of the coyote’s shoulders is low, and the frenetic swaying of his hips is still now. The howling has quieted, and the jerking of his spatula is slow, slow like Harry’s, which you’re used to. It helps to ease your cautious steps as you reach him, stopping a short distance away. You can see that the plate of your steak is prepared for you to retrieve it, resting on the counter just on the other side of him.

It doesn’t take as long for Eddie to notice you this time, and your chest threatens to clench when his chin turns your way. You try to push out a reminder of what you need. “C-can you—”

Eddie doesn’t make you ask. “Yeah,” he interrupts, “No problem.”

The three words do not sound angry or sad; they do not sound like much of anything, really. His mouth does not open wide to say them. Instead, his white teeth hide behind his pink lips as he passes you the plate with no other words exchanged between you. And as soon as you receive it, Eddie turns his face away.

Each successive visit to the kitchen that afternoon proves the truth of the matter. Since that first encounter, the coyote’s tail has since been tucked between his legs. The points of his teeth have been filed, and with them, over the course of those hours, your fear of his bite finally begins to ease.

So why, then, does your wrist still ache?

chapter two: I'll be seeing you is coming soon.

taglist: @emma77645 @ashlynnkennedy @luna-munson83 @micheledawn1975 @gaysludge @hazydespair @ebaylee422 @thebrookemunson @a-time-for-wolvess @lightmelikeamatch @live-love-be-unique @daleyeahson @bexreadstoomuch @devilinthepalemoonlite @screaming-blue-bagel @mcueveryday @ethereal27cereal @vintagehellfire @razzeith @josephquinncore

@h-ness1944 - not taggable

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adobe-outdesign · 2 years

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DHMIS Easter Eggs and Background Details

A huge list of a bunch of background details, foreshadowing, and Easter Eggs I noticed on my second watch-through. Note that I’m only including things that are fairly obscure, rather than “obvious” items others have already pointed out (so I’m not including the symbol sightings, for example). Feel free to add on with anything I missed.

Episode 1

In the theme song, Red Guy is “you”, which makes sense as he’s usually the audience surrogate character

Among the briefcase’s papers is a sticky note with 1906 on it

Right as the briefcase leaves, the last line is “you can be the ones who dig a hole for a funeral” as foreshadowing to the next episode

Everyone’s name tag in the factory has their name except for Yellow’s, which just says “employee”

When Bird is talking to Red in the office, he says that they’ve only been there for “9 minutes”. This is at the 14 minute mark and they got to Peterson’s at 5 minutes in, so they have indeed been there 9 minutes

According to the Carehound poster, Peterson’s is closed Mon–Sat and is open for exactly 4 minutes at 10 PM on Sun

Red Guy framed and hung the fax the fax machine gave him on the wall

Before the song starts the briefcase is rushing off to his job, but when the song ends he tells Brendon it’s time for his bath (as in, they’re going home). Meaning that teaching/torturing the puppets was the job he was rushing off to

Episode 2

The orange with eyes that was in the very first DHMIS short is in the BG when Red checks his ID card

The gel teacher appears as an inanimate object while Duck’s in the bathroom during the Big Day song

The tissue box says “sad squares” on it

Yellow’s red overalls from the ending of the DHMIS 6 short appear on his bed

The make your new friend box claims the new friend is not, in fact, toilet trained

The cassette that Duck plays is the same song from the end credits

Stain mentions “some people think we’re in a simulation” during their song, which references both the end of the OG series and episode 6 of this show

The shovel at the end of this episode cameos at the end of the original DHMIS 6 short as a teacher

There are a bunch of maggots by real!Bird’s feet at the end before they start the song

Episode 3

The Chuddle Dollops are “warm lasagna flavor”

Lillie and Todney switch their shirts from brown to black and white stripes while at their house for some reason

The picture Todney holds up appears to show Yellow holding a very Dead Duck by the leg

When Todney and Lillie are measuring their heights, the names on the wall are “grandma”, “Todney” and “Lily” (spelled with a Y)

When they measure Yellow’s height, they also measure his feet. They’re getting his measurements so they know what size to make the outfit they stick him in later

Duck has the toasted bread slice child from earlier on the table when Red drops in

Episode 4

That triangle thing from the original series shows up on the bookshelf early on

The apple teacher from the last episode also shows up on the shelf, surprisingly not eaten

The pamphlets Warren holds up for the restaurant-style meal include one for Grolton’s Chiken

The trio’s digital style avatars from DHMIS 4 show up in the BG when they go online as well as the “nothing” sign from 2 and the clown painting from 1

There’s a phone in every ep so far, probably as a reference to the role phones played in the OG series. A phone ringing is what leads Red into the office in 1, Red says you have to schedule to use the phone in 2, Lily and Todney cut the landline in 3, and there’s a phone in Yellow’s brain that Warren uses to order food

The search results on Colin include “long faced individuals in YOUR area - looking to chat!” and “long faced man VS horse - the ultimate long face showdown!”

Episode 5

The recipe note on the fridge says “rat shin”, “pie”, and “egg soup”

The photo in the kitchen background changes to a different photo each ep

Bird’s clipboard includes “one Jason” at the bottom

Bird individually counting tiles instead of counting it as one floor is valid considering the floor extends infinitely during the blackout in 6

If I’m not mistaken Red walking into another room is the first time that’s ever happened in either the show or the shorts. Usually it just cuts to them already in a different room

There’s another phone on the wall in the living room

The train teacher’s eyebrows fall off in bike form and remain gone while in car form

Mullhoven’s name is on a signpost (and the teacher) during a song transition, and the poster under it says that this is a “neighborhood watch area” with a picture of a woman (maybe meant to be Lelsey? though it doesn’t look much like her)

Roy’s face is on a pirate flag

1906 reference on the second bus, which reads “terminal 196″ in all of the destination windows

The car has a worm button in it

Bird says “we’ve already seen a dead horse”, even though they haven’t

Mini-Tony on the dashboard

Time Child’s digital clock reads 19:06

Mulhoven is spelled differently every time it shows up

Some of the Mulhoven signs include “Nice Hair”, “Nice Road”, and “It’s shoes”

Another sign says “Quiz Night Fun: Every Morning (It’s fun!)”

People have pointed out the Roy cameo in the neighbors shot, but Duck is also a few windows down

One character is dressed like Lily (blonde girl with striped shirt and a red letter), though the letter appears to be “I” instead of “L”

Episode 6

The bill is from Roy-Electric and it’s for 19.06 pounds

Electracey’s last two numbers on her neck are 96

Final phone is the fake phone with a real phone in it. Duck also has a phone during the blackout

Drawing with the dead Duck from Episode 5 of the OG series pops up in the BG during the shredder scene

Crossword includes “Roy”, “gravel” (a nod to DHMIS 3), and “aspic” (DHMIS 5)

When Electracey is malfunctioning the sunlight outside flickers with the indoor lights, hinting at the dollhouse thing

One of the chalkboard drawings says “aspic” and another says “Roy”

Clayhill is also on the chalkboard but scribbled out

The electric clock in the house reads “20:06″ (as in June 20th)

The urn that Red smashes has Duck’s face on it, meaning it’s once again another dead Duck

Sketchbook is lying dead beside the other teachers in front of the fridge

The fridge from the opening also shows up, with the same character pictures (and Duck with a powerdrill, the one used for Stain in episode 2)

There’s a decapitated Duck with a TV where the head should be, which lines up with Yellow breaking the doll in the next scene

The symbols on the book are as follows: Red’s eyes, decapitated Duck and Yellow heads (Yellow’s showing him with wires instead of blood), Roy coin from Ep 1 with a worm, battery with a worm, shovel, Tony, and Yellow’s severed hand from Ep 1

#don't hug me i'm scared #dhmis #dhmis series #dont hug me im scared #outdesign posts things #outdesign analyzes things #I think most of this is meaningless background nonsense but it is fun to spot #long post #greatest hits

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solar-sunnyside-up · 6 months

Note

what basic topics would you recommend for zines/pamphlets? im considering things like guerilla gardening and mending basics, but do you have any other ideas?

Those are great topics! Omg!! When you get around to it I super duper wanna read I fucking love zines!!

Here's a few others you could also prob run off with that are solarpunk adjacent:

Dark sky friendly lights

Pricesharing/communal cooking (include a recipe??)

Patch making or other diy guides

Adopt-a-stop program ideas (like renos)

Guerrilla infrastructures (ex. Benches, crosswalks, lights)

Squatting / housing rights / tenant union stuff

Local foraging info

Any one else got ideas feel free to add your own but those are the ones at the top of my head 💕💕

#besties #mail #solarpunk #art #zines #sprout guide #ref

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riesenfeldcenter · 3 months

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One of the items featured at our open house this week was this manuscript with a copy of the death sentence from an 1828 murder case. Richard Johnson was one of the last two people publicly executed in New York, alongside Catherine Cashiere, on May 9th, 1829.

This manuscript includes a couple extracts: a stanza from Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard," paraphrases of Mark 9:48 and Revelation 18:19, and part of Book I of Robert Pollok's The Course of Time, which summarizes the damnation sections of the Book of Revelation.

Probably our favorite part, however, is a recipe for "Potatoe Pudding," scrawled upside down at the bottom of the first page.

The pamphlet image included was found here.

#riesenfeld center #umn #university of minnesota law #university of minnesota law library #rare books #umn law #archives #special collections #law school #manuscript #handwriting #murder trial #execution #recipe

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dontcallmebree · 1 year

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You Make My Heart Skip A Beet by musette22, binding by DCB Bindery (dontcallmebree)

Summary: “I made soda bread.” Steve lets out the 6’2” supersoldier equivalent of a squeak. “Oh, I love soda bread,” he says eagerly, rolling forward on the balls of his feet like he does when he gets excited. “My Ma used to make it all the time when I was growing up.” The tips of Barnes’s ears turn red, and he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “I know.”

Specs: Single section bradel binding, straight back, bookcloth spine covering, pamphlet sewing, brown endpapers, 27 pages, A6.

An incredibly sweet comfort read I keep coming back to, a guaranteed pick me up for any bad day. Thanks @musette22 for letting me bind this adorable work of yours!

On the process: For my first Binderary project, I tried a single section binding to match the typeset meant to resemble a recipe book! The typeset was honestly a blast, and I had fun making sure the elements of a recipe book correspond with the narrative, from the headers to the illustrations to the notes sections substituting what would have been blank pages.

This was also my first foray into bookcloth and pamphlet sewing. Bookcloth worked well enough but I wish I had done a tighter job with the sewing. All in all a great start to Binderary!

More DCB Bindery Projects

#fanbinding #ficbinding #bookbinding #stucky #fic #musette22 #dcb bindery #dontcallmebree #binderary2023

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misforgotten2 · 6 months

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1944

#recipe pamphlet #avocado #1944 #1940'#1940's #ephemera

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newyorkthegoldenage · 4 months

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The Brooklyn Daily Eagle Cook Book of 1926. The Eagle had also published cookbooks in 1922, 1923, and 1924. They were part of the newspaper’s “Libraries,” a series of pamphlets on diverse topics. The recipes were submitted by readers. It sold for a quarter, which was the equivalent of about $30 today.

In Tasty Dishes, cheese dishes outnumbered others. Cheese Fairy, cheese fondue, St. Armand cheese, cheese balls, cheese straws, cheese puffs, cheese patties, and “hot cheese dreams,” all appeared in this section.

Photos: Gotham Center for NYC History

#vintage New York #1920s #vintage cookbooks #Brooklyn Daily Eagle #vintage recipes #vintage Brooklyn #household manual #cheese

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ensemble-news · 11 months

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This week on Ensemble News

With the announcement of the Ra*bits climax event, fans decide to theorize about the possible meanings behind the MV that we'll discuss today.

A fandom project that has gained popularity, the "Ensemble Stars!! Cookbook" is currently in it's interest check, more information about this project ahead.

Want to know more? Stay with us

▶ Fandom Section

Ra*bits Climax Event

The MV for the newest Ra*bits event has been previewed, the song, "Parallel Mazes" happens to contain not only a detailed scenario but also references and winks to the past of the unit, the same way we saw Crazy:B's "Crazy Anthem" go through a similar process.

In a determined part of the video, we're able to see Ra*bits crossing a bridge while looking at their old selves, but the interesting part of it is the poses they make.

A couple of fans decided to discuss these poses trying to find their meaning, to what the conclusions so far have reached two different possibilities.

A user on Twitter ¹ deduced that their poses have to do with them imitating people that have had an important influence for Ra*bits individually, or, people that they look up to.

However, there's also another possibility that people have pointed out, and that is their similarities with Undead and fine.

The argument behind this has to do with the analogy of Heaven and Hell that these two units form.

In any case, both theories have interesting funds, so let us know your opinion about them!

References:

1. Yun (@.sunspotgaze) via Twitter. 14/06/2023. Link

The Ensemble Stars Cookbook

The Ensemble Stars Cookbook is a zine leaded by Posebean, which consists in the recollection of food recipes with an Ensemble Stars theme, the information in their site states:

"Niki's cookbook is an upcoming unofficial cookbook fanzine centered all around cooking!

It will contain art, writing, merch all based off food, and self-made recipes that are specifically themed around various units/idols/groups of Ensemble StarsThe specs of the zine are still up in the air and will be finalized after the interest check has concluded, as well as whether the zine will be for profit, for charity, or both.More detailed information can be found in our Primary Info Doc, as well as application guidelines and contributor expectations.

The goal is to have at least one recipe per unit and one recipe per member of Niki’s kitchen (except for Niki, who should have 2 recipes). There may also be other recipes themed after shuffle units, circles, dorms, other characters in general, specific events, and etc… if all of the goal recipes have been filled.

There will be art pieces to match some of the recipes, as well as stand-alone art pieces with the theme of cooking and food. Small anecdotes written in the character’s perspectives will be scattered throughout, and writing will be short scenes also centered around cooking and food." (Niki's Cookbook via Google Docs) ¹

As mentioned before, the project is currently in its interest check phase, so we encourage everyone interested to fill it out and contribute. The form can be found in the project's social media.

Some links on where to find the project

Official Document

Tumblr: @escookbook

Twitter: @EScookbook

Make sure to give this project your support.

References:

1. Niki's Cookbook (@.escookbook) via Google Docs. 15/06/2023. Link

▶ Game Section

Event

Ra*bits climax event has been announced. "Infinite * Parallel World of Our Potential" will be Tomoya's center.

Synopsis:

"Tomoya is worrying over whether he is properly contributing to Ra*bits as its leader. One day, Ra*bits is summoned by Bishoujo-senpai, a major person in their agency..." ¹

Feature Scout

Feature Scout 2: Aira, has been announced. It features 5* Aira, 4* Subaru and 3* Rei.

Synopsis:

"Aira has already prepared his own candid shots for the pamphlet, but the producer feels like there's something off about those photos." ²

Event Scout

Event Scout: Raindrop-covered Show Window has been announced. It features 5* Souma, 4* HiMERU and 3* Ibara and Kanata.

Synopsis:

"Souma and some others have ended up competing by designing a display. Souma decides to use individuality as his theme, but he finds himself having a harder time than expected." ³

References:

1. Iridescent (@.iridesenescence) via Twitter. 13/06/2023. Link

2. Iridescent (@.iridesenescence) via Twitter. 09/06/2023. Link

3. Iridescent (@.iridesenescence) via Twitter. 13/06/2023. Link

June Tsukisuta Notes

Happyele will post hiring campaings every month during Tsukisuta. Green Missions of the Rainbow Season start. Enstars 15 Million Downloads campaign. Album releases per unit after their respective events. SS Satellite outfits available in the MV store. New collab job featuring 2wink and Crazy:B, Ra*bits event and MV announcement.

Thank you for using Ensemble News.

#📰 ensemble news #🗞️ weekly news #ensemble stars #enstars #📆 date: 15/06/2023

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cac-bgsu · 5 months

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Looking for new recipes for your holiday dinner? Here's a selection from "Sixteen Good Old Recipes for Christmas Fare," an undated pamphlet found in MS 294 Robert Aickman Collection. You've got your Yorkshire Christmas Pie and Rich Plum Pudding without Flour, which look fun, if a bit complex. There's also lighter fare, like Whipped Syllabubs. However, we can't present these recipes without noting Worcester Receipt for Potting Lampreys, which requires a stone jar, Punch That Will Keep for Any Length of Time, which requires 30 (30!) pounds of sugar, and Raisin Wine, which you should have started making back in August if you wanted it for the holidays.

#from the archives #archives cookbook #happy holidays

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azurecrystalz · 1 year

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[Translation] Bon Appetit! (Niki FS2) / Chapter 1

Hiiro: I ordered the lightly vanilla scented "pudding a-la-mode"!

Hinata: And I got a parfait filled to the brim with seasonal fruit!

Niki: I got this super fancy fruit waffle, and it even comes with a little parfait on the side!

Hinata: All three treats in a row make for a pretty sweet sight~ All these sweets loom scrumptious!

Hiiro: Just like the name of the place, “Fruit Parlor”, says, theres a variety of different fruits on everything on the menu. I’m unfamiliar with what a “parlor” is, but after following Shiina-san I was able to discover beautiful food. I’m so happy.

Niki: When I go out to eat so that I can come up with new recipes, I usually go out alone. But I’m glad I let you both tag along~

Hinata: Ahaha. When I heard you were coming to the Fruit Parlor, I couldn’t resist since I’ve got a sweet tooth.

Hiiro: Umu. Same here, I heard it was a good place with splendid food…there’s still so much in the city I don’t know about.

Niki: …Oop. I’m gonna dig in now. Thank you for the meaaaal~!

Hinata + Hiiro: Thank you for the meal!

Niki: Just so you know, a "parlor" is a Western-type restaurant that offers a bunch of casual foods and drinks.

Hiiro: Heeeh, I've learned something new. Thank you, Shiina-san!

Hinata: Oh right, if you're gonna need a reference for a recipe, do you wanna bite? Cuz this parfait is taaaasty~

Niki: Is it really okay?! I'd love to!

Hiiro: Please try some of my pudding as well. It's delicious, so much so that I can't think of any other way to describe it.

Niki: Uuu, you two are too kind! When I finish this recipe I'll absolutely let you try it...!

Hiiro: Fufu, I'm looking forward to it. Shiina-san always makes such delicious food.

Hinata: Soooo true~ Shiina-senpai we're lucky to be in the same room as you. Ah, that reminds me--

Niki: ? Why did you just point your phone at me?

Hinata: Oh don't mind me! While you're eating so happily like that, just turn this way a bit please!

Niki: Like this?

Hinata: Ohh, I got a pretty good shot~

Niki: What's with this all of a sudden? Are you posting it to SNS*?

Hinata: ...Not exactly, I actually overheard something back at the agency. Shiina-senpai's turn for a "Feature Live" is coming up.

Niki: Heeeh, my "Feature Live"...wait, what?! It's my turn already?! But didn't Rinne-kun just have a live performance a few days ago?

Hiiro: That's true, Nii-san's show was recently. However, is there a specific rule for the order?

Hinata: No clue. Anzu-san might be looking at the schedule and deciding that way? ...But let's just leave that be for a bit. The pamphlet for the "Feature Live" features a bunch of off-shots** of the idols. I thought having this fun time with Shiina-senpai was the perfect chance for an off-shot picture, so I took one~ Shiina-senpai, if out on your day off from work, that means your "off" now right?

Niki: I guess? I mean I'm eating food and being really random but it isn't any different from what I do everyday...so maybe it's fine for an offshoot?

Hinata: I know right? And here's....another shot~!

Hiiro: Then, I'll give it my best to take pictures of Shiina-senpai too. I've improving at using a camera recently~

Niki: Having two cameras being pointed at me feels weird but if it really is my turn then it would be a big help if I had a few pictures. I'd be grateful if you randomly took a few.

Hiiro: Umu, please leave it to us. Would it be alright to send these to Anzu-san later?

Hinata: That's right. Instead of sending them to Shiina-senpai it'd just be faster to send them to Anzu-san first. I'll send them and explain~.

Niki: Thanks a bunch, you two~ ...Oh, once you're done taking pictures you should probably get back to eating. You'll miss out~

Hinata: Uwah, the ice cream is gonna melt!

Hiiro: That's true, we need to eat it quickly...!

Niki: Even if it's sweets, savor it well you two~

That Night

Niki: (Tomorrow's prep, check. Sweeping the restaurant and keeping the kitchen clean, check. That's pretty much it for work today, all that's left is waiting for Nee-san here--)

Niki: --ah, Nee-san, when did you get here?! Please come in instead of staying by the door! You didn't want to get in the way so you watched and waited for me to finish work? Nono, Nee-san didn't you contact me beforehand? You could've just talked to me at any point with no problem yknow.

Niki: ...So, um. About my "Feature Live", I know it's my turn for it but what did you want to meet up today for? Eh? A picture? Oh you're talking about the one the other two took? I'm happy you like them, it's all thanks to Hinata-kun and Otouto-san...Is this...what I was hoping for? You're asking what kind of moments do I want to post and which off-shot pictures I think are good? Uummmm, I mean if it's just a picture of good food then I have no problem, but it's gonna be in the pamphlet so I have to be in the pictures right?

Niki: .....

Niki: Sorry, I should stay quiet. It's an "off-shoot" so I was just thinking about my time off...

Niki: ? You're asking if I even have time off, what do you mean by that? ...Of course I do, I spend it prepping food at night like this. I'm at the cafeteria or at "Cinnamon" in the kitchen when I'm not doing idol things too. But, today I used my time off to think up ideas for a new recipe. Wait, wouldn't that count as a chef's job?

Niki: Uuu I'm gonna go crazy. What in the world do I consider as time off? You're asking if I don't have days off to at least tell you what I do in my spare time?

Niki: J-just wait a moment please. I'll try to figure out how I normally am!

(*): An abbreviation meaning "Social Networking Sites", social media basically

(**): Hinata calls them off-shots in the dialogue box written in ktkn. The idea of it described in other FS2 stories is that the pamphlet needs candid (in the moment) pictures of idols in their free time.

#aurora tls #enstars #enstars translation #niki shiina #hiiro amagi #hinata aoi #crazyb

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natsumesakasaki666 · 7 months

Text

Tsumugi FS2 Sharing the happiness

Characters: Tsumugi, Ritsu, Anzu

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Tsumugi: (….phew. I managed to finish all the work I wanted to this morning)

(I’m sure everyone in the office can handle the rest. It looks like I can take the afternoon off as planned)

Excuse me everyone. I have finished my work for today, so I’m heading out

Ritsu: …huh? Aoba oniisan, are you leaving? It’s rare to see you leave early.

Tsumugi: Good morning Ritsu-kun! Isn’t it also rare for you to be in the office at this time of day?

Ritsu: Not so much these days, right? I woke up a bit earlier this morning to go pick up a script I need for work later.

I’ve been taking work much more serious lately. So in return I want Aoba oniisan to praise me~

Tsumugi: ahaha, I guess I should. Thanks for taking work seriously, it’s been a huge help. I really appreciate it, Ritsu-kun!

Ritsu: just like that, it feels nice to receive praise♪

Putting that aside, Aoba oniisan do you have something important this afternoon? Otherwise you wouldn’t be heading out so early, right?

Tsumugi: I’m not heading out for anything important, I’m just taking the afternoon off! I was thinking of baking some sweets today.

Ritsu: Sweets? I don’t recall Aoba oniisan ever having a hobby of baking sweets.

Tsumugi: it’s because I don’t. Today’s lucky activity is baking sweets♪

Ritsu: So that’s why… Taking an afternoon off of work just to increase your luck is an oddly extravagant way to spend time.

Well, you always overwork yourself, so I’ll let it go this time.

Ritsu: …. Huh, is that-? Anzu-chan. What are you doing at entrance with your eyes looking all over the place? Is there someone you’re looking for?

Tsumugi: You were looking for me? Sorry, I didn’t notice. So, what did you need from me?

…… it’s been decided that I’m up next for a “feature live”. So if there’s time, you’d like to have a meeting about it right away?

You came at just the right time! I took the entire afternoon off so I have plenty of time!

Ritsu: oh no you don’t. Rather than right timing, it’s actually bad. It’s your day off, why do you want to attend a meeting on such short notice!?

I’m sorry Anzu but isn’t this too sudden? He already made plans to bake sweets this afternoon.

Tsumugi: Fufu. How kind of you to get angry for me. Thank you Ritsu-kun.

Actually, I originally took the afternoon off to be available for any urgent requests, so it’s alright.

Eh? What is it, Anzu-chan? “It’s that’s the case, it’s ok to have the meeting at a later date” ?

“ instead, I’d like to take photos of you baking sweets” you say?

If I remember, there was talk of taking off shots for the pamphlet.

Ritsu: that’s smart. Anzu-chan is very calculating. In that case, this can be considered “good timing”.

Tsumugi: fufu. These will truly be off shots of me. Of course I’ll let you take photos

If that’s decided, shall we go to the shopping mall now?

First I need to go buy ingredients to bake the sweets.

——scene change to shopping mall——

Tsumugi: umm… cake flour, cake flour…. Ah. Found it!

I’m pretty sure we have eggs and milk in the Starmony Dorms, so the only thing left is heavy whipping cream.

“What kind of sweets are you planning to make” you say? Now that I think of it, I guess I didn’t tell Anzu-chan what I plan on making.

I’m planning on baking cupcakes! I had trouble deciding on something while looking through a recipe book. I felt like I would fail if I chose something too difficult…

Also when baking cupcakes, you can make lots of them and have different toppings on each one!

Ritsu: Toppings~? Wouldn’t these matsutake mushrooms be good? They smell great too, like autumn

Tsumugi: I know it’s a bit late but, why is Ritsu-kun following us?

Ritsu: because Anzu and Aoba oniichan got all excited and left, leaving me all alone. Both of you need to pay more attention to me~

Tsumugi: but Ritsu-kun, you must be busy too… Ah, you only have work later in the evening, right?

Ritsu: yup. And since we’re recording at night, I have a lot of free time until then.

I have experience in baking sweets. So that’s why I thought I’d be great to bake sweets together with Aoba oniisan♪

Tsumugi: I’d certainly be more at ease if I were alongside someone who is familiar with baking.

Ritsu: fufu. If im with you, these sweets will turn out a success. If you’re going to make cupcakes, you have to play around with the ingredients.

Let’s throw in some matsutake mushrooms. And a couple octopus legs might be good too.

Tsumugi: Ah, wait Ritsu-kun! I’m the one who’s baking so please don’t add in any ingredients without my permission!

The color of the ingredients is especially important! I’m taking account of today’s lucky color!

Ritsu: eh~? Did the fortune reading specify this too? Isn’t it good enough as long as it tastes good?

Tsumugi: Of course not! I’m baking these sweets to bring good luck, so that’s the one thing I won’t negotiate on! *camera flashes*

Ah…. Anzu-chan, could it be that you took a photo of me just now?

Ahaha, it’s a bit embarrassing to be photographed because I was getting slightly irritated by Ritsu-kun just now.

Ritsu: but you got a good rare photo, didn’t you? It’s not everyday you see Aoba oniichan get mad.

Tsumugi: Anzu-chan, please don’t just smile and nod~. It’s really embarrassing, ok?

Well if Anzu-chan thinks it’s good, there’s nothing I can do about it. I should be positive and think about how it’s a good photo that can be used in the pamphlet.

Anyways, Anzu-chan, Is there any toppings that you prefer?

Although I am concerned about today’s lucky color, please let me know.

I want to treat Anzu-chan to some delicious cupcakes too!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

#ensemble stars #switch #tsumugi aoba #ritsu sakuma

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digimonloving · 4 months

Note

based on that time where i caught The Disease That Shall Not Be Named: how about Meicrackmon VM and LadyDevimon caring for their bedridden tamer?

A Meicrackmon VM and LadyDevimon caring for their bedriddeen tamer...

Meicrackmon VM

Keeps making soup nonstop to feed their tamer. The tamer says it's alright, that they rather get sleep, but Meicrackmon VM knows how vital and crucial it is to still get nutrients in when ill. So Meicrackmon VM looks up recipes online trying to find a soup they think their tamer may like more. Then Meicrackmon VM remembers they can contact their family members to ask if their was perhaps a soup their tamer liked in their childhood. The whole ordeal ends with the fridge being filled with so many pots and tubs of soup that the tamer is going to have to manage to finish.

LadyDevimon

She's a little cranky you're ill and don't have time with her anymore. She decides to read the pamphlets you got from the doctor after you got your test results. The pamphlets say to take some pain killers and drink plenty of fluids. So LadyDevimon decides to take a trip to the corner store and buys various pain killers and lots of your favorite drinks and of course water bottles. She scatters and leaves them all throughout your room so you can pick whichever one you like when you want.

#mod lop #meicrackmon vm #digimons and tamers #ladydevimon

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