#although... i do have sourdough starter

[dalishthunder]

Been thinking a lot about annuum my beloved

[1982grapejuiceblues]

Change Of Plans

Official Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Stranger Lanes Part 1

Summary: Y/N just got dumped. By text. Her boyfriend left her for Claire—her coworker, her friend, and the girl who helped plan their summer group trip. Now Claire and Ben are sharing a car to the lake house. Y/N? She’s stuck riding with Harry—Claire’s freshly dumped, emotionally unavailable ex. They’ve barely spoken. They don’t even like each other. And they’re about to spend twelve hours trapped in a car together. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. But then again… nothing ever does.

A/N: I just came up with this (in my opinion) very cute story idea because its finally SPRING (although it feels so much more like summer) and I was really feeling those end of school, summer vibes. So here is my second story, Stranger Lanes! I'll be alternating between posting for this story and The Wrong Pitch (my other series) each day. I hope you guys love teacher!Harry because thats who we're getting today. He's grumpy, quiet, broody, and everything we could ever dream of. Hope you guys love him as much as I do!

Warnings: Off-page infidelity / betrayal (Y/N’s partner cheats with a friend) | Breakup fallout and emotional processing | Anxiety, emotional withdrawal, and dissociation | References to emotional repression (in others and self) | Passive-aggressive group dynamics | Alcohol use (coping, casual context) | One (1) sarcastic mention of wanting to “die in Indiana” | Dry humor layered over grief

Word Count: 1.7K

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It started with a text.

Not a fight.

Not a conversation.

Not even a slowly decaying vibe.

Just a text. Dry. Colorless. Utterly insufficient.

Hey. I think it’s only fair I’m honest with you. Claire and I are seeing each other. We didn’t plan it.

Y/N read it once. Then again. Then a third time, more slowly—like it might morph into something less ridiculous if she squinted hard enough.

It didn’t.

She stood in the middle of her kitchen, one hand gripping the fridge door like it was holding her upright. The glow of the fridge light spilled across her feet and the tile in soft gold, humming like it was trying to fill the silence. It didn’t.

She hadn’t even taken her shoes off yet.

Ben.

Ben had sent that.

Ben, her boyfriend of three years.

Ben, who alphabetized their spice rack.

Ben, who had built her a bookshelf for her birthday and painted it teal because it “felt like a happy color.”

Ben, who had Claire saved in his phone as “Claire 🌱” because, apparently, she was “good with plants.”

Y/N closed the fridge door slowly and let her phone slide facedown onto the counter.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t throw anything.

She didn’t cry. That would’ve made sense.

Instead, she opened the freezer, took out the pint of overpriced salted caramel gelato she’d been saving for “a bad day,” and stared at it like it had betrayed her too.

Claire.

She leaned against the counter. Crossed her arms. Uncrossed them.

Claire.

As in Harry’s girlfriend Claire.

As in district golden girl, perennial staff lounge contributor, fake-humble about her sourdough starter Claire.

Claire who had cried on Y/N’s shoulder at the end-of-year cookout two weeks ago because Harry was “distant” and “always reading alone when she just wanted to connect.”

Claire who had helped plan the lake trip. Who made the group spreadsheets. Who told Y/N—literally, word for word—that she “was lucky to have someone like Ben. He’s so emotionally available.”

Y/N laughed. Once. Short and dry, like a cough in a church pew.

She put the gelato back in the freezer.

-

She didn’t text back. She didn’t call.

She sat on the edge of her bed, in the tank top she’d taught summer school in, and stared at her laundry pile like it might have answers.

Her phone buzzed again.

I’m sorry

That was it. No period. No elaboration. Just two words that sounded more like a receipt than a confession.

She powered her phone off. Not because she was angry. But because she couldn’t bear to watch the read receipts play chicken with her rage.

-

The next morning, she packed a bag.

Not dramatically. Not even thoughtfully. She just started folding things—loose sleep shorts, that one bra that still held its shape, the tank top with the bleach stain she usually saved for movie nights—and shoved them into a weekender tote like she was running from a hurricane. Which, in a way, she was.

She left Ben’s keys on the counter. Took her spare set. Didn’t lock the door behind her.

-

Her sister opened the door in a charcoal gray face mask and one of those oversized sweatshirts that read PROPERTY OF NO ONE across the chest.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “It happened?”

Y/N nodded.

“Claire?” Her sister had heard about Claire. Or more specifically, “Claire 🌱”.

Y/N nodded again.

Her sister stepped aside like a bouncer. “Come in. Do you want wine or revenge?”

Y/N dropped her bag in the hallway. “What kind of wine?”

-

She stayed for three nights. Then five. Then seven.

She didn’t go back to their apartment—not once. Ben texted a few times, but the messages were all logistical. Do you want the basil plant? Are the insurance papers in the drawer? Should I grab your blender too?

She didn’t answer. He Venmo’d her $300 without a note. She transferred it to savings and blocked his number.

Her sister didn’t ask questions. She made breakfast-for-dinner three times and gave her the better half of the couch, and only once did she gently ask if Y/N wanted to talk about it.

“I think I will,” Y/N said. “Later.”

It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t soon.

-

She spent most of her days scrolling—TikTok, Pinterest, Zillow like she could manifest a life somewhere coastal. She read three chapters of a novel before putting it down and flipping to something trashier. She started a letter to Ben and then deleted it. She started a letter to Claire and imagined reading it aloud into a hairbrush like she was Nikki Minaj mic’d at the VMAs.

None of it helped. But it filled the time.

-

The summer trip loomed.

The group chat still pinged daily—mostly Claire, ironically. She sent weather updates and playlists and matching merch links (“Isn’t this cute for a group pic??”) like she hadn’t detonated the entire social dynamic of the group with her soft little garden-gloved hands.

Y/N didn’t mute the chat. She just watched.

Every so often, someone—usually Ali—would DM her privately and say something like “you’re still coming, right?” or “we can totally make it chill, like totally separate spaces, no drama.”

She didn’t respond. Not because she was ghosting. Just because there wasn’t an answer that didn’t sound like she was lying to herself.

-

On day nine, her sister brought in the mail and tossed a catalog onto the couch.

It landed next to Y/N with a heavy thwap. A furniture store ad. The front read:

CHANGE STARTS HERE.

Y/N stared at it for a full minute.

Then she said, “Ali’s gonna call, isn’t she?”

-

It happened at 9:17 p.m., which already felt like a hostile time for unsolicited optimism.

Y/N was on the couch again, wearing the same sweatshirt she’d claimed from her sister’s closet five days ago and scrolling through Instagram like she was watching someone else’s life. Weddings. Beach trips. Dogs on paddle boards.

Her legs were half-asleep under a blanket she didn’t remember pulling over herself. Her phone was warm in her palm. She had just watched an entire video of someone organizing a pantry with acrylic bins and was about to rewatch it when her screen lit up with a name she both loved and feared:

Ali 🌙

Y/N stared at it.

Her thumb hovered.

Then she accepted the call and held the phone to her ear with the energy of someone walking into a trap.

“Please tell me you’re not calling to ask if I’ve forgiven them.”

“No,” Ali said immediately. “God, no. I’m not insane.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Then what.”

“I have an idea.”

“Ali.”

“A solution.”

“Ali.”

“You have to hear it.”

“I truly do not.”

“You do,” she insisted. “Because it’s genius. It’s fate. It’s actually so perfect, I think the universe is throwing you a bone.”

“Is it a bone or is it a grenade?”

“Okay, so—”

Y/N groaned and dropped her head back against the couch. “Start over. From the top. Slowly.”

Ali exhaled dramatically. “Fine. You know how you were supposed to drive up to the lake house with Ben.”

Y/N stayed silent.

“And now you are, obviously, not doing that because Ben is… dead to us.”

Still silent.

“Well, Harry was supposed to drive up with Claire.”

Ah. There it was.

“And now he’s not. Because Claire is, you know, Ben’s rebound wife.”

“I’m going to vomit,” Y/N muttered.

Ali ignored her. “So now Harry has a car. You need a ride. He needs a co-pilot. You don’t want to drive alone. See where I’m going with this?”

Y/N was silent for a long time.

Then: “I’ve spoken to him twice.”

“Three times.”

“Ali.”

“I think he said you had a nice voice once.”

“He asked if I had a pen.”

Ali was undeterred. “He’s quiet. But he’s not mean. And he said he’s still going.”

“You already asked him?”

“Maybe.”

“Ali.”

“I mean. Yes.”

“Oh my god.”

“I swear he didn’t even sound annoyed! He was just like, ‘sure, whatever.’ That’s practically a love letter from Harry.”

Y/N groaned again and pulled the blanket over her face.

“Just—think about it,” Ali added. “It’s a long drive. You can listen to audiobooks. Or just put in your headphones and ignore him. It doesn’t have to be bonding. It can be… logistical.”

“Like co-parenting a twelve-hour road trip.”

“Exactly.”

Y/N peeked out from under the blanket. “He said yes?”

“Yes. Kind of. I think. I texted and he replied ‘fine.’”

“Wow. I feel so cherished.”

Ali snorted. “He’s just… not a words guy.”

“What is he then?”

“A scowl guy. A hoodie guy. A tragic poetry guy.”

“Oh god.”

“You’re gonna have a great time.”

“I’m going to die in Indiana.”

Ali paused. “Okay but if you do, at least make it look like an accident. Don’t ruin the vibe of the trip.”

-

The worst part wasn’t that she was considering it. The worst part was that it made sense.

She didn’t want to rent a car. She didn’t want to fly and pretend she wasn’t terrified of turbulence. She didn’t want to miss the trip entirely, because Claire and Ben didn’t get to take that from her too.

And Harry, despite being barely more than a moody silhouette in the hallway during staff meetings, wasn’t a serial killer. As far as she knew.

She pulled up his contact in her phone. She’d never texted him before. His name was just Harry Styles, no emoji, no notes. A blank profile image. He was, in every way, a placeholder.

She stared at the screen for a long moment.

Then typed:

Ali says you’re okay with driving together. Is that real or was she hallucinating from heat exhaustion?

The dots appeared almost immediately.

It’s real.

Y/N squinted at the screen.

I can pick you up Saturday at 7?

Seven. In the morning. On a Saturday. Before she had coffee.

Was he trying to make her hate him?

Seven AM???

It’s a twelve-hour drive.

I’m aware of the concept of distance, Harry.

Good. I’ll bring coffee.

She paused.

That was… civil. Almost human.

What kind of coffee?

Black.

Are you trying to make this as miserable as possible?

Do you take yours with glitter and oat milk?

Y/N smirked.

I take it with hope and joy, actually.

Cool. I’ll bring despair and an aux cord.

She let out a sound that surprised her—a laugh, small and sharp, like she hadn’t remembered what it felt like to make one.

Then she replied:

Fine. But no true crime podcasts unless I pick them.

Deal.

[the12thnightproject]

So i have this HC request if its fine by you: Warlords reacting to MC being an Asian dragon? I wanna see the shenanigans.

Hi Anon! Thank you for the ask! This... could definitely be chaotic, and I love chaos.

But first.... speaking of chaos, your ask reminded me of this film scene:

Now... as for the ask...

But of course, MC wouldn’t be a parade dragon. She’d more likely be someone who can, if she wants to, change into a dragon. And while most Asian dragons were water spirits, I recently did a water spirit HC, so MC is a rare fire dragon. Therefore...

(Shenanigans, as requested, below the cut line)

Kasugayama:

Kenshin – Conflicted. Really really really wants to test his prowess against a dragon. But doesn’t want to hurt her. Locks her up in the dungeon to protect her from himself. She burns the castle down.

Kanetsugu –  She’s an endless source of fascination to him. And an endless danger to Kasugayama. He wants her…. He wants her to go away. His inner conflict rages on. Shingen and Yoshimoto are taking bets as to whose control snaps first.

Shingen – Loves her in any physical state. She is his “fire Goddess.” And he instantly grasps that she will be highly effective as a reconnaissance officer – if that is what she wishes to do.  When she is in human form, she is the little spoon. When she is in dragon form, he is the little spoon.

Yoshimoto – Is entranced by the beauty of her dragon scales. He’s a sensualist, and every aspect of her is a new and exciting experience. Although once she got a cold, sneezed fire and burned his hair off. He loves her anyway.

Yukimura – Not realizing she is a shifter, he called her a wild boar. Insulted, she burned down his tent. Then singed his eyebrows to drive in her point. “Wild Lizard?” If Sasuke and Shingen hadn’t stopped her, she would have incinerated his clothes – while he was still wearing them. He now stays out of breathing distance of her.

Sasuke – He tries to befriend her by making dragon puns at her. She’s reluctantly amused. Their romance is slow burn. Literally.

Lone Forces:

Kennyo – Is… confused. He doesn’t trust many humans, but he is a friend to wildlife. Just… can’t figure out how to categorize her. But the monks are thrilled that they don't have to pay for heating a very very cold temple.

Motonari – “I want to watch the world burn.” DragonMC: “Ok. Where would you like me to begin?”

Kicho – On his field trip to modern Japan, he happened to read the novels of Naomi Novik and watch Game of Thrones, so he immediately begins how to plan using dragons for warfare.

Azuchi:

Nobunaga – When he asks her if she wants to rule the world by his side, she immediately shape shifts into dragon form. “No. But if you ask nicely, you may rule the world by my side.”

Hideyoshi –  He would never, ever covet a woman… or a dragon… who Nobunaga wanted. And as much as he admires her beauty (in any form) he can’t stop asking her to watch where she flicks her tail.

Masamune – A dragon knows another dragon by sight. Her first night in Azuchi, he slips into her room, and asks about her true form. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” They accidentally knock down a wall when they both shape shift.

Hideyoshi – Adds a new rule to the castle rules. “No running or shape shifting inside.”

Keiji – Immediately asks if she will fly him around the castle. She agrees, but in mid-air, he starts whooping too loudly for sensitive dragon ears, and she dumps him off (not far enough off ground to cause injury). The Kenji thud scares the maids (as does the sight of an annoyed dragon zipping through the sky).

Ieyasu –  As soon as he sees that it’s raining dragons and Keijis, Ieyasu runs and locks himself in his panic room with his emotional support sourdough starter.

Hideyoshi – Adds a new rule to the castle rules. “No running or shape shifting inside; no flying without proper safety equipment.”

Mitsunari – No matter what form she is in, Mitsunari is always sweet and polite to her. But he falls in love when every night she is able to keep his lanterns lit (not a euphemism) so that he can read after dark.

Hideyoshi – Adds a new rule to the castle rules. “No running or shape shifting inside; no flying without proper safety equipment; no reading after midnight.”

Ranmaru – Two words: Peach Flambe.

Mitsuhide – He teases her. She gets angry and shoots flaming dragon breathe in his direction. He ducks. The castle catches on fire.

Hideyoshi – Adds a new rule to the castle rules. “No running or shape shifting inside; no flying without proper safety equipment; no reading after midnight; and NO FIRE BREATHING INDOORS.”

@lorei-writes

[askyves]

Prince Yves,

Thank you so much for this blog - I'm really enjoying reading it.

I've been baking bread and sweets for a few years now, with mixed success (happy to note that I actually managed a pie crust last year). I'm about to take the next logical step... grow my own sourdough starter.

Any words of advice? I'm a bit nervous about it. It seems like such a delicate process.

Thank you in advance, Your Highness.

Hello, there.

I'm so grateful to hear you've been enjoying my blog. I'm glad I can bring happiness to someone in any kind of way.

Congratulations on the pie crust, those can be quite difficult to work with. Especially without modern refrigeration.

(What's that?)

(... I have no idea, Licht. What did I just say?)

A-anyway. Don't be too scared. A sourdough starter is actually a very hardy thing once it's grown a decent size! Sometimes I forget to feed mine for weeks at a time, and it's just fine!

But, please make sure to feed yours regularly ^^;

My words of advice are:

Make sure your water is pure. Either spring water or distilled water. Any chlorine or other unwanted minerals can kill your starter.

(What's chlorine?)

(I don't know!! Now please get out of the kitchen before you start a fire, Licht. I'll start on your darioles soon.)

Also, use either bread flour or all purpose flour to begin with. You can phase it out for some other type of flour when it's matured. It's easiest to see the consistency and reactions when using the flours I recommended above.

Lastly, be careful of the water temperature. Lukewarm water will give you best results in the starting stages. Room temperature water will work fine when it is mature. Do NOT use hot water, it will kill everything.

As for general maintenance, I feed my starter once every two weeks or so. Make sure to discard some starter if you haven't used any, otherwise you might end up with an overflowing mess.

When you store it, it NEEDS to be in a container that is not airtight. It will shatter from the escaping gas otherwise. I use a jar with a wire clamped lid. If you remove the rubber gasket, it won't be airtight.

(What's-)

(LEON I SWEAR-)

You can also simply place the lid of a jar over the top.

And although it's not necessary, I recommend getting a Danish dough whisk.

...

No one this time? Good.

Anyway, it's quite helpful for mixing the started thoroughly when you feed it, and nothing will get stuck inside.

Oh, one more thing. Do you have a scale? If not, get one. Non negotiable. Your starter must be fed equal amounts of water and flour by weight once it has matured.

I think that's everything! Let me know if you have any questions.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go lie down. All this breaking the 4th wall has got me very tired.

-Yves Kloss

[jungkoode]

As someone deep into the bts tarot community, i think theres so many interesting conversations we could be having about what bts means to uor individual psyches and unconscious that would be so interesting if most people werent staying in "oh, that was a nice dream:)" territory or straight going into the "delulu a salary away from buying sasaeng content" territory

Like fr, the same way people analyze what having X bias means for your personalily, there is so much we could dig into if people werent desperate to think their bias is going to marry them 💀

ROO MY BELOVED. Okay. Okay okay okay. See this is the kind of psychological-astrological-sociocultural fan discourse I dream of but am too scared to post because I’m allergic to being accused of parasocial sins I did not commit.

Because YES?? YES. The why of our bias choices is so much more fascinating to me than the fanservice fantasy. Like—are you really in love with Jungkook or are you yearning for the part of you that wants to be reckless and sexy and confrontational with your desires without shame?? Are you into Yoongi or do you just desperately crave a space where your silence is respected and not treated like an absence to be filled?? Is Namjoon your bias or is your inner child finally feeling intellectually seen and emotionally safe for the first time since that one 3rd grade teacher who let you read under your desk during lunch??

We’re not projecting onto them—we’re projecting through them. They’re archetypes. And not in the “oh he’s a Leo moon so he’s flirty teehee” way (although I do want someone to read Jimin’s birth chart like a sacred text), but in the Jungian sense. They’re reflections of unmet needs and emotional blueprints and the kinds of dynamics we find most compelling, especially if we didn’t get them growing up. That’s why your bias can change as you change. Your psyche shifts, and so does the person who activates your unconscious yearning.

And like, yes. There’s a whole universe of dream-analysis-level insight here, if people could step out of the “do you think Jungkook reads Tumblr?” trenches (he does not. he is probably watching sourdough starter videos and scrolling Taehyung’s texts) and into the symbolic resonance of what these men represent to us individually.

I HONESTLY don’t know much about tarot (so not my place to talk)—but I do know that whatever card Jungkook is, he’s reversed when he’s in FMU mode. (And Y/N pulled The Tower and just went, “lmao okay.”)

Anyway. Deep psychological parasocial analysis is not delulu. It is academic. Let’s publish.

[airplanned]

I really like the way you write romance stories and wanted to know if you had any books you would recommend. I just love the way you write character interactions and this is me checking the bookmarked tab of a favorited author.

oooooh! Okay! (I'm rubbing my hands together, because I love talking about my favorite books)

I don't read a lot of books that are specifically in the romance genre, but I read a lot where the romance is strong. There's just other stuff going on that is more crucial to the plot.

Howl's Moving Castle. My favorite book. It is not the same as the movie, so don't go in thinking it's going to be quiet, pacifist vibes, because it's not that. There's a lot of bickering and over-dramatics. It's so funny. Howl is my favorite fictional character of all time, and the way Sophie doesn't put up with his shit while knowing all the words to his rugby team's theme song is peek romance. Their banter is excellent, and their relationship is weirdly wholesome.

The Scholomache series, which starts with A Deadly Education. It's a magic school, but…more fucked up that you're expecting. Grumpy girl destined to be an evil sorceress and a himbo guy. Shit gets absolutely wild. There is no ethical consumption under capitalism. Love it.

Speaking of Naomi Novik, Uprooted has a similar relationship dynamic to Howl's Moving Castle. Also the Temeraire series, which starts with His Majesty's Dragon is very fun, although has next to no romance. It's the Napoleonic Wars but with dragons, and is both ridiculous and pointed.

The Scorpio Races. This is a really beautiful book about evil magic horses and loss and poverty and being stuck places. I love it.

A Far Wilder Magic. Holy shit, what did I read? Everyone else needs to read this too and confirm it exists. It's a Goddamned triumph.

Things without much romance, that I am going to recommend anyway:

Paper Menagerie (Devastating Short stories).

Orange World (Devastating short stories)

What it Means When a Man Falls from the Sky (Devastating Short Stories)

The Murderbot Diaries, which starts with All Systems Red (Most relatable character ever)

Project Hail Mary (wild fun ride. If you like how I do Zelda talking about Sheikah tech, this is for you.)

Sourdough (cute novel about a magic sourdough starter and a robot arm)

The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August (I think about this an unhealthy amount)

The Girl from Everywhere (girl's sea captain dad can time travel using old maps)

Iron Widow (Pacific Rim with more revenge)

The Last Tale of the Flower Bride (rich prose. Perfect balance of fairy tale logic.)

If you go read any of these, or if you've read any of these, feel free to drop me a line shrieking about them. I would love that. I have a lot more to say about all of them.

[steelycunt]

hello ridi how are u! how's ur sourdough starter! is the weather ok! is the weekend treating you nice... what cookies do you plan on making? what are you reading rn? are you writing anything? do you like long chapters? what's ur deepest secret! what's the best kate bush album (no incorrect answer to this one)! have you watched any new shows or movies recently & what do you think of them? and most importantly pick & choose from these questions the ones you feel like answering like an ask game...

omg hi hello...what a fun ask i feel like ive been stopped by one of those online street interviewer people...but a lovely one obviously...i am okay!! how are you i hope youre well!! sad to announce that my sourdough starter well i killed him didnt i. deliberatelyhe was just getting so needy and i felt like i was working very hard for him for such little reward so in the end i decided to save my flour xx which is fine because i can now use it to make cookies!! brown sugar chocolate chips ones which are beautiful if i can get them right...and if i can get into the kitchen because my dad is in there cooking atm.

this morning i finished chelsea girls by eileen myles!! sort of a memoir/poetry/essay collection non fiction read with a kind of strange tumbling prose at times (brought to mind kerouac a little? but maybe not) so there were bits i liked and bits i didnt but the bits on like the lesbian scene in new york in the 70s and 80s were really interesting!! my next read is going 2 be mr loverman by bernardine evaristo i have the most gorgeous copy : ^ ) i dont mind a long chapter if the books good...i do appreciate small bitty chapters can make long ones feel likea slog but that is a good thing i think. makes u take ur time with a book makes u slow down a bit. as for writing!! i am currently writing the [redacted] au which is going alright now ive started making some actual progress on it now (albeit slowly about. a scene every day and a half) and im really enjoying it!! have been writing some poetry also although i find poetry far more difficult to write so those are likely to never see the light of day but its still fun to try it out : ^ )

best kate bush album i think either the kick inside or the dreaming. the dreaming is incredible and ofc it has suspended in gaffa on it one of my all time favourite songs xx i like hounds of love too although i think that one is a bit overrated just in comparison to some of her other albums. recently i have watched a few films!! velvet goldmine (which i didn't like) and aftersun (which i did), aftersun was incredible i heavily recommend xx oh and my deepest secret...well of course ill never tell.. xoxo gossip girl (<- ive never seen gossip girl). thank u for this ask it was so fun!! please pop back in and let me know how YOU are bab ill make us some tea xx

[discoknack]

I can't remember how to make sourdough...

We haven't had much luck doing starters from scratch so I figure commercial yeast will have to do. S. cerevisiae is usually selected for in a starter anyway (although I'm curious if there are strain differences in wild-caught starters. Doubtful...)

There was some technique to make bread and you just cut a bit of dough for the next time but I can't remember.

[awaningwit]

I guess it's been a short while, although I've no reason to believe anyone has read or will read any of this. We're almost halfway through 2024, and I've been reflecting on my "progress" towards moving in the general direction of wellness, prompted by a few things but honestly it's rarely far from my mind.

In some ways it's been quite a good year, I've been enjoying hobbies I'd not engaged with in a while, continued painting mini's, branched out from making regular/tiger bread to making and maintaining a sourdough starter, which has, entirely to my surprise, yielded some reasonably successful loaves, I've even managed to get a handful of CBT sessions from a referral my GP made a long time ago. I've managed to find the motivation and energy to, in general, get more control over my life, the space I live in and try to establish good habits. It still feels very much like a chore, like something I do because I must and not something I get any pride or satisfaction from, but while it doesn't fill me with positive feedback, it does alleviate a small portion of the generalised shame, guilt and malaise I felt for years up until this point, and despite my nascent cynicism I know I have to accept that as a good change, that there's no switch to flick that will miraculously cast light on all the shadows and that this *is* what progress is.

I've played guitar, and found the money and energy to repair a couple of my first guitars which had fallen into disrepair, a hobby I'd really not engaged with properly in years, I'm still mostly revisiting things I could play before but I definitely feel more confident playing them, and I've picked up a few new things along the way that clearly represent growth within the space which is good.

I've been walking regularly up the hill to my parents' house and back to let the animals out, to drop bread and other stuff I've made off (it's the only way to ensure I stay in my dad's will, I joke, although as with a lot of comedy there's a nugget of truth at the core of it) and although it's only maybe 4000 steps, half of them are uphill which for some reason has always caused me undue discomfort, so again, that represents some progress, and being relied on by my parents is a welcome change, even if the tasks are typically incredibly minor, the feeling of uselessness they once instilled in me is being eroded slowly.

I've made a to-do list with repeating tasks to keep on top of stuff like regularly showering, taking the bins out, doing laundry, cleaning towels and bedsheets, hoovering and mopping the floors etc, and for the most part I've done a good job of sticking to it, there's occasional procrastination (sometimes for good reason, sometimes for no reason), which again, despite a lack of positive feedback, all represents reasonable forward progress.

The CBT was...not particularly helpful, within a few sessions the therapist was clearly just frustrated with me, which I understand, for a lot of people I'm sure it's revolutionary but I'm already well aware of the theory, so while I genuinely tried to engage with it and practice it, it just never really did much to help, she would seem aggrieved whenever she asked how my mood had been that week and I gave the same answer, and by session 5 she would largely just insist that I get diagnosed with autism in the hopes that the Integrated Autism Services could help me. That's fine, I'd like them to too, I suspect I'm on the spectrum (and every single medical professional I've ever met has suggested the same) but they're overstretched beyond belief and clearly my case doesn't warrant urgent attention, so that'll be another years long waiting room it seems.

In general, despite the progress, I mostly just ache, physically and mentally, every day I just ache deeply. My bones are tired, my mind is tired, it's better to feel this way and do the things I'm doing than it was to feel this way and not do the things, but it feels like a technical success, there's just no joy or pride or feeling of achievement. I know I'm harsh on myself, these things feel simple, they feel like the bare bare minimum, I don't feel comfortable celebrating them, but for me they should be worthy of celebrating because clearly they aren't the default for me for whatever reason...but the reality is I just feel like I'm awarding myself a participation medal for barely participating.

I can't find ways to meet people, I can't afford a car and I'm stuck where I am, I'm hoping the summer helps change that as maybe more stuff happens in the immediate locality, but at least for now that's definitely one of the biggest disappointments, I really try to find things to do, places to go, but I'm so astonishingly smothered by circumstance.

This has been far more rambling than I intended, but I guess the precis is; I'm doing some of the things I should've been doing the whole time because I know should be doing them, I'm trying, I'm not abjectly failing, but it doesn't feel like much of a success. It just...is. And that's both a good and a bad thing.

[arpov-blog-blog]

Lora Kelley

ASSOCIATE EDITOR

Hi, everyone! I’m Lora Kelley, and I am a new writer for the Daily. I’m thrilled to be working with Tom Nichols and the team to bring you the newsletter. I joined The Atlantic in an interesting week for the economy—after two years of runaway inflation, which led the Federal Reserve to crank up interest rates, the government announced on Wednesday that it would be pressing pause on its hikes for now. Today I explore a question that’s dividing economists: Whose fault is inflation, anyway—and why does it matter?

Who’s to Blame?

America can take a breath: Inflation is finally cooling off. It’s now hovering at about 4 percent, according to Consumer Price Index (CPI) data released earlier this week, down from the 9.1 percent peak in June of last year. But the Fed is saying that it would like inflation to be closer to 2 percent, and that it may raise interest rates again in the future to try to get the country there. Now that inflation has abated (for the moment), discussions have turned to how we got here.

Fed Chair Jerome Powell recently said that rising wages were not the principal driver of inflation. As economists, the media, and laypeople alike try to figure out whom to blame instead, fingers are pointing at the consumers who started spending large amounts of saved dollars and stimulus checks in 2020; at the corporations that have seen juicy profit margins after raising their prices; and, in Sweden, even at … Beyoncé?

Trying to understand the factors that fueled inflation is important, because whom we blame for inflation also shapes what we do about it. If inflation is caused primarily by overheated consumer demand, then it makes sense for the Fed to quell spending by hiking interest rates. But if corporations, rather than consumers, are driving inflation by raising their prices, then other tools may make more sense.

One conventional explanation is that widespread consumer spending started in 2020 and persisted in the years that followed, causing demand to explode and prices to spike. Some economists have called the influx of post-lockdown spending on goods and travel “revenge spending,” and recent data show that it is receding after two years.

The Fed has consistently raised interest rates in its past 10 meetings in part to get consumers to stop spending money—and so far, the hikes seem to be working. “The Fed has done the thing you would expect the Fed to do,” Chris Conlon, an economist at NYU, told me. “Right now, it looks like raising rates is starting to cool demand and temper expectations.” (Pulling this lever is imprecise, however, and can cause pain: High interest rates have triggered layoffs, especially in tech, and made it harder for a lot of people to afford big-ticket purchases such as houses and cars.)

Although CPI data show clear patterns in consumer spending and demand, another explanation, that corporations are fueling inflation by raising prices in order to increase profits, has been gaining steam in recent months. Some economists are taking a closer look at the idea that corporations’ profit margins could be playing a role in keeping inflation high—especially after recent earnings calls in which corporations reported that profits are up even as they are selling fewer goods.

Isabella Weber, an economist at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, argues that a host of geopolitical factors have provided “cover” for firms to raise prices. Weber refers to the phenomenon as “sellers’ inflation,” but others call this “greedflation,” “excuseflation,” and “profit-led inflation.” Companies wrestled back pricing power earlier in the pandemic—and consumers, seeing high prices at the gas station and everywhere else, came to expect higher prices. Now, some ask, are companies doing more than simply responding to costs, and instead just ramping up prices to pad their margins—and in the process, feeding inflation like a pandemic baker feeding sourdough starter?

“If you believe that big corporations are the ones who are pushing up prices,” Rakeen Mabud, the chief economist at the progressive nonprofit Groundwork Collaborative, told me, “then there are a lot more tools in our toolbox” to address the issue. “We can go way beyond the Fed,” she added. Those tools, she told me, include tax policies that target excess profits or incentivize productive investment in firms. “We’re really seeing a big rethink of some orthodox understandings of inflation and its causes,” she said.

Conlon, however, is interested in possible factors beyond greed that may be pushing companies to raise prices. “Strong demand will also generate rising prices, rising profits, higher output,” he told me. He and his colleagues recently published a paper that found that, from 2018 to 2022, there was no correlation between the companies whose markups have risen the most and the industries in which prices have risen the quickest.

The exact causes and dynamics of our current inflationary moment may take time to unravel—Conlon predicted that in a few years, we may have more information about how companies behaved these past few years. These data will be worth a close look, especially if shocks to the economy continue apace in years to come. It’s become a bit of a cliché to say that we are living in unprecedented times. But a rash of recent, intersecting crises—supply-chain snarls, the war in Ukraine, elevated gas prices, bird flu—did scramble consumer spending, leading companies to raise prices over the past few years. Things may stay strange. Understanding what happened could inform how we respond to future shocks."

[heliads]

hi again !! person who asked about part 2 4 the benoit blanc fic here !! thank u 4 agreeing 2 write it !!

k so here's my request : it's like half a year after part 1 , and benny n the reader r solving crimes together but they're like ... super awkward with each other . they don't dislike each other , in fact they want to be closer , but r really wants a parental figure but isn't sure how to verbalize that and benoit jus does NOT know how 2 parent.

but then when they r on a case , r gets hurt ( not 2 serious , but enough 2 be scary ) , and benoit realizes how much he actually cares about this kid . n then they have a really sweet moment n decide 2 try n get closer ?

thank you so much !! i'm super excited 2 read this !!

anything for benny

part one / masterlist

Benoit Blanc is lost. Usually, this is not enough to trouble him. Problems are only worthwhile if they take some time to parse out. Benoit has no fondness for pointless mysteries, games in which the end is clear from the beginning and the middle has no value at all. He has always preferred to amble along and seek out clues. That is his best method of solving, it always has been.

It is a confounded issue, then, that Benoit is lost now. He is not in the midst of a crime, nor locked within the confines of a good hoax. He is between jobs at the moment, which usually means that his problem-solving fingers should cease to twitch at his sides, that he would no longer be ready to reach for a hint that will let him catch a killer.

Benoit’s problem at the moment regards his apprentice. He took on a teenager to help him with his cases about six months back, Y/N L/N. They’ve been an excellent aid, no cause for concern there, but Benoit’s judgment is faulty in where he is meant to draw the line between work friend and real friend. Typically, he never runs into this problem because he keeps each case to itself with no overlap whatsoever. By bringing Y/N with him, he now has someone closer than an acquaintance.

The issue is that Benoit would like to go about making their dynamic a little less stilted but he has absolutely no idea how to do it. There are moments when he’s certain that Y/N would appreciate a little parental guidance, for a lack of a better word, but Benoit is few things and one of them is certainly not a father. Thus, he is left grappling with how to indicate that he would like to try having a more central role in Y/N’s life with absolutely no idea how to do it.

Benoit took the idea to Phillip a month or so back to limited success. His partner had been focused on the intricacies of some blasted sourdough starter, his attention more in line with tossing flour to the heavens and whatnot. Benoit had posed the concern of what to do with the L/N kid. Phillip had allowed him to ramble on during the feeding time of the sourdough starter, which was consistently scheduled as if it were some kind of beast in need of a kilogram or ten of raw meat.

Benoit cannot fault his partner for the importance of the sourdough, however. They all need a task, some project in which to throw their focus and only withdraw some time later, wholly spent and perhaps a different man. Phillip finds his outlet with baking. Benoit does so with the lives of other people. 

Some would consider that to be a sign of their true characters, but Benoit tries to prioritize the people above the thrill of the hunt. That, in the end, is what he feels separates him from the gaudy treasure-seekers of podcasts and true crime shows. Although he does feel that he would make a superb advice host if the chance ever came along. Phillip has yet to catch on to the idea, but Benoit is giving it time.

The conversation was brief but sincere. Phillip had dashed about a cup of flour into the ominous bowl of starter, then turned to him with a sigh.

“You’re getting in your own way,” he had said simply.

Benoit had spread his hands. “Obviously, but how do I get out of my own way? It is difficult, sometimes, to find one’s path long enough to step aside and let the truth rush forward. Sort of like a child who’s just taken off their training wheels. They can go fast, of course, and wreak havoc throughout the suburbs, but, Lord, they should not be allowed to do so.”

Phillip raised a weary brow. “In this case, I don’t think the issue is that you shouldn’t be able to go fast. You just are afraid to let go of your inhibitions. They’re a kid, Blanc, not a piranha. Although God knows you’d rather investigate a piranha than deal with this.”

“It would be interesting to figure out how a piranha had managed to cross my path,” Benoit had mused. “That isn’t the point, though.”

“No,” Phillip said around another sigh, “it isn’t. You need to find the proper time, then tell Y/N what you expect, plain and simple. There’s no other way around there.”

Phillip was right, as expected. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the advice Benoit had wanted to hear. He would have preferred something along the lines of ‘don’t worry about it, how about you go take another case’ or even ‘wait for them to come to you,’ but life is hardly fair.

“Thank you,” Benoit had said at last, “and for goodness’ sake, stop pointing that spatula at me. I’m going to do it. No threatening necessary.”

Phillip had disagreed on that point, but that was hardly a surprise. Benoit had gone to bed that night wondering how he was going to find the right chance to explain his expectations for the situation between himself and Y/N. In the morning, he woke with a blessing.

Handwritten letters have long been Benoit’s favorite way of hearing about a new case. Typically, he can figure out half the evidence just from studying the correspondence. Is the information scribbled in a hasty scrawl or typed out to avoid giving anything away? Do they mention his prior cases from the papers, and if so, which ones? Are the stamps perfectly organized, the product of a great time for leisure, or slapped on the envelope just before the mailman came?

This letter is no exception. Already, Benoit has a few ideas percolating in his brain even before he starts reading the message. This is a call to arms, to be certain. A murder. A weapon. Several innocents all in the line of fire. An inheritance, ready to fall into the wrong hands. Yes, this is a case for him without a doubt.

Benoit explains the situation to Y/N when she comes back from school in the evening. They discuss initial motives, then agree to respond back in a most reasonable fashion. The police investigations start Saturday, so they’ll arrive early in the morning in the hopes of reaching the family before too much has happened.

The car is studiously quiet on the drive over to the crime scene. A few times, Benoit or Y/N will attempt to bring up a casual source of conversation, but they always seem to lose their nerve before true discourse can occur. Something will happen to make them hesitate, and then the ball is dropped and they’re back to silence.

Benoit is grateful to see the address of the crime scene before long, sparing them from another few unsuccessful endeavors. Half an hour later, they’re so lost in the tangled threads of this particular mystery that they don’t have much time to trouble themselves over small things like whether or not this whole apprenticeship deal was worth it.

By Saturday evening, Benoit feels that he’s got a pretty good hold on the case itself. It seems to be your typical run-of-the-mill inheritance snatch. A primary character is established, the man who would receive the largest cut of a will. They’re then framed for murder, thus ensuring that the bounty will instead fall to the second-in-line, a brother-in-law who only married into the family in the hopes of collecting this sort of bloody check. Very satisfying.

Sunday morning rolls around. After a final late night check with Y/N to make sure their facts are in order, the pair feels ready to present their findings to the police and distraught family. Benoit, always excited at the possibility of an audience, leads with his theory and watches the brother-in-law’s face twist with horror as he realizes he’s been exposed.

All is going according to plan, or at least it has been until the brother-in-law stands up and announces that he isn’t going quietly. The money has already been transferred to his account, much of it withdrawn, and he can live off of it for quite some time. The murderer moves to flee, but when the police start to block his path, he does the unthinkable and grabs Y/N as a hostage.

Benoit has no choice but to watch as the murderer leaves the house, gun pressed to Y/N’s temple as a guarantee that he’s going to remain untroubled. Benoit has been involved in quite a few murder cases over his time, and is no stranger to danger, but this is something altogether different. He is terrified, plain and simple. Terrified that he’ll lose his crime-solving partner before even a year has passed. Terrified that he’ll never get that chance Phillip was talking about.

It occurs to him now that Benoit needs that chance more than anything. If he does not speak with Y/N about the fact that he wants them to be better friends, to rely on each other more than the stilted dynamic they have going on right now, he will carry that regret to his grave.

It is good, then, that Benoit and Y/N had factored in the fact that the murderer would try to run and planned accordingly. The brother-in-law’s car only makes it halfway down the street before the tires abruptly give out and the vehicle screeches to a stop. Y/N was evidently waiting for that moment, because they fling open the door and dive out without a second’s hesitation.

Benoit sprints to their side, pulling them away from the car and towards safety. The police surround the car, and after a few tense seconds the brother-in-law comes out with his hands raised. Benoit only starts to relax once the killer is in handcuffs and he knows for certain that the situation is in the hands of the law.

He turns to Y/N at last, checking for signs of damage. “Are you hurt?” He asks, frantic.

Y/N shakes their head. “No, I’m alright. Just startled, that’s all.”

“You’re a brave kid,” Benoit manages, “I don’t know that many people who would be this unruffled after being taken as a hostage. It speaks to your character. It also reminds me how affected I would be if something worse had happened. You’re not a stranger, Y/N, you’re a friend. I’d like for us to believe in that.”

Y/N starts to smile. “More than normal?”

“Far more than normal,” Benoit confirms, “millions of miles beyond that point. The best partnerships are based on trust. I trust you, Y/N.”

“I trust you,” they respond, “that’s why I was alright. I knew that no matter what happened, even if the tire thing didn’t work out, you’d look for me.”

“You didn’t need me, though,” Benoit argues, “you had the situation handled just fine. You were courageous all by yourself and I am quite impressed by that.”

Y/N shakes their head. “I could be brave because I knew you were there. I trust you.”

“Alright,” Benoit says at last, “we’re good, then.”

“We’re great,” Y/N confirms.

Benoit thinks that he’s going to have to talk to Phillip about this. The plan has gone quite well indeed.

part one requested by @starlit-epiphany, your ideas are very popular around here

knives out taglist: empty for now!

[rodeoxqueen]

SMELLS LIKE QUARAN-NEROKIRI SPIRIT 

Nero/Kyrie

“In quarantine, Nero and Kyrie spend time together.” 

Rodeo’s Two Pieces: 

First time writing for Nero/Kyrie. Tread lightly with my take of their dynamic. 

(I)- Dalgona Coffee and Cookies. 

Despite how everything was shut down and the grocery was found vacant of basic necessities, Nero was grateful to at least be with someone he loved the most. 

“Look, we probably need some time off from kickin’ demon ass anyways,” Nico explained, smoking a cigarette during the video chat. 

“Yeah, not like demons care about being six feet away. People don’t even do that.” Nero looked at himself in the little square in the corner of his phone. Clad in a grey hoodie, he hadn’t even bothered putting on anything over his boxers. No one had come to visit since the mandate to stay inside, what was the point? 

Nico was in her garage again, from what he could see in the camera view. Cigarettes and old cups of coffee littered her desk, warbled country music playing off-view. 

“Who knows, maybe I’ll make something to fix that. I was thinking a mask-gun, rapid-fire reloading.” 

“Artisan of Arms, huh?” Nero laughed, getting up from his bed. 

“You fuckin’ bet. Now I gotta go. Got some things to weld.” 

“See ya, Nico. Stay safe, alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He gave a peace sign before pressing “end video call.” 

The video chat ended and Nero tucked his phone into his pocket. Even banter just wasn’t the same virtually. 

“Who was that? Nico?” Nero made it down the hallway to see Kyrie, bustling about getting things from the cupboards. 

“Yeah, still building stuff as usual.” 

Kyrie had been in their apartment’s kitchen, deciding to try her hand at some recipes she saw online. A bag of flour, too many bowls, and more chocolate than Nero remembered buying, all laid out on the table. 

Just when he wanted something to eat, he’d have to wait or his girlfriend would practically make enough to feed an army and be surprised when he didn’t want anymore. 

He opted for a cup of water instead. 

Nero admired her hair, how it looked when it wasn’t in a ponytail, how it sat perfectly on her shoulders. Seeing how she started to measure some ingredients, he took the hair tie on his wrist, careful fingers bringing it into a low ponytail. 

“Oh, thank you.” She commented, opening her booklet of recipes she had handwritten. Neat, slanted cursive in a smattering of blue, red, and black read out recipes for cookies, cakes, and bread. 

“You look busy, planning to make all of those?” Nero rested his chin on her shoulder, shrouding her with warmth. 

“Well, I don’t know how long we’re going to be stuck at home, might as well try some recipes out. Maybe we can deliver some to the orphanage.” 

“That is if I don’t eat all your prototypes first.” She laughed, birdsong to Nero’s ears. 

“As long as you help me I don’t mind if you do.” Kyrie handed him a measuring cup. Nero sighed, taking it. He always lost count of how many cups of flour he was supposed to put in the bowl. 

A jar of porous dough caught his eye as he sifted some baking soda in his white mixture. He took it from Kyrie’s side of the island. 

“Whoa, what is this? A science experiment?” Kyrie chuckled, watching Nero scrutinize the date on the white tape to the top of the mason jar. 

“No, it’s a sourdough starter! It’s basically wild yeast. We can make bread with it since people bought out all the dry yeast in the grocery store.” 

Nero shook it with curiosity and then opened the silver lid, making an “eh” face at the smell. 

“It’s yeast alright.” 

Kyrie continued whipping up the sugar and butter mixture, Nero helping himself to a handful of chocolate chips. 

“Have you talked to your uncle and father? They must be staying at the shop in Redgrave.” 

Nero shrugged. 

“Most likely, I haven’t talked to them yet. Dante probably didn’t pay the phone bill and Vergil doesn’t know how to use the phone anyways.” 

“Let’s just hope they’re getting along during this time.” 

Nero thought back to all the “family outings” he had since his uncle and father returned from hell, mostly just jobs becoming contests of strength that turned to friendly family fights. Endless banter and elbowing. 

Honestly, compared to that, standing next to his girlfriend while they shaped cookies for the oven was heaven. 

Once the chocolate chip cookie dough was done baking, Kyrie insisted they make some whipped coffee while they cooled.  

“I thought you didn’t like coffee, Kyrie.” She stooped down to find something in the lower cabinets. A robotic hand that was colored dark blue and black, his old Devil Bringer, appeared with a tiny whisk duct-taped to it. 

“Yeah, but that TikTok made it look so good.” Nero handed her the glass container of instant coffee. 

Turning on the Devil Bringer, the tiny whisk spun to life, rapidly mixing sugar, coffee, and water together. With her back turned, Nero popped a thing of cookie dough in his mouth. 

“Honestly, Nico should have patented these Devil Bringers, make a bunch of money, and maybe she’d stop trying to rip me off all those times.” 

“Support local businesses, Nero.” 

He looked over her shoulder, surprised at how an abysmal brown mixture had become fluffy and thrice its previous volume. 

Two cups of milk poured, the practically instantly whipped coffee laid on top like a decadent Mount Everest next to a still-warm plate of cookies. 

“Cheers!” Kyrie clinked glasses with him, stirring her mug vigorously with a spoon. He copied her, taking a sip of surprisingly light and sweet coffee. 

When he lowered his cup, Nero both revealed to the world a mustache of whipped coffee. 

Kyrie snorted into her cup, covering her mouth as she bit back a laugh. Embarrassed, Nero went to wipe it off when Kyrie pecked him on the lips. She drew back to reveal an imprint of the ‘stache on her own upper lip. 

“We match now.” Kyrie giggled, helping herself to another gooey cookie. 

Half a plate of cookies and two mugs properly drained of its contents, Kyrie and Nero loaded up the dishwasher to do the work. 

“This is coffee, why am I tired?” Kyrie yawned. 

The couch was this god-awful IKEA purchase that took hours for Nero to just figure out what the instructions meant. But right now, it perfectly supported both of them while they slept away their food coma. 

(II)- Curl Up And Dye. 

After the second time the mandate got lengthened, Nero could sense that Kyrie was starting to wane in her ever-positive attitude. The news had nothing good to say, and the number of shows they had binged left them indifferent to watching anything more. 

They did a lot of singing during quarantine, Kyrie always being the musical one. Evanescence was one of their favorites to sing together, Nero’s guitar skills and Kyrie’s ability to hit those high notes left many memorable nights of laughter. 

After a while, Kyrie began to just sit on the couch a lot and have Nero pay her company. 

“What’s wrong?” Kyrie sighed heavily, curling into Nero’s hoodie as he opted to stay shirtless. 

“I don’t know Nero, it just feels like everything is the same. We go through the same things every day and I just feel...trapped.” 

Nero kissed the nape of her neck, humming in agreement. 

“Look, I’m usually the one going to you for stuff like this but...it will get better. It’s been a really hard time for all of us, and we’re just watching everything go downhill. It’s not a good situation but, you got me. Always. And there’s still a lot of things we can change up if that helps.” He stroked her hair and rubbed her back, feeling her take a deep breath. 

“You’re right Nero. That really did help. Thank you for listening.” 

“Of course.” 

While he scrolled on his own phone, he didn’t heed all the things Kyrie was watching. She touched her own long hair, seeing the way other people recorded their own home-salon trims. 

“Things to change, huh?” She mumbled. 

So here they were now. 

“It looks so bad!” Kyrie exclaimed, her face in her hands, hair on the bathroom sink. Nero shook his head. 

“No it’s not, Kyrie! You look fine, just let me fix it!” In the mirror, Nero cringed at the way her hair was ridiculously over-layered. 

“Um, what did you try to do-” 

“Curtain bangs! Oh Nero, I shouldn’t have tried to change up my hair!” Kyrie was thoroughly upset, seeing how her bout of bravery lead to her bangs being mauled by her own hands. 

Nero hugged her, noting that she had been wearing his shirt while she trimmed her hair. 

Okay that shirt’s gonna itch for a while until all the hair comes out. 

“It’s okay, let me see if I can fix it.” Kyrie blushed in the mirror, groaning at how bad her hair was cut. 

“There’s no way you could make it worse than what I did.” 

Nero gingerly took the scissors Kyrie put in the sink, a little bit too small for his hands but good enough. Although he was no stylist, he could tell where Kyrie had either cut too much off or unevenly. 

Eventually, they did manage to cut it in a way that hid the previous mistakes. Kyrie took another deep breath. 

“I shouldn’t have been so impulsive.” She murmured, arms crossed. 

Nero chuckled at her rare emotional outburst. He was glad to have been able to be there for her. She always hid how she felt, helping others her way of expressing herself. Now with no one around but him, he totally understood that she felt helpless. 

No one liked being helpless. 

He kissed her cheek and a lightbulb went off in his head. 

“You wanna dye my hair?” Kyrie turned around in surprise. 

“What?” 

“I mean, who knows how long this shutdown is gonna be, it’ll be fun,” Kyrie noted how Nero had forgone shaving, his peach fuzz becoming something more. 

Honest blue eyes peered at her, wondering what she would think. Her surprise softened to a sort of relief in their solidarity. 

“What color, Nero?” 

“Neon green-” 

“Nico’s going to make fun of you.” Kyrie giggled. Nero shrugged nonchalantly. 

“I don’t mind it.” 

(III)- Can’t Get Out Of It, Get Into It. 

“Nero, you look so fucking ridiculous.” 

“Shut up, Dante.” 

His uncle finally managed to figure out how to work the virtual chat on his fossil of a computer, and Nero was already prepared to end the call. 

His father sat slightly off-camera, not in the mood to entertain Dante’s antics to ridicule his son. Although, he did look oddly radioactive with his washed-out green hair and strong quarter-past five o’clock shadow.  

“Quarantine did not do you a favor, good lord,” Dante commented, kicking his feet up on his desk. Nero flipped him off. 

“Good to know you’re still living in shambles, not surprised neither of you cleaned up after yourselves.” The number of bottles on the floor was a travesty and the couch littered with poetry books Vergil had slowly begun to hoard. 

Nico entered the zoom call, smoking another cigarette Nero was lucky to not have to smell. 

“Nice broccoli head.” 

Nero flipped her off as well. Kyrie came into view, smiling at her boyfriend’s family and their shared friends. Nero decided to get a drink, clicking a few buttons before letting Kyrie have the seat. 

As they discussed how the business would continue with Devil May Cry, Kyrie sat next to Nero. 

It was mainly business, until it got to a certain line that Dante said. 

“I don’t know, it just feels like things are just going to keep staying like this. Hate to break it to you Nero, but it’s going to be tough for a while.” 

Kyrie finally heard enough, scooching Nero aside so she could talk. 

“Kyrie, wait-” 

“We’re going to get past this. As long as humanity still keeps coming together for the sake of benefiting each other, and we keep working to make sure to keep safe, we will get past this. We just have to keep hoping, and sure, hoping isn’t always going to make you feel better. I would know. But in a time where we do feel helpless, we should connect with other people in a different way. That’s why we succeed, we keep moving, we keep adapting! And hope, hope keeps that going.” 

Kyrie took a long breath. Looking at the dumbfounded group, she waited for a response. 

“Um, Kyrie. You were muted.” Nero finally said. Kyrie realized her blunder and how Nero’s hand was attempting to unmute them. 

“Oh.” Kyrie flushed, looking embarrassed. 

“I have no idea what you just said, but that’s okay.” 

“I’m sorry, that was so awkward.” 

“Don’t worry yourself, Kyrie. I bet it was real sweet whatever you had to say,” Nico assured. 

The zoom call was full of laughter since, a business call turned to a time to discuss how each person was doing. 

Dante and Vergil had spent days and nights sparring, Vergil learning more about humanity from Dante, and “making their own pizzas.” 

Nico had continued welding and making weapons for her own curiosity rather than based off of commission-based instructions. The van finally had the vinyl player fixed and she apparently gave herself a stick-and-poke. 

“So what did you two love birds do?” Nico asked, lighting another cancer stick. 

Nero and Kyrie looked at each other, smiling at their shared memories of this strange period in human history. 

“Where do we even start?”  Kyrie said, thinking of all the days and nights that seemed to breeze by and also slowly progress. 

Nero ruffled his longer messy green hair, Kyrie tucking her curtain bangs behind her ear. As they were two peas in the pod, Nero had decided to get another set of gray sweats for Kyrie, matching finally. 

Kyrie bit into a cookie, offering Nero some. 

“Smells like quarantine spirit, huh?” Dante finger-gunned.

Nero chuckled. 

“Hell yeah.” 

[lyndiscealin]

Quick starter guide for making bread including making sourdough from scratch

Every now and then I start baking bread again. Mostly to gain muscle mass again after I had RSI in my right hand and couldn't use it for weeks.

Because I can't be bothered with doing fancy stuff, here is the most simple recipe I could gather together. This is a recipe for mixxed rye bread. It's 80% rye and 20% wheat.

Sorry all the numbers are from the metric system.

What you need:

- A very clean bowl (wash it before using it) with a lid with a volume of at least 2.5 litres (although I would advise to get something bigger)

- An additional big bowl (I recommend 5l or more) No lid needed

- Around 1kg of rye flour (I use type 1150)

- A bit of wheat flour (120g per loaf you wanna bake)

- 5 minutes of time every day at approximately the same time

- A handmixer (or some of these fancy mixing machines)

- An oven that can reach 200°C or more

- Warm temperatures or a place somewhere were it is around 30°C

- Read this guide from start to end so you understand what you are doing

The Sourdough:

The Sourdough needs at least 5 days to grow yeast in it, so start early in the week if you wanna bake on the weekend. Important note: Sourdough needs a lot of time to get it's usual sour taste. So your first bread (and the 10 after them) won't taste a lot like sourdough. It takes months for it to get the typical sourdough taste.

Day 1:

Mix 50g rye flour and 50ml water in the bowl, place the lid on the bowl (but don't seal it shut) and let the dough rest for 24 hours

Day 2:

Mix another 50g rye flour and 50ml water into the dough, let it rest for 24 hours

Day 3:

Mix 100g of flour and 100ml of water into the dough. Let is rest for 24 hours.

Day 4:

Mix another 100g of flour and 100ml of water into the dough. Let it rest for 24 hours.

Day 5:

Like Day 3 and 4. Let it rest for at least 12 hours.

On Day 6 your sourdough should be ready to be baked with. The yeast won't be too active at this point, so the bread will be a bit more dense than you probably want it to be. You can either add some bought yeast from the supermarket, or if you don't want to bake bread for another week, you can throw away all but 50g of your sourdough and start over at Day 2. The yeast should be active enough after another week.

Important note: When Sourdough is hungry, he gives off a smell that people describe as sharp alcohol or acetone. That's completely normal. As soon as you give it water and flour the smell vanishes. The yeast in the dough will destroy other bacteria, so only if you starve your dough to death, the dough will get bad. You will smell if it gets bad. If you still ask yourself 'might this be the smell Lyn talked about?' it isn't bad yet. You will know when the dough went bad.

Baking the bread:

(recipe for around 1kg of bread)

- 320g Sourdough

- 320g Rye flour

- 120g Wheat flour

- 230ml Water

- 12g Salt

(yeast if you want, but I am not sure how much, I don't use additional yeast)

Mix all the above together. If you don't have a mixing machine (a handmixer won't do) make sure you rub your hands with flour before you begin mixing. And re rub them with flour as soon as the dough starts to get sticky. (Rye dough is really, really sticky)

If the dough doesn't stop to get sticky, dust it with a layer of rye flour, rub your hands with rye flour again and start kneeding.

Let the dough rest for 30 minutes after everything is mixed well.

Take the dough out of the bowl and give it onto a clean surface (I recommend a large chopping board with a smooth surface (like bambus), but your cleaned eating table is sufficient, too) that you put a lot of flour on. If you don't dust the surface with floor first, the dough will stick to that surface.

Rub your hands with flour again, dust the whole dough with floor, and begin kneeding it. Give more flour whenever the dough starts to get sticky again. (If it happens that the dough won't stick together anymore, use a bit of water to make it stickier again)

Kneed for around 3 Minutes, then form a loaf.

Place the loaf somewhere it can rest. Don't forget to dust the surface you put it on with flour again. Dust the loaf with some flour too. You can place a clean dishtowel over the loaf.

The loaf has to rest 120-130 Minutes. If you press a finger on the surface and the dent fills itself again, it is ready.

Pre heat your oven to 200°C (some prefer 230°C, but it went great for me with 200°C), then put the loaf in the oven.

Bake for 55 Minutes.

Tip: If you want a really crunchy crust (really really crunchy) put a wooden spoon between the oven's lid and the oven for the last 5 Minutes of baking. (Don't use plastic! It will melt!!!)

After 55 Minutes, if you knock on the bread, it should sound hollow. It's done then.

Let the bread cool a bit before eating it :)

You can put the rest of the sourdough into your fridge for 1-2 weeks before you have to feed it again. If you don't put it in the fridge you have to feed it every day again. Some say you can even freeze sourdough. I never tried that.

If you have questions, feel free to ask^^ I tried to make this as easy as possible, but I am not sure if I thought of everything.

[askwhatsforlunch]

Alexa Crowe’s Sourdough

As I often say, the food I cook and eat is inspired by many, many things. From travels I’ve made to trips I dream of, from childhood memories to recent discoveries. From books I’ve read to films or series I’ve watched. I may have been late to the lockdown-sourdough party; I only started my Starter during the third lockdown, in April of last year. But that meant that by the time My Life Is Murder finally came back from its long hiatus -the first series aired in the Summer of 2019; how far that seems, eh?- Alexa Crowe and I shared a hobby. I do not have German kitchen appliances, and I do not sell my loaves to the local café; but she and I knead, slap, shape, bake and generally love the soft dough that turns into a crusty, tasty loaf. Unlike Alexa, I do not use the all-important meditative phase of the kneading to solve murders and other crimes --although I might plot some, for literary reasons!-- but I’m happy to share a passion with a fierce, fearless and brilliant detective played by the wonderful Lucy Lawless. And I’m chuffed as that the second series is set in her (and Alexa’s) native Aotearoa-New Zealand, because I’m bound to see my favourite Kiwi actors, from Rawiri Jobe I missed on The Brokenwood Mysteries, to Sara Wiseman and Ryan O’Kane I loved on One Lane Bridge and most of the main cast of Go Girls, plus William Shatner and Bill Bailey, because why not? And this also allows me to improve on my recipe with ingredients I imagine Alexa is using, like Manuka Honey! So, bake a loaf of Alexa Crowe’s Sourdough and have a Happy Sunday!

Ingredients (makes 1 loaf):

1 tablepoon pure raw Manuka Honey

about 180 millitres/3/4 cup hot water

½ tablespoon vegtable oil like sunflower or grapeseed

450 grams/1 pound strong white flour

1 teaspoon salt

325 grams/11.5 ounces Sourdough Starter

about 60 millilitres/1/4 cup lukewarm water

Spoon Manuka Honey into a small bowl. Stir in hot water until completely dissolved. Allow mixture to become lukewarm.

Grease a large glass bowl with grapeseed oil; set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, combine strong white flour and salt, and give a good stir. Add Sourdough Starter and Honey mixture, and stir, gradually adding more lukewarm water, as necessary, until a soft, slightly sticky dough forms. You may not need to add all the water, but your dough should not be dry, it should just stick a bit to your fingers.

Tip dough out onto a claen surface, and knead, a good 10 to 15 minutes. Kneading will make it smooth and elastic and no longer sticky. Shape into a ball, and pop into prepared bowl. Cover with an oiled sheet of cling film, and allow to rise, in a warm enough, draught-free place, 3 hours.

Line a bowl or basket with a clean tea towel, and flour it generously (if it isn’t floured enough, the dough will stick to it!)

At this point, the dough should have doubled in size. Tip it out ont the kitchen counter and knead well to knock the air out, 5 minutes, slapping the dough onto the countertop. Shape the dough into a ball and place into lined basket or bowl, seam-side up. Cover loosely with a lightly oiled sheet of cling film, and prove a second time, overnight, in a draught-free room. This second prove should take about six to eight hours.

Preheat oven to 220°C/430°F, placing a dish filled with water on the bottom shelf of the oven, to create steam and a beautiful crust.

Line a baking tray with baking paper.

Once second prove is complete, gently lift off cling film. Then, carefully tip risen dough out of its basket and onto prepared baking tray, lifting off tea towel gently. Spritz gently with water, and slash with a sharp knife. Place baking tray in the middle of the hot oven, and bake at 220°C/430°F, for 30 minutes. Then, reduce heat to 200°C/395°F, and bake, for a further 15 minutes.

Remove from the oven and lift off the baking tray.

Let Alexa Crowe’s Sourdough cool completely (if you can), before eating slathered with butter, honey and jam, with tasty cheeses and good wines… like a chilled Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc, with an episode or two of My Life Is Murder, of course!

[shih-coulda-had-it]

35. “Why are you looking at me like that” i want to see what you do with this one

Anon, give me free reign, and I will return with some of the nichest interests to fandom. Another sourdough starter! This is for a time-travel AU with Yoichi/Sorahiko (Yoihiko) for end-game. Sorahiko's canon is set after Nana dies, and before Toshinori heads to the States.

//

So Sorahiko got punched some thirty-plus years into the past.

Fine. Typical One for All bullshit.

(He is going to punch Toshinori so hard if he ever gets back to the present. Regardless of how much Gran Torino deserved a humbling, Sorahiko did not sign up for this.)

It’s a nightmare of a time period, especially because pro-heroes aren’t exactly a concept yet. Sorahiko is unlucky enough to be picked up by some kind of guerrilla faction, and even more unlucky when he finds out they are connected to All for One. Not in a friendly way, mind.

The leader of the resistance and his right-hand man interfered before Sorahiko could be summarily interrogated and killed. To be fair to the guerrilla faction, Sorahiko had been shooting his mouth off left and right, because this whole situation was awful, and he wasn’t shy about taking his frustration out on assholes.

Things that alarmed them: his gear, his hair, and his unheard-of Quirk.

“Are you related to Shigaraki?” the leader had asked, suspicion written all over his face.

“Who the hell is Shigaraki,” Sorahiko had answered, eyeing the leader’s gauntlets.

Talks are, believe it or not, uphill from there. Once Sorahiko is confirmed to be thoroughly, passionately agreeable to using violence against All for One, he is more or less folded into the resistance. And before long, the resistance launches an all-out assault on All for One’s base.

Gran Torino is mercilessly placed on the front lines, nearly shoulder to shoulder with the leader (determinedly nameless) and his right-hand man (Sanjuro Yojimbo).

“Easier ways to take me out of the game,” says Sorahiko, checking the suction seals of his gloves. He grimaces at the loosening fit; although his time hadn’t been the best with the daily grind of patrol - villain - paperwork, its miserable characteristics did not hold a candle to the present.

These are lean times.

“Gran Torino, you’re the one who wanted to wear your shining beacon of a costume,” says Sanjuro. The man adjusts his bandana, fussing with fraying seams.

“I wasn’t going to repaint my gloves and boots.”

“And now you’ll attract all sorts of attention,” sighs the leader. The three of them are sharing one last quiet moment, staring at the hastily-scrawled map Sorahiko managed to draw up. Honestly, he has no idea if the resistance would have managed this fight without his help.

They certainly aren’t in any records.

“Sure you won’t tell me your name?” Sorahiko needles. “Dead man’s request.”

“As you like to remind us, it’s hard to kill you,” the leader says. He folds the map into squares, slides it into his jacket, and cracks his neck from side to side. “Send the signal.”

A red flare shoots up into the sky.

Gran Torino, as the fastest, hurtles himself over the gates and dodges the first slew of projectile Quirks. Nothing particularly dangerous, nothing tricky. However much All for One is in his prime, the Quirks of this era are… lacking in potency.

That, or All for One has already snatched the strongest of them up.

He supposes the real nightmare is that All for One’s followers are simply that. Followers, willing to do what the man wants, in broad daylight. Vicious, vindictive, villainous. The civilians can’t fight back, because the ban on public Quirk usage affects them the hardest. The government flounders, still is floundering by the time Gran Torino had hit the streets, so… it makes sense that this resistance appeared to fill the gap.

His entrance into the building is preceded by an unconscious woman’s body, thrown through a window. Presumably, the leader’s gauntlets will blow open the front doors, but once Gran Torino is on the move, he tries not to stop.

“Get him!”

“What the hell is he wearing?”

Gran Torino kicks that commenter in the face. He moves on. One, two, five, ten--there are more guards than he anticipated. Further down: a stairway, a hallway, a large heavy door with a spinning handle attached.

Despite knowing of the smart thing to do (wait for reinforcements), Gran Torino sets on to open this door.

It does not turn easy. But it does turn, and the door does open.

He shoves it, steadies his footing, and braces himself for a surprise attack. The light from the hallway floods into a dark room, and Sorahiko can barely discern a cowering figure on the floor, pale-haired and green-eyed.

“N-nii-san?”

Sorahiko blanches as the sound of an explosion shakes the floor above. He knows of very few people with hair like theirs, and this trembling voice does not sound like All for One. Stumbling back so his shadow doesn’t fall over the other man’s, Sorahiko has a crazy thought: whoever this relative of All for One is, he looks--kind.

“You’re not my brother,” says the man, green eyes going wide. “You--”

“Do you want out?” Gran Torino demands.

“I…”

“This estate is being attacked,” he says, trying to pick his words carefully. Shimura was always better at reassuring terrified civilians, or de-escalating emotional spirals on the verge of a panic attack. “If you need help, then… the people I’m with can provide it.”

“You don’t know who I am.”

Gran Torino exhales, sharp, and stalks into the vault. The man stays on the floor, staring up and up, except his eyes hold less fear and more fascination. They follow Gran Torino as he crouches, and then they skitter to gaze at the outstretched hand.

“I don’t need to know who you are,” Sorahiko says. “I wasn’t sent here to find you. All I know is that you’ve been trapped in this room, guarded by more goons than feasible for a hallway patrol.” He tilts his head. “Makes for easy lines of attack, I gotta say.”

“... Your Quirk?”

“Trade secret,” says Sorahiko simply. He wiggles his fingers. “This is an offer. Get out of jail free card, you could say.”

The man hesitates, but he reaches back, thin fingers ever smaller against the size of Gran Torino’s glove. They curl into a surprisingly strong grip as Gran Torino levers them back up.

“Can you run?”

“I’m not in the best of shape,” says the man, sheepish.

He considers his options. Escorting a malnourished unarmed civilian will turn them both into sitting ducks. Carrying him? That’s doable. It may also deter Sanjuro and the leader from automatically killing the man.

“Ever get motion sickness?”

“Never had the opportunity.”

Gran Torino nods and says, “I can carry you. In my arms or over my shoulder, pick your poison.” Upon seeing the flustered expression bloom, Sorahiko rolls his eyes. The man won’t see; the lenses are opaque. “If it helps, it will be faster if you’re in my arms. I can compensate for the extra weight easier.”

Not that you look like you weigh much, Sorahiko adds silently.

“Whatever works,” says the man, faint, and Gran Torino hooks one twiggy arm around his much broader shoulders and scoops him up off the floor by the knees. He’s right. The man doesn’t weigh much at all. Fingers curl in, grabbing a handful of his cape.

“This’ll work,” he confirms, and turns smartly on his heel to exit the vault. Before Gran Torino reenters the hallway, he stops and warns, “Bodies up ahead.”

The fingers tighten. “You killed them?” the man asks woodenly.

“Mine will wake up with a severe migraine.”

“Ah.”

That’s about as much as Gran Torino’s willing to throw his comrades under the bus. He forges on into the light, picking his way past the fallen unconscious bodies. Being in the past has turned him more cutthroat, but… he’s been hardwired to perform swift knock-outs. For most wannabe villains, getting kicked unconscious once is embarrassing enough to turn them onto milder paths.

Better a shoplifter than a mugger, in Gran Torino’s eyes.

These ‘guards’ had been pretty pathetic. Supposing the resistance doesn’t send a ‘clean-up’ squad, the idiots might be able to turn over a new leaf.

He would use Jet, but the hallway is kind of tight. So Gran Torino is stuck walking until he reaches the stairs, and he tries not to jostle his passenger. This effort does not go unrecognized, a fact Sorahiko realizes when he glances down to check in.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, unsettled by the shining green irises.

It looks uncannily like when Toshinori actually respected Gran Torino, instead of hating him to the point of sending him far into the past.

“You’re a hero,” the man whispers, almost giddy with the naming. “You’ve got to be.”

Sorahiko bites the inside of his cheek. His face feels too warm, a fact that he will have to blame on the floor being heavily insulated. Slowly, to better communicate a disbelief that he doesn’t actually feel, Sorahiko says, “And what makes you think that?”

“Your suit. The cape. A refraining from meting out ‘righteous justice.’” The man layers the sarcasm thick on the last two words, like he’s quoting some egotistical asshole.

“Some villains make the cut,” mutters Gran Torino.

“Exceptions to the rule?”

They’re at the bottom of the staircase. Sorahiko can hear the resistance wrecking shop upstairs, and he is keenly aware that he will be entering the fray with another man in his arms, in a one-person lift more commonly associated with bridal carries.

“When a villain promises to destroy your whole world,” he says, “when they already have destroyed a crucial part of it, with no remorse, no intention to atone... I think…”

This is hardly the time to indulge his grieving heart.

Nevertheless, the man presses his hand against Sorahiko’s chest. Sorahiko, startled, meets those fascinated, fascinating green eyes.

“I hear you,” he says, quiet in his empathy. A quick breath. “My name is Shigaraki Yoichi. It’s nice to meet you…?”

Sorahiko swallows past his trepidation.

“Call me Gran Torino, Yoichi-san,” he says.

[cicaklah]

witcher quarantine au or fringe AU of dreammmsssss

Por que no los dos?

Witcher Quarantine AU would have been AMAZING had I been fucked to write it. Modern AU, where Jaskier is a furloughed lutenist at the orchestra of the age of enlightenment, Geralt is his Polish hot bodybuilder and mysterious other job neighbour who keeps smoking into his flat and poisoning his sourdough starter and its very much an April 2020 fic in that its about being trapped in your flat obsessed with bread, and its such a time capsule omg.

When Jaskier was at school, and still, technically at the time, called Julian, the vicar came in and told them all that drugs were bad, and taking any would send them directly to hell. 

This was the nice vicar - the school had two who came to minister to the children, back when there was less of a crisis of young men who didn’t want to give up their lives to god, even if this was C of E and they absolutely were allowed to have sex and wives and wear jeans like normal people. 

Tuesdays and Thursdays were the days the children got ministered at. The Tuesday vicar was boring, apart from when he would tell them about hell, the only thing the children of St John’s had ever seen him get truly excited over. He managed to make even the exciting bible stories boring, even the ones where people got eaten by animals, which are a sure fire win with the pre-teen crowd. Thursday’s vicar, whose name has been lost to time, had a guitar and liked to teach them songs that sometimes weren’t even about Jesus (although most of them were.)

Maybe the school thought the impressionable ten-to-eleven year olds of St John’s would hear about the risks of year seven over at the local comprehensive from the nicer vicar, or maybe he took it upon himself to educate them. By the end of that fateful Thursday morning, Julian (known as Jaskier to his family, his father never really sure that his son should have such an English name, but his mother had insisted. If he was to have a Polish surname, she said, he should have an English first name. Fairs fair.) soon believed that drug dealers lurked around every corner, ready to offer him a free taste of something that would be so delicious, so incredible, that one taste would ruin his life forever, and all he would care about from then on, would be Drugs. 

“So drugs are like chocolate?” asked Bran (whose parents had changed it from Brian in 1996, so taken with this fantasy book they’d read).

“Much worse”, the vicar said. “Or, well, much better. Chocolate can rot your teeth, make you fat, give you diabetes, but you can still go to heaven if you eat it. Remember that, children.”

Over the next two-ish decades, Jaskier had taken a lot of drugs (and eaten a lot of chocolate, as his dentist could attest), and they’d been good, but ultimately disappointing. No drug could ever be like the promise of pleasure so deep that it would corrupt your immortal soul so deeply even the Anglican God would reject you. 

And then, just as he had made it, got his life together, his own flat, a place with the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment as their new lutenist, a global pandemic had hit, ending all the arts funding basically forever, trapping Jaskier in the limbo of being unemployed enough to lose sleep but not yet in trouble. 

And then, everyone on instagram started talking about this bread recipe.

--

The New York Times No Knead Bread recipe first hit the internet in 2006, and everyone in certain spheres of the internet went ballistic. Had Jaskier been into the food blogging scene as a teenager, maybe none of this would have happened, but Jaskier had a Myspace account where he had a dodgy fringe, eyeliner stolen from his sister, and a real belief that he was going to be a rock star, no matter what his guitar teacher said. He’d even once semi-successfully flirted with Pete Wentz, which is a sign of incipient greatness.

Those who were in the know, knew what would happen when the recipe started circulating in early 2020. 

It seemed simple enough. The recipe, when googled, declared that it took 90 minutes, the search engine unable to parse the ‘up to 20 hours proving’ time by its robot eyes. It gets you, as many an amateur baker has found over the last fourteen years, by seeming simple. You put the ingredients in a bowl, and then you wait. And wait. And wait. And there’s something in the anticipation of waiting for what’s supposed to be the best loaf of goddamn bread you’ve ever eaten to emerge first from the fridge, and then from the oven. The yeast rises, but somehow, something changes within you. When that first loaf, uneven, maybe not perfectly risen, but risen all the same, is unleashed from the oven, and you take that first bite, and the crust is unlike anything you’ve ever tasted, it’s almost too crusty, but then there’s the fluffy middle, and next thing you know you’ve eaten half the loaf even before you were supposed to because it hadn’t even fucking cooled, you animal. 

And here lies the dilemma. Now you need to do it again. Do it better. Chase that high.

He had just enough flour and yeast for one more go. Just one more hit. 

Meanwhile, in Fringe AU of dreamssss:

Walter and Bell adopt Olivia after her amazing response to cortexiphan, because hey, you can’t just let the saviour of the universes just walk out the door into the world. In this universe Blue Peter dies, Walter crosses over to the Red Universe (breaking it as-per) but does not take Peter with him, instead leaves the antidote in the house with a note for Walternate to administer. Peter therefore grows up in the Red Universe as he was meant to, with two loving parents. Olivia’s parents die in mysterious circumstances, and she grows up the child of two universes, with two daddies, in a lab. 

2010 me was not sophisticated enough to write it, so there’s not much more there than that.