#How to complete VAT returns

[georgeshutcheson]

How to Complete VAT Returns

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How to Complete VAT Returns

Hey there! If you’re feeling a bit overwhelmed by the process of completing VAT returns in the UK, don’t worry – I’ve got you covered. In this guide, I’ll walk you through everything you need to know about how to complete VAT returns with ease. Let’s get started!

What is VAT?

Before we dive into the nitty-gritty details of how to complete VAT returns, let’s make sure we’re on the same page about what VAT actually is. VAT stands for Value Added Tax, and it’s a type of tax that is applied to the majority of goods and services in the UK. Essentially, VAT is a tax that is paid by consumers when they purchase goods or services, and it’s collected by businesses on behalf of the government.

Who Needs to Complete VAT Returns?

Not every business in the UK is required to complete VAT returns – the threshold for mandatory registration is £85,000 of taxable turnover. If your business’s taxable turnover exceeds this threshold over a 12-month period, you are required to register for VAT and submit regular VAT returns to HM Revenue & Customs (HMRC).

How Often Do I Need to Submit VAT Returns?

VAT returns in the UK are typically submitted quarterly. This means that you’ll need to complete and submit a VAT return to HMRC every three months. However, some businesses may be eligible to submit annual VAT returns instead, so it’s important to check with HMRC to determine which schedule applies to your business.

How to Register for VAT

If you’ve determined that your business needs to register for VAT, the next step is to actually complete the registration process. You can register for VAT online through the HMRC website, or you can use an agent or accountant to help you with the process. During the registration process, you’ll need to provide information about your business, such as its name, address, and taxable turnover.

Keeping Accurate Records

One of the keys to successfully complete VAT returns in the UK is keeping accurate and up-to-date records of your business’s transactions. You’ll need to track both the VAT that you have charged to your customers (output tax) and the VAT that you have paid on your business expenses (input tax). This information will be used to calculate the amount of VAT that you owe to HMRC.

Calculating VAT

Calculating VAT can be a bit tricky, especially if you’re not familiar with the process. Essentially, the amount of VAT that you owe to HMRC is the difference between the VAT that you have charged on your sales and the VAT that you have paid on your purchases. To calculate the amount of VAT that you owe, you can use the following formula:

VAT owed = Total output tax – Total input tax

Completing Your VAT Return

Step 1: Use Accounting Software

Most businesses are required to keep digital records and use compatible software to submit VAT returns under the Making Tax Digital (MTD) scheme. Ensure your accounting software is MTD-compatible.

Step 2: Access Your VAT Online Account

Log in to your HMRC VAT online account. If you haven’t already, sign up for MTD and link your accounting software to your HMRC account.

Step 3: Fill in the VAT Return Form

Using your accounting software, fill in the VAT return form. You will need to provide the following information:

Total Sales and Outputs: Include the total value of sales and other outputs (excluding VAT).

Output Tax Due: The amount of VAT due on your sales and other outputs.

Purchases and Inputs: The total value of purchases and other inputs (excluding VAT).

Input Tax Reclaimable: The amount of VAT you can reclaim on your purchases and other inputs.

Net VAT to be Paid or Reclaimed: The difference between your output tax and input tax.

Step 4: Review and Submit

Carefully review the information on your VAT return to ensure it is accurate. Once confirmed, submit your VAT return through your accounting software. Ensure you meet the deadline for submission, which is usually one calendar month and seven days after the end of the VAT accounting period.

Step 5: Pay Any VAT Due

If your VAT return shows that you owe VAT, arrange payment to HMRC by the due date. You can pay via:

Direct Debit

Bank transfer (BACS/CHAPS)

Online or telephone banking

Debit or corporate credit card

Step 6: Keep Records

After submission, keep copies of your VAT returns and the records used to complete them for at least six years. This includes:

VAT returns submitted

Calculation working papers

Sales and purchase invoices

Bank statements

Step 7: Handle Corrections

If you discover an error in a previously submitted VAT return, correct it as soon as possible. Minor errors (below £10,000) can often be corrected on your next VAT return. Significant errors or adjustments may require a formal notification to HMRC using form VAT652.

Additional Tips:

Stay Informed: Keep up-to-date with any changes to VAT regulations and requirements by regularly checking HMRC’s guidance.

Seek Assistance: If you are unsure about any part of the process, consider seeking advice from a qualified accountant or VAT specialist.

By following these steps, you can ensure that your VAT returns are completed accurately and submitted on time.

Common Mistakes to Avoid

Completing VAT returns can be complex, and it’s easy to make mistakes along the way. Some common errors to watch out for include:

Failing to keep accurate records of your transactions

Forgetting to reclaim VAT on all eligible business expenses

Miscalculating the amount of VAT owed to HMRC

Missing the deadline for submitting your VAT return

Conclusion

Completing VAT returns in the UK may seem daunting at first, but with a little bit of know-how and some careful record-keeping, you’ll be a VAT pro in no time. Remember to stay organized, keep accurate records, and reach out for help when you need it. By following the steps outlined in this guide, you’ll be well on your way to mastering the art of VAT returns in the UK. Happy filing!

[fvckwithmefamo]

How to Complete VAT Returns

Hey there! If you’re feeling a bit overwhelmed by the process of completing VAT returns in the UK, don’t worry – I’ve got you covered. In this guide, I’ll walk you through everything you need to know about how to complete VAT returns with ease. Let’s get started! What is VAT? Before we dive into the nitty-gritty details of how to complete VAT returns, let’s make sure we’re on the same page about…

[madisonellie1]

VAT Flat Rate

At Account-Ease, we demystify and help our clients, businesses, to conform to the provisions of the VAT Flat Rate scheme and the UK Gov VAT return. Irrespective of the kind it is whether a quarterly VAT return or even managing with monthly VAT returns, we explain the same to the clients. Tutorial on how to complete a VAT return an example of a fully completed VAT return proves that you have explained this process adequately. Here at Flat Rate VAT Calculator, we harness the most effective software for VAT returns Flat Rate VAT, to enable you determine your flat rate VAT appropriately. It is important to comprehend how flat rate percentages work more so when implementing VAT on digital services. By using Account-Ease, one not only gets to appreciate the benefits of being VAT registered but also does not get fined with the penalty for late filing of VAT return as well as the VAT late payment penalty. We make sure our VAT accountants avoid any problems with regard to delayed VAT payments. We make it our responsibility to make sure your VAT returns are submitted in time to avoid penalties while keeping your business on schedule. That’s right, let the lenient experts of Ease manage your VAT properly so that you can handle what is most important—your business.

[doodle-pops]

Love Scenario

Ecthelion x reader

Request: Hey! Can I request a dating fic between reader and Ecthelion? How does he woo/court her? What about their engagement? Wedding plans? Especially if this is set in Valinor after the FoG, and he’s just come back to life, and like, omg, now I have this lady I want to check out when I’m fresh out of soul prison. He probably relies on Glorfindel a little bit because he’s been more established since the late Second Age and comes from a “house of princes.” - Anon

A/N: As mentioned, I absolutely enjoyed writing this piece for Thel.

Warnings: fluff, humour, Egalmoth and Glorfindel helping their dear best friend, a bit of a sentimental moment, indirect confession

Words: 2.5k

Synopsis: With his return to Valinor and the desperate call to take action, Ecthelion has made it his purpose, day and night, to construct the perfect future for you happily ever after.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Since he returned.”

“…That’s over five months, Laurë!”

A weary side-eye glance at Egalmoth from Glorfindel and the former folded his lip to refocus his attention to their dear friend who was fretting over the right colours to paint the interior of your future house. Ask him if he had plucked the courage to speak to you upon his return and he’d throw swears at his friends. But he was already envisioning his life with you as though the most important action was completed. Dream on.

“Cream, bone white or ivory cream?” Came the steady voice of Ecthelion. In his hands were strips of the colours he suggested and on his face was a panicked expression as though he was running out of time.

Frowning and ready to calm his dear friend, Glorfindel stretched his palms outwards and gently waved them up and down to soothe the madman or rather, elf. “Thel, don’t you think this is all too much? You haven’t even asked—”

“Yes, I just did. What colour should I choose?” Ecthelion enunciated and widened his eyes further to emphasise his point.

At this point, it was Egalmoth to the rescue as he placed the vat of wine down and exhaled, ready to appear as the saviour to most, since all was impossible, of his stress. “What is the purpose of the colours, Thel?”

“Balusters for the balcony,” Ecthelion responded calmly as though you and he were already living together—in his head, you were—and he was tasked with the décor, both interior and exterior.

The room fell into silence as all three Lords were left at one another, or rather both Glorfindel and Ecthelion were left gawking at Ecthelion’s seriousness. Not a stutter or flatter in the batting of his lashes did Ecthelion show any signs of uncertainty when it came to answering their questions. He was indeed picking out the colour of the balusters for the balcony, so when you wished to hang your baskets of flowers or sit in the evening and gaze at the setting sun, whatever you wore would be highlighted by the colour the balusters were.

Tongue in cheek, Glorfindel closed his mouth and flashed an awkward grimace before cutting the silence with an answer. “Bone white, especially if you’re choosing to paint your house in blue, it would mesh well with each other.”

Grateful for the say, Ecthelion wasted no time in returning to his colour scheming and designing of your future home with a small ‘thank you’. However, Egalmoth was beginning to find confusion in this entire dynamic since they were both against feeding into their dear friend’s delusions. The look of disgust plastered across the silver-haired male’s face as he scrutinised Glorfindel grew intensely as the second ticked by.

“Are you serious? No, no, no, don’t cut me off. I’m being serious here,” he protested at Glorfindel’s attempt to sway his mind. Dropping his voice and octave and inching his head closer to bridge the gap between him and the latter, he whisper-yelled, “Are you serious?! We were asked to help him finish his confession letter so he could serenade Y/N, not indulge in his delusionary fantasies that cannot exist until he confesses! Why are you helping him?!”

Amused at the sudden outburst from his comrade, he released small chuckles at his concern for their ‘puppy love’ friend. “But weren’t you—”

“No, no, no, no, no. Do not categorise me as an accomplice when I am not!” Pinching his brow, Egalmoth flung his back against the cushioned chair a little too hard, defeating the cushioning purpose. A quiet yelp slipped out before a series of exasperated sighs followed and a single eye roll. “I’m here to help lover boy get his lover, not keep him looking like a sick puppy.”

Unable to respond, Glorfindel watched with laughter as Egalmoth rose from his seat and trudged over to Ecthelion to pry the sheet of paper out of the ebony-haired elf’s hands which almost sparked an outburst.

“Alright, I’ve had enough. You summoned us to aid you with wooing Y/N and here we are aiding you with picking house colours. Well no more! Get me your best rendition of your confession Laurë helped you write. Get up!” With a wave of his hand, Egalmoth ushered Ecthelion to his feet to recite his poem. Unfortunately, Thel was able to cast a sheepish expression which spoke volumes and made both Lords groan.

Holding his palms upwards to surrender, he defended himself as best as he could. “In my adversity, I was overcome with excitement for our future each time I sat down to finish the poem, so I have an excuse.”

This time, it was Glorfindel who turned on the heat and cast his dear friend a look of disappointment. With his arms and legs crossed, he bore holes in Ecthelion’s head, creating possible solutions to help his helpless friend without launching his harp at his head. Needless to say, Glorfindel sighed heavily with the pressures of another person’s burden on his shoulders. “Where’s the parchment with the poem? Let’s see how well we can impersonate the great Elemmírë and create a masterpiece for you to profess your undying love for Y/N. Only this time you’re alive and not dead.”

Ending his joke with laughter, accompanied by Egalmoth, he rose from his chair to grip the parchment from Ecthelion’s hands as he produced it from inside his robes. With another disappointed shake of his head, he requested a charcoal and soon, all three were—rather two since Ecthelion kept interrupting to discuss your future—slaving away to create a poem worthy of your name. Nonetheless, after the first hour and a half passed, he managed to get into the flow of creating words from his mind and very soon the poem was halfway completed.

“Okay, so we have the first two stanzas down—thankfully!” sassed Egalmoth as he threw an unbiased glare at the ebony hair Lord who did not hesitate to return one with common courtesy. “I think one more stanza could be added; try fitting in a line that confesses his love?”

Sharply reading through what was already written, Ecthelion had found everything to be perfect, yet still missing something. Prying the parchment from Glorfindel’s fingers, Thel paced up and down the drawing room muttering to himself about the things he could include about you.

Your eyes? Your voice? Your beauty—no, that was already included. Perhaps…

And so, he began to recite the poem in hopes of conjuring the rest.

“In gardens fair, where roses bloom,

A beauty found, defying gloom.

Like you, fair one, a bloom so rare,

With an elegance that fills the air.

“Yet in this garden, one may find,

A soul as lovely, gentle, and kind.

Each delicate curve, each gentle hue,

Reflects the sweetness found in you.

“Oh, delicate rose of whispered sighs,

In your presence, the world complies,

For your grace outshines the floral art,

A masterpiece of tender heart.

“So let me liken you, my dear,

To roses blooming, ever near.

For in your grace, in every part,

You hold the essence of my heart.

“I lo—”

He froze as though the words were stuck in his throat. At the tip of his very tongue, he knew the next syllable to whisper to you whenever he got the chance. Yet, it refused to fall off his tongue as though something held it back. The trembling of his hands gave it away, though his slight stubbornness pushed his fear away and replaced it with confidence.

False confidence. He scoffed and stared at the ivory cream carpet.

What was he to be afraid of? He was the Great lord Ecthelion of the Fountain who slayed four Balrogs and great tales were sung of him. He stared death in its eye, confessing to you would be as easy as walking through the silvery streets of Gondolin once again. Yet something held him back.

The day he left you in the city of Tirion that day he departed, gnawed at his memory. It was easier to picture being with you than working up the courage to share his heart knowing that you might reject him. You had every right to since he floundered the opportunity ages ago. It didn’t matter how many forms of encouragement came his way; anxiety lurked overheard. His only wish was that he had confessed to you before departing to reduce this turmoil.

“Thel?” The soft whisper of Glorfindel’s voice woke him up and returned him to reality. “Is everything alright?”

There was a deafening silence before the crumpling of paper followed by a sigh. “Who am I fooling? I can’t bring myself to do this anymore.”

“Oi, mate! What are—What are you doing? We’ve come so far,” Egalmoth reasoned as he shot from his seat with his hands outwards. “You can’t back out now!”

“Well, I am!” Ecthelion responded curtly, whipping his head around to shoot a tired look at his friends. “All this…All of this I’m doing, and what if Y/N rejects me? I had the opportunity aeons ago and I didn’t—”

“And yet Y/N stayed without loving someone else. Isn’t that enough to let you know that they’re waiting for you to still try? Imagine if you didn’t have this chance, and they found someone else, you would blame yourself, right? Then don’t! Come on, Thel,” Egalmoth encouraged as he took steps closer to his friend, bending down to retrieve the balled-up parchment off the floor. “Don’t let all those months of designing your future home be for nothing! Picture me as Y/N; what would you say if you had the chance?”

The glare he threw at Egalmoth was enough to make anyone else scurry away. The temper and fury behind his eyes; water brimmed his lower lashes as a barbed wire found its way around his neck. The first inhale he took burned his lungs. It was better to be left in the fantasy world.

Parting his lips, his silver-grey eyes burnt with passion as his heart cried a symphony of love. “I would say that I’m sorry, and I love you.” he began with a feathered whisper, “I have loved you morning, noon and night, even in death. My soul yearns for the very essence of yours for I cannot exist without you; I do not think that I can. I wish to be at your side in this life, hereafter and the next; I never wish to be parted from you from this moment onwards. I only wish to cherish you…if you would forgive me and accept me as I am.”

The silence in the air was thick. A pin could fall to the carpet and a sound would ricochet. Both Lords were caught by the throat from the rawness of the confession, a stark contrast to what was originally discussed. Flowery words.

Heaving as though a burden was lifted from his chest, Ecthelion felt tears pooling his low lashes from the anxiety he suffered from his mistakes. He just wanted to be with you. Not go through this turmoil of overcoming his f—

Clap! Clap! Clap! “Oh, that was beautiful!”

The sound of three necks snapping simultaneously reverberated clearly in your eardrums as your sudden voice and clapping startled all three Lords. However, once all three pairs of eyes were locked on your figure standing gracefully as ever in the doorway, you froze mid-clapping and stood at attention, eye darting from left to right. You felt like you were unintentionally being scolded by your old buddies.

Shuffling on your feet, you offered a wolfy grin with an awkward chuckle. “Sorry, the worker informed me that Lord Ecthelion was in the drawing room relaxing with familiar company and I was permitted to enter. If I’m obstructing, I’ll come back another time.”

“Oh no, no, no, no!” exclaimed Glorfindel with a beam brighter than the sun as the opportunity of a lifetime presented itself on a diamond platter. He wasted no time in flying out of his chair and grabbing Egalmoth by his scruff to head towards the exit, leaving Ecthelion standing confused in the centre of the room. “You can stay and chat with Ecthelion, we were just heading to the kitchen for condiments since he enjoys starving us. Farewell Y/N, we’ll catch up another time!”

You stood aside as both Lords brushed past your figure to rush down the hallway in the opposite direction of the kitchen as far as you could remember from your childhood. Pinching your brows with a whimsical expression, you remained standing in the doorway, not wanting to appear any more intruding than you had already proven to be. There was a curt nod from you in the ebony-haired elf’s direction, an awkward action which made no sense, yet proved to ease your nerves.

Tongue in cheek, you eyed the interior of the room before returning your focus to the statue of an elf at the centre. “I liked your words, the declaration of love, I meant. Is it for a play, not that I knew you to be the type of person to engage in those activities, or a song or poem?”

“Yes,” he curtly responded. The most unmanageable response to escape his silvery tongue slipped out. In Ecthelion’s head, he was screaming and attempting to drown himself for his foolish display. In his mind, his day was going from great to good to terrible to I-don’t-know-if-this-should-be-counted. Where and when did you spawn from?

Awkwardly nodding your head at his reply, you raised your brow. “Nice, um, I wanted to personally come here to give this to you,” you murmured and crossed the floor to stand a foot from the centre to hand him an envelope with his name written. “It’s a banquet and my family told me to invite a plus one, so—”

“You thought of me?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

Your face fell at the suddenness of his low confidence. The Ecthelion you knew from yesteryears would not have doubted anyone’s decision to have him as a first choice; this was not your Thel.

“You don’t wish to attend? My apologies, I’ll just take back the invite then.” Your hands made a grab to pry the envelope from his fingers, but he was quicker to move it out of your grasp. Deflating at his actions, you huffed. “Do you want to attend the banquet or not?”

“Yes! But why?”

“W-…Why?! Thel, I haven’t seen you in ages,” you angrily laughed and felt a wave of emotion welling in your throat making it difficult to meet his eyes. “I missed you and I did miss your return because I was busy preparing for the banquet hoping that I could spend the night with you. Chatting, drinking, dancing, or finding a secluded spot away from everyone. I miss you, and I know you miss me too. So come, please.”

You missed him. You missed him. You wanted to spend time with him alone. No better words were spoken from your lips to convince him to stay away. A moment the doors of opportunity opened; this time he was not ignoring it.

Clutching the envelope firmly between his fingers, he smiled. Gingerly nodding his head before breaking into it vigorously, he gave you a look of affection he could not resist. “I’ll be there in my finest wear.”

“Lovely!” you beamed and stared into his eyes. The tears were still brimming your lashes, only in smaller quantities which was less of an issue now that the problem was resolved. “And perhaps you can recite the confession you gave to Egalmoth earlier at the banquet, I’d love to hear it once more, in private.”

Understanding the meaning behind your words, he gave a gentle, yet stiff nod. “Of course,” he breathed with a look of anxiety. “Of course, a confession for you.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @ranhanabi777 @lilmelily @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @sakurayaxd @involuntaryspasms @mcwentfandomtraveling @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @lamemaster

[anxiousnerdwritings]

Damn... if we go back to au, where Demian's twin reader becomes Harley's child, how much will Talia be jealous.

She's like, yes, I didn't put my child in anything, he's an unworthy brat, but I hate even more that she found another mother and thinks I'm worse😡😡

And Ra, outraged at the conditions in which his grandson is being brought up (and angry that Talia allowed the child to escape with these people, and full of hatred because now his role as the main male role model has been replaced by some crazy clown)

Talia would be incredibly jealous and irate but it wouldn’t stem from her own maternal instincts, it’s all about principle. That child, even though she despises them and thinks their nothing but a defective spawn, is her child. It all comes down to possessiveness. And she especially wouldn’t take well to the situation if her child was absolutely thriving with Harley as their mother.

Ra’s would be incredibly enraged, mainly at Talia. Whether the twin!Reader left of their own accord (before Talia could do anything to them) or Talia got rid of them herself and sent them to their demise, Ra’s would blame Talia for the Reader ending up in the hands of Harley. In his eyes it was her fault, if only she had opened her eyes and saw what he saw in them then she would have tried so much harder with them. But seeing that his favorite grandchild was flourishing with Harley (and the fact that when he first visited them the Reader had a sword to his neck in protection of their new mother), Ra’s would be more inclined to allow the a reader to stay right where they were. The only thing he’d want in return would be for them to keep in contact with him. Even if they weren’t to do so he’d have his people watching over them and keeping him updated.

Meanwhile, Harley would have no problem kicking Talia’s ass and even going as far as killing her for how she treated Harley’s bby. When she learned of the Reader’s upbringing and how Talia Ned Damian treated them, Harley would be out for blood. She wouldn’t be able to wrap her head around how a mother can be so cruel to her own child. If Harley ever catches sight of Talia, it’s on sight and she’s aiming to maim. But I could see Harley and Ra’s coming to some kind of agreement regarding the Reader. The two aren’t exactly allies but when it comes to the Reader they’ll keep in contact with each other and if they need to they’ll work together for their precious darling.

In the case of the jokerized!twin!Reader then that would be a completely different situation. If Harley had taken the Reader in on her own, with no Joker in the picture, then things would be alright, but if Joker’s playing ‘daddy’ and especially if twin!Reader has already had a visit to the chemical vats then shit is hitting the fan (mainly in regards to Ra’s’ reaction).

Talia’s reaction to Jokerized!twin!Reader isn’t going to be anything positive. If anything she’ll only double down on her terrible treatment of the Reader, becoming even more disgusted by them and what they move become. She’ll accuse them of having finally sunk so low that there’s no coming back and that she was right to want to get rid of them. But once the Reader starts attacking her and is using their training from their upbringing among the League of Assassins and the unhinged, uncontrollable, unpredictable rawness they’re coming at her with has her shook. It’s probably Harley who goes at her first in retaliation for what Talia is saying about her bby and the Reader only jumps in to protect and fight for their new mother.

Fleeing, Talia would plan to come back or have some members of the League come and retrieve her faulty child so that she can train and forge them into what they should have been all this time ago, maybe even making them into something even better than that.

Ra’s would be outraged and plain disgusted with both the clowns and Talia. Again, if it weren’t for her his beloved grandchild wouldn’t have been desecrated and ruined by them. He would take matters into his own hands and save his grandchild from their ‘new family’. And he won’t let anyone stop him. He may even team up with Bruce but there’s no guarantee that Ra’s will allow anyone to have anything to do with the Reader when he gets them back. Not Talia, not Damian, not Bruce, no one would be allowed to come anywhere near them. They’ve been failed and ruined enough, he won’t let it happen again. It’s safe to say that Joker would surely meet his demise and there’s nothing Bruce could do to keep Ra’s from going through with his eradication of the Clown Prince.

And if getting the Reader back means having to kill them to do so then Ra’s will, but they won’t stay dead for long. He can promise that.

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Rob Wilkins on Colin Murray BBC Radio Five (it's a whole segment about Terry, also there Marc Burrows, Discworld Monthly and more, it's available to listen until May 27th 2023, Terry segment starts about 2:11:00) ❤❤❤

CM: He replied to every single letter. And one of your jobs early doors wasto sift through all of that fan mail. Can you give us a real first person insight into how much Terry Pratchett valued those who bought his books?

Rob: He valued them to the point where if he didn't reply to the mail, he could have easily, easily completed another novel. And I know the value on to him for completing another novel, not just financially, but another novel. Another novel out there. All of those ideas tipped within the pages and he gave that up for the fans to reply to the fan mail. And that really isn't an exaggeration. It wasn't just a few hours here and there replying to the fan mail. He dedicated a lot of time to it. And the fan mail ranged from, I love everything that you do, that's it just an outpouring of love, to really in depth taking apart the words and looking for the deep meanings, some of which were not there. And Terry didn't intend them to be there. But whatever people got from the novels, Terry was all is very respectful in his replies. And he took that incredibly seriously. Yes, he took that job as seriously as he did the VAT returns.

[evergreen-femme]

edgy vent writing cw: suicide

i think about the corpse i’ll leave behind all the time.  it used to frighten me.  maybe i’ve shot myself in the woods behind my house, and the body is crawling with insects and maybe has already had some of the meat torn off of it.  maybe she finds a fragment of the skull without too much gore attached and keeps it.  i wonder if it would still hurt to be eaten after i’m dead, if the nerves will somehow still be active and i’ll feel thousands of tiny mandibles tearing into me and not be able to do anything about it.  or maybe i did hit a tree head-on and follow through with my intentions.  parts of the body are crushed by the car, completely unrecognizable; there’s a branch piercing the throat and leaves glued to the face with dried blood.  maybe i’m falling into the quiet ocean where the corpse will be buried in the mud and slowly feasted on by crabs and amphipods and worms.  no one would find it there.  i used to feel revulsion when i thought of these things, but now i can think about them with ambivalence and even a level of fascination.  the corpse isn’t mine, the body isn’t mine.  if i died like this, i could return the elements that comprise what’s left of my existence to nature, and there’s a strange comfort in that.

my corpse, the one that belongs to me, is inside of me, and has been for a while now.  it’s a young girl’s body; i don’t know the age, because she had memories i don’t.  this body grew around it like rings on a tree; what’s left of me is cocooned deep within this sarcophagus of flesh, and it is, of course, dead.  maybe i was stillborn, reanimated by my mother’s desire to have a perfect mirror for herself, a kitten to play with, an entity to play the emotional role of her partner, completely bound by the rules that govern infant psychology and development.  i don’t think that i’ve ever been me.  what i see in the mirror isn’t me, and it never has been. 

how do you live when you are a corpse within a walking corpse?  there isn’t anything that excites me, there’s nothing in particular i want to do, the only things i feel are pain, shame, and guilt.  it is difficult for me to get out of bed; sometimes i just don’t.  i can’t do basic tasks without feeling like i’m dropping my brain in a vat of acid.  one day people will lose their patience with me, and the scraps of work i’m able to do won’t be enough anymore, and i’ll lose my income and my home.  i can feel it growing closer.  it’s always crawling closer, inevitable, lurking in every shadow.  i don’t have the energy to resist it anymore.  every effort i’ve ever made has been for nothing.  i’ve never seen personal gain from it in a way that actually spoke to me.  all the ‘gain’ i’ve had from working, working, working, making my life be work, has been worthless gains for the construct of flesh that is sealing me in with no escape.  the gains are the promise of more work of greater difficulty.  i am a young girl who somehow got a last few gasps of air and realized she was alive inside this living tomb, who tried to claw her way out, before realizing that it was impossible.  there is no way to regain what i’ve lost.

i can’t keep going on like this.  my brain won’t cooperate with my attempts to keep the construct functioning enough to keep my life in stasis anymore.  nothing is in stasis anyway, it never was. flesh grows old, breaks down, mutates and warps unrecognizably regardless of whatever is going on in your brain.  i just can’t make it keep going anymore.  i will lose my job.  i have nowhere to go.  there must still be a part of me that’s alive in there, because i don’t want to die, but the pain is too much to bear, and any life i could have will be a fraction of what it should have been, consigned to the margins of society and left to rot and fall apart.  i used to wonder if i would be in the news when i killed myself, but i know i won’t be.  people kill themselves every day, it’s one of the most common causes of death, and nobody cares about another dead tranny.  the world will blink and i’ll be gone and it won’t matter. 

what i need is a love that is impossible, one that i could never reciprocate, because i’m incapable of real love or affection.  i wouldn’t even be able to recognize it if i was getting it; hell, i probably am, i’m just too broken to feel it.  maybe nourishing an ecosystem at the bottom of the sea is what love feels like.

[mariacallous]

Last year, I hosted my biggest Rosh Hashanah dinner ever. My boyfriend and I invited about 15 friends over to our one-bedroom Brooklyn apartment, moved all of our furniture into the bedroom, rented a couple of folding tables and chairs, and turned the living room into a Rosh Hashanah dreamscape, complete with thematic streamers, ambient lighting, and candles. I whipped up four round challahs, a vat of vegetarian matzah ball soup, my mom’s famous cornflake kugel, some baked chicken, and a batch of spiked apple cider.

It was a lot of work, but absolutely worth it: I’m always sad when I can’t be with my family in Chicago during the High Holidays, but being surrounded by friends, some Jewish, some not, to celebrate Rosh Hashanah with food and drink was a warm, wonderful way to ring in the New Year.

But this year? Nah. I’m going with a pizza.

Of course we won’t be hosting another Rosh Hashanah dinner this year for the very obvious reason of a global pandemic. I know we could still make a special meal for the two of us with all the standard trappings that I grew up eating at my mother’s holiday table, but when I think about the work that that requires, and how exhausted I’ve been from merely existing in this current world, I just… kind of… don’t want to. I still want to mark the day as special, and I love the idea of eating symbolic foods on Rosh Hashanah, but I don’t want to spend an entire day cooking, and I certainly don’t want to spend an entire night washing dishes.

Which brings me to pizza, which I will henceforth argue is the perfect — and yes, symbolic — Rosh Hashanah food.

Why should pizza be considered a Rosh Hashanah food? Let’s dive in.

1. It’s round. Traditionally on Rosh Hashanah, instead of braiding challah into a traditional loaf, Jews bake their challah in a round shape to represent the circularity of the calendar and the never-ending cycle of life. You know what else is round? Yup, it’s pizza. Pizza might not be traditionally round for symbolic reasons, but it does allow for easy slicing and sharing, and sharing your food with others seems like a nice Jewish thing to do, no? And I’m not gonna lie: When I stare into a beautiful pizza pie, I see the entire universe staring back at me in all of its cheesy, saucy goodness.

2. It’s *possibly* a Jewish invention. Most people assume pizza came from Italy, but the cheesy delicacy actually has quite a complicated and debated history, with some even believing that the ancient Jewish philosopher Maimonides first coined the word. As Henry Abramson wrote in JTA, Yehuda Romano, a 14th-century Hebrew scholar from Italy, “translated Maimonides’ use of the word ‘hararah’ (a type of flatbread) in the Mishneh Torah with four simple Hebrew letters: peh, yud, tzadi and heh, or ‘pizza,’ arguably the very first time the word was ever used in any language.” In the “History of pizza” page on Wikipedia (a wonderful read if you’ve got the time), it’s noted that, “Some commentators have suggested that the origins of modern pizza can be traced to pizzarelle, which were kosher for Passover cookies eaten by Roman Jews after returning from the synagogue on that holiday, though some also trace its origins to other Italian paschal breads. Abba Eban has suggested that modern pizza ‘was first made more than 2000 years ago when Roman soldiers added cheese and olive oil to matzah.'” Look: I don’t know if Jews really invented pizza, but the chance that our people have been eating it for thousands of years is reason enough for me to order a fresh pie this Rosh Hashanah.

3. It goes well with honey. Honey is a traditional Rosh Hashanah food that represents the sweet New Year. Have you ever put honey on a pizza? What about hot honey? Just do it. Trust me. Moving on.

4. It’s already kind of a New Year’s food. Is it really a New Year’s celebration if you didn’t order pizza at 1 a.m.? Yes, I’m talking about that other New Year’s Eve, but the logic still applies. Plus, if you go a little too hard on that sweet kosher wine, you’ll be very happy to have a fridge full of cold leftover pizza the next morning.

5. Its numerical value is pretty meaningful. Okay, I can’t take credit for this one, and it’s a little out there, but bear with me: My colleague Ben Sales pointed out that according to Gematria, the numerological system by which Hebrew letters correspond to numbers, the Hebrew numerical value of “pizza” (פיצה) is 185. This is also the numerical value of the phrase “אני לדודי ודודי לי” which translates to, “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine,” which comes from a verse in the Song of Songs. This is kind of a slogan for Elul, the month leading up to the High Holidays. The idea is that this is a time period when we’re growing closer to God and vice versa. So let’s grow a little closer to pizza, too.

6. It’s just really good. I don’t know what else there is to say besides pizza is a perfect food, and why wouldn’t you want to start your New Year off with something so amazingly delicious? It’s been a tough year and we need comfort foods more than ever. We need takeout more than ever. We need to go easy on ourselves — and not add any unnecessary stress to our lives — more than ever!

If cooking up a storm on Rosh Hashanah makes you happy, then of course, you should go forth and do so. If you can’t imagine the High Holidays without some tzimmes and brisket, by all means, have at it. But if you’re looking for a way out of the norm during this very, very unusual year, I hereby grant you full permission to ditch the kitchen and call up your favorite local pizza place. Let them bring the party to you (and tip well!!). It’s just one of the many Jewish things to do.

[zoejazzauthor]

https://gofund.me/af47ab67

Please help us recover from my partner’s lung collapse and our year from hell.

Hi. My name is Zoe Johnson. This is what happened:

The second half of 2023 had already gone pretty terribly. Days after moving to our new apartment, my fiancé lost their job and their car ceased working, narrowing us down to only my car. My fiancé applied to jobs diligently, but it took several months to find employment, and it was in retail. My partner completed their college degree in December, a Bachelors specializing in the new and growing field of Medical Simulation Technology, only to find that employment in this field would require an additional two-year unpaid internship, a fact which neither of us had previously been aware of.

Then, in late February of 2024, after not feeling well earlier that day, my fiancé laid down on the couch and was suddenly in extreme pain and short of breath. I tried to persuade them to go to the emergency room, but they refused because it would financially sink us. After the pain subsided slightly, my partner went to work the next day, only to need to quit early due to increasing pain and shortness of breath. A few days later, my fiancé was willing to go to an urgent-care, believing that they had a pulled muscle in their back.

Instead, we were informed that my fiancé had a pleural effusion with a partial lung collapse.

My fiancé was rushed to the ER and admitted to the hospital, where they attempted to drain the pleural effusion, but the infection persisted. During early March of 2024, my partner ended up needing VATS surgery and a chest tube. Since the surgery, my fiancé has been experiencing pain with movement at their surgical scars.

Every medical professional we met seemed to be in shock that a 24-year-old had this issue, and despite testing, the exact reason this happened was never discovered; we were told that most likely, my partner had pneumonia and didn’t notice it, and it developed into the pleural effusion. A surgeon told us my partner was struck with "a one-in-a-million infection with a one-in-a-million complication."

My partner was unable to return to work until April, and the workplace failed to accommodate their needs. In addition to denying my partner’s medical leave, my partner’s job position was taken during their hospital stay, causing the workplace to need to transfer my fiancé to a different position within the store. At first, they provided a chair to use while my partner answered the workplace’s phone, and so that my partner could occasionally sit and take a breath (literally), only to take the chair away and remark that my partner “shouldn’t have come back to work if they couldn’t handle it.” Upon hearing this, I realized my partner’s work situation had become abusive and was negatively effecting their ability to physically heal post-surgery, and I insisted my fiancé quit the position. Since May, my fiancé has been unable to find a new job despite applying diligently.

We have moved back into my childhood home with my dad and have been trying our best to pay the regular household and car related bills while paying off all the debt—medical and otherwise-- which resulted from my fiancé’s hospital stay, but with my partner being unable to find work, our financial situation has remained absolutely crushing. We are wondering if we will ever recover from this. Our wedding plans have downgraded to a cheap elopement, and despite how much a new vehicle would help us, we cannot afford to purchase one or take on yet another monthly payment.

Even with the hospital forgiving some of the medical debt, we are still left on the hook for the cost of doctors that were out of my fiancé’s insurance network, as well as the ambulance ride from the urgent-care to the ER, credit card debt accrued while trying to survive on a single income, and student loan debt for a degree which is not helping my fiancé find employment.

To pay off all of the debt, we would need $45,000. 

Anything to put towards this helps immensely.

[pokelolmc]

The Ultimate Enemy is a Disappointment (and How I'd Fix It) (Part 1)

A couple years back, I started analysing a list of DP episodes I thought had missed potential--and my analysis on TUE got SO big I made it its own thing. I rewrote it to death and could never settle on something concise enough, so I abandoned it. But I'm BACK baby. I can't remember where it is now, but I came across a poll on whether Reign Storm or TUE is the better special and the discourse reignited my passion for this analysis, and gave me motivation to trim off some of the fat.

Don't get me wrong, at the end of the day I do like this episode--or at least its ideas. I really liked the episode the less I thought about it, but now I see issue after issue in its execution. Hence, the "disappointment": it could've been great, but it missed the mark. This won't just be a one-sided roast of TUE, though. I have a ton of cool ideas for how to rewrite plot holes or fill in the gaps. The best roasts are constructive! (Though I would be rewriting it in a more mature fashion compared to canon's writing--keep that in mind).

Part 2 is now up: you can find it here.

So here we go: Part 1--the general plot contrivances/contradictions unrelated to Dan's character or the time travel system.

The episode introduced taking off the Time Medallions as a way to immediately return to one’s native time period, but then forgot this late into the second act.

Technically this plot hole involves time travel devices, but I'm counting it as a plot hole by character decisions.

The episode gives no explicit rules on lag time between removing the medallion and returning home, but it takes only one to two seconds to return Skulktech to the future after they dropped theirs, and it had to have been instant for Sam and Tucker to return to the past in time to escape rubble falling from FentonWorks (which was only roughly two to three stories high, not counting the Ops Centre).

Danny should’ve been sent back almost instantly when Dan took his medallion off—which would’ve completely defeated the purpose of Dan’s attempt to trap Danny there in the first place.

If they wanted to keep the plot point, they could’ve just had Dan grab the medallion and turn it intangible while it’s still around Danny’s neck…and that’s assuming that making it intangible while Danny’s still tangible doesn’t count as “removal”. That’s it. He never needed to remove it to begin with.

2. The Nasty Sauce explosion just…sucks. In my opinion, it’s too silly for the tone the episode’s trying to go for (and as a cause of major character death), and it wrecks the worldbuilding.

I tried to put it in way more verbose ways in my previous drafts, but I found another post somewhere on tumblr that did what I couldn’t—say it in three words:

“It’s just stupid.”

Assuming that semi-realistic laws exist in-place in the Danny Phantom universe (so it’s BASICALLY similar to ours) the Nasty Burger shouldn’t have been able to stay in business without a LOT of red tape, cover-ups and NDA’s. They had an explosive substance on premises, being taken care of by unqualified, minimum-wage part-timers instead of trained chemical safety specialists. Forget handling it, they shouldn’t have even had it in the first place! If they got it by going UNDER the law and covering everything up, then one of their employees shouldn’t have been able to just CONFESS to it at a public school assembly.

It also sounds ridiculous that a “certain combination of secret herbs and spices” could catastrophically combust in the first place. They could’ve made the explosion ghost-powered/altered; they could’ve made it not the sauce itself, but a pressure issue with its containment vats; they could’ve made it a gas leak or malfunction of cooking equipment starting a fire, or something. They could’ve made the explosion a Fenton invention at their home (where the whole family had reason to be at once, and Mr Lancer could hold the parent-teacher conference there like in Teacher of the Year). They've used more serious threats of explosion in previous episodes (like the Ecto-Filtrator in Million Dollar Ghost).

And instead they decided “Yep! This commonly sold and digested sauce is a dangerous explosive, and even a small handout serving is enough to blow clean through a wall when it’s heated up!” This is how we're going to kill all of the main characters' loved ones to send him on a villain arc!

Like what?

Nowhere else after TUE did the show acknowledge the Nasty Sauce in worldbuilding. There were no consequences of its risk being publicly revealed, nor did it ever pose a hazard again. It’s understandable, given the show’s episodic nature. Bu at least in The Ultimate Enemy itself, they should've thought about how it affected most of the previous episodes.

During his fight with Boxed Lunch, one of Danny's ectoblasts to a sauce packet demolishes an entire section of wall in the Nasty Burger. So how hadn’t any ghost fights ignited any Nasty Sauce before—or damaged the main vat, god forbid—and caused an explosion already?

If the sauce was always a part of the Nasty Burger’s recipe, then the entire restaurant was a ticking time bomb waiting to go off since season one, and nothing short of a miracle could explain why it hadn’t happened before.

3. This episode committed character assassination of Mr Lancer, for the sake of setting up stakes in the plot. And contradicted his personality changes in previous episodes (such as “Teacher of the Year”).

Mr Lancer, in my opinion, is the character done the single dirtiest in the episode. It warps his entire character around the plot, and turns him into a contrived mouthpiece for how important the CAT is. It leaves him even more malicious and mean-spirited than his behaviour in the first episode of the entire show—leaving him even worse than he started.

He didn’t have much character development, but there were some more positive changes happening in his personality as later episodes occurred. He started out as a selfish, corrupt authority figure (think Mystery Meat, Fright Night and other S1 episodes where he deliberately lets the jocks off the hook for their behaviour), but unwittingly acts in favour of the main characters in “Fanning the Flames”—although ineffective and easily taken down by Ember.

By the time of “Teacher of the Year”, we finally got a glimpse into his (albeit scant) ideology as a teacher around helping his students succeed, and his concern for Danny’s failing grades.

It even revealed his personal interest in Doomed, which gave him more in common with Danny and Tucker and humanised him in way a few other episodes hadn’t. Season two even demonstrated his (albeit brief) willingness to stand up and defend his students from a ghost attack in “Memory Blank”. Lancer, for a brief period of time, became more than just his job, book title swears and his frustration with rebellious students.  

We're talking about the teacher who, in the early 2000s, kept a picture of himself crossdressing at school to convince his students to try their best with a "story about his sister".

The Ultimate Enemy, however, took Mr Lancer’s humanity towards the students—particularly Danny—and flipped it all on its head. It turned him into an elitist, mean-spirited asshole who verbally attacked his students (past and present) based on their performances on this single. Fucking. Test.

They made Mr. “there is no cheat code in school, or in life” Lancer into a cruel enforcer of the hamfisted and childish importance of the CAT. Actual “get rich vs dead-end, minimum-wage job” propaganda.

(Teacher of the Year)

And... one season later:

(that sure sounds like a cheat code in life to me)

To add insult to injury, TUE used Lancer’s death as the butt of a joke directly after spending the majority treating him like a total asshole—following up character assassination with literal assassination , and excluding him from the rest of the explosion victims in their memorial.

It feels to me, that it'd make more sense for Mr Lancer to be sceptical of the importance of the CAT based on TOTY. Replace him in the assembly with Principal Ishiyama or something. A stickler-for-the-rules school administrator looking to boost the school's image by pressuring kids on a standardised test? That ABSOLUTELY makes sense.

Mr Lancer could still be seen as a threat (or someone Danny can't reach out to for help), but in the department of simply being an authority figure Danny's used to dodging around with his ghost activities. Someone who'd still enforce consequences for Danny getting caught cheating. Someone who'd get his parents involved. He's the closest thing Danny could have to any level of support at Casper High, and Danny could think he's even lost THAT.

4. The way Danny got the CAT answers was contrived, and broke the previously established rules of ghost intangibility.

To cut a long story short, Boxed Lunch’s fight with Danny shouldn’t have gotten the test answers stuck to Danny’s back. Danny immediately turned intangible in anticipation of the explosion, and was thrown outside the Nasty Burger and through Mr. Lancer’s briefcase before turning tangible again.

That didn’t make sense; the series previously established that ghosts (in this case, halfas) were physically unaffected by explosions when intangible. “Million-Dollar Ghost” even demonstrated it when Vlad escaped his castle’s explosion in the same manner, and was left completely unmoved from his position at ground zero. The sauce packet explosion shouldn’t have even moved Danny out of place, let alone flung him out of the building (especially not compared to Vlad and an Ecto-filtrator explosion).

On top of that, the test answers couldn’t have gotten stuck to his back while he passed through the suitcase, as Danny was intangible and the answers sheet was solid. Even if it were possible for already intangible ghosts to grab onto tangible objects and bring them into intangibility, that’d certainly require conscious intention that Danny didn’t have in the episode.  The test answers got stuck to his back by sheer accident on his part. Bringing other objects into tangibility always previously involved a tangible ghost grabbing hold of other tangible people/objects and consciously willing them intangible together. Ergo, he should’ve simply passed through the suitcase and its contents all at once—go to the other side, pass go, do not collect CAT cheat sheet.

The solution for this one is pretty simple—just remove the scene entirely. Not only does it break the lore, but it’s entirely pointless and redundant (more on that later when I talk about Clockwork—giving Danny the answers was his idea, and it was a terrible one). Instead, it would’ve been much more compelling if Danny stole the answers on purpose with his ghost powers—being put under so much pressure to succeed that he felt like he had to forgo his morals and use his powers to cheat.

[iltuoangelodifiducia]

Mirti’s favourite Good Omens fics

Hello hello hello! I’ve been reading lots of fics recently, and I’ve decided to share here some of my favourite ones ♡

Canonverse

Through the years

✧ Mean It by Fyre [one-shot, 1991 words, rated G]

In 1650, a little tradition was born.

✧ Technicalities by curtaincall [one-shot, 1610 words, rated M]

Aziraphale is always very careful with his wording. Crowley's never really been in a position to question it.

Post Season 1

✧ When all of the stars in the sky align by gallantrejoinder [3 chapters, 9k words, completed, rated G]

It was approximately three years after the apoca-wasn’t that Crowley fell into a baptismal font.

It was extremely uncool of him to do so, and years afterwards, he would deny that it had happened like that. All right, maybe he still had trouble with the whole owning four limbs thing after all the years of snakehood - still, that didn’t make him clumsy.

But the point remained. Crowley fell into a literal vat of holy water.

And survived.

✧ Wrong Turn by anticyclone and D20Owlbear [10 chapters, 37k words, completed, rated T]

Lots and lots of somethings are wrong. First, Crowley's nearly hit by a car. Then he almost brains himself tripping over new and excessive piles of books at the bookshop. To add insult to near-injury, Aziraphale starts throwing knives at him. Safe to say his day could be going better.

The thing that's the most wrong of all is the universe, of course. In this one there was never an Arrangement. Aziraphale and Anthony (they can't both be 'Crowley') aren't friends and they certainly never agreed to prep for Armageddon. Unfortunately, the end of the world is two days away.

So that's something Crowley really has to fix before they can figure out how to get him home.

✧ Temporary Tattoo by cyankelpie [6 chapters, 9k words, completed, rated G]

Crowley’s snake tattoo goes on a little adventure and visits Aziraphale. Crowley doesn’t notice it’s missing until halfway to their next assignment, by which time their only option is to write to Aziraphale and ask him to keep the snake safe until Crowley returns.

They wish they’d thought to mention that they can still feel every touch to the snake, but how could they have known how affectionate Aziraphale would be with it?

✧ It's a new craze by attheborder [one shot, 5k words, rated T]

CROWLEY: I try not to make a habit of gratitude, but I must give our appreciation to everyone out there who’s been listening and subscribing to The Ineffable Plan.

AZIRAPHALE: Ooh, yes, we’ve become quite popular, haven’t we?

CROWLEY: Yeah, just hit number eight on the advice charts … No advertising at all.

AZIRAPHALE: Mm. How … miraculous.

CROWLEY: … Aziraphale. You did not.

Crowley and Aziraphale are very possibly the people least qualified, on the entire planet, to start up an advice podcast. But what else is there to do when the world isn’t ending anytime soon, you’re technically on indefinite sabbatical from your lifelong careers, and you need a plausible excuse to spend more time with your best friend who you’re definitely not, absolutely not, maybe just a little, actually maybe overwhelmingly in love with?

✧ I am just the (new invention) by littlesnowpea [one-shot, 7k words, rated T]

A list of hobbies Crowley has picked up over the past 6000 years: gardening, cooking, fashion, pining for Aziraphale, making YouTube videos

A list of hobbies Aziraphale has picked up over the past 6000 years: reading, book restoration, music, pining for Crowley, commenting on Crowley’s YouTube videos

When Aziraphale starts giving Crowley flowers, Crowley takes to his YouTube channel to discuss the meaning behind it, where Aziraphale comments encouragement to confess his feelings – under an alias, of course. There is absolutely no way any of this could ever go wrong.

✧ Heavenly Dues by IneffableDoll [one-shot, 2074 words, rated G]

Months after Armageddon, Heaven still receives receipts detailing Aziraphale’s daily miracle usage. Michael makes the mistake of checking them one idle day.

OR

Aziraphale reheats a lot of tea and admires his demon, scandalizing an archangel in the process.

Post Season 2

✧ Shinin' down like water by contritecactite [one-shot, 2163 words, rated T]

He's always been late, himself, so perhaps it's not surprising that he finds himself in this situation: politely avoiding eye contact with the Voice of the Almighty on an interminable ride in a flawless white lift. Well, not so flawless after all; there's a scuff mark in one corner that looks just a bit like a snake, if he squints. Yes, in fact—just like the kind Crowley used to leave behind in casual acts of vandalism in the places they visited. Stone walls, sidewalks, picnic tables, bar tops—there must be thousands around the world by now, little breadcrumbs, proof of Crowley's existence.

✧ You Can't Take It With You by curtaincall [one-shot, 1377 words, rated M]

Celestial Lift Maintenance Technician is an easy job. Or it was, until Aziraphale took over as Supreme Archangel. With everyone heading back and forth from Earth all the time, Alex’s gig has become a lot more demanding.

And, weirdly, also a lot…stickier?

Outsider POV

✧ Anthony J. Crowley, Retired Demon and Airbnb Superhost by TheOldAquarian [one-shot, 3027 words, rated G]

What are you supposed to do when you've been fired from your sweet job in Hell for thwarting the schemes of Satan, you've got a swanky flat in Mayfair, and you're looking for an excuse to spend all your time in someone else's bookshop? Obviously, you turn to the dubious world of short-term vacation rentals.

The resulting Airbnb property has been variously described as "an instagram trap," "a vampire den but make it botanical," and "the weirdest bed and breakfast in the shared history of beds and breakfasting."

✧ I live next door to a haunted bookshop owned by an immortal cryptid bastard. AMA! by kyaticlikestea [one-shot, 6k words, rated T]

Before anyone reports this post, I got this AMA authorised by posting proof to a mod, so there.

Hi, Reddit! I’m no-one special, but about 6 months ago, I moved into a flat above a cafe next door to a bookshop, and my life has never been the same since, because the man who runs the bookshop is some sort of ageless (mostly) benevolent eldritch being. By all accounts, he hasn’t aged a day since at least 1944, sometimes he seems to have just too many eyes, and I once saw him turn water into wine (a nice rosé). His coworker / best friend / boyfriend / shadow entity is also definitely some kind of cryptid, but despite trying harder to be a bastard, he’s somehow less successful at it.

So, if you have any questions about what it’s like to live next door to an eternal bastard man, AMA!

Canon divergence

✧ Living Proof by theinkwell33 [one-shot, 6k words, rated G]

Due to a Huge Misunderstanding when they first meet, Crowley spends the next six thousand years thinking Aziraphale is a demon, and Aziraphale thinks Crowley is an angel. By the time they figure out the truth, they've only got eleven years left until the end of the world.

Alternately, the one where Aziraphale and Crowley are enemies, but neither of them ever got the memo.

AUs

✧ My Immortal Beloved by Fyre [one-shot, 3666 words, rated T]

A couple of centuries ago, Crowley had a Thing with an average normal human. Only for some reason, every letter he ever sent to that average normal human has just turned up in a museum exhibit. Including the ones about licking.

✧ With you, with me by NohaIjiachi [6 chapters, 41k words, completed, rated T, priest Aziraphale and demon Crowley ;) ]

“Oh, shit,” Crowley muttered, but it came out more like ‘ohkjfd—‘

The man— A bloody priest was still keeping his umbrella over Crowley. The fabric of his button-up had darkened on his shoulders, now throughly drenched.

He could see more details, now, and Crowley stared. The priest had round, gentle features, and a shock of hair so blond it looked white collected in messy, soft curls. There was some sense of deep-sedated sadness in his grey-blue eyes, as he looked down at Crowley.

“I’d imagine that you need to get back up on your feet, then, son,” the priest said, sounding somehow tired. “You can’t stay here.”

“…I have nowhere to go,” Crowley replied, feeling like his tongue was double in size in his mouth. It was a lie, and wasn’t one at the same time.

He could technically go anywhere he wanted, as long as the Bentley stopped pouting at him for getting high again, but he had nowhere to go.

[some-pers0n]

Part of the Process

Fandom: WoF

Characters: Morrowseer, Mastermind, Battlewinner

CW: Mentions of RainWing torment and torturing (what fun!!)

Summary: Mastermind's just finished up with some work on a project, so he's dragged along Morrowseer to present to Queen Battlewinner.

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N: Oh. Ohoho. Did you think that one post I made about wanting Mastermind to be silly was a one-off thing? How wacky! I miss writing silly characters in WoF so much. Mastermind is very near and dear to me for no reason because I'm completely altered his personality now. He's such a jerk (I love him). I want to rewrite his introduction scene in TDS as well...

It was a rarity nowadays for Morrowseer to drop by and visit Queen Battlewinner. One may chalk it up to how it was quite difficult to get her to speak, considering how she's been submerged in the same vat of lava for decades now, but Morrowseer found himself...busier these days. Between having to assist Nautilus with the Talons of Peace and joining hunting parties to feed the starving populous, it's been a lot. He almost envied his queen. All she had to do was sit there in a pool of molten rock and spout vague three-word orders from time to time.

Regardless, envy is for those who aren't strong enough to do better, and Morrowseer was no weak dragon. The Dragonet Prophecy plan was working. Word from the guardians told them that their precious harbingers of peace were healthy. The stern and haughty rambles from Kestrel about their physical training were a bit much though. That dragon got on his nerves a lot. Thank the moons he had the idea of shoving her into a cave for all of time.

However, the false prophecy was the only part of this plan. No, their grand return to the continent would include an invasion. While the others tried to downplay it, calling it a "takeover" or an "occupying space", there was no question that they were planning for battle.

They were going to take the Rainforest Kingdom for themselves.

The tunnels that the betraying animus made for them once upon a time showed Morrowseer how much they suffered. While the NightWings rotted and withered away from disease and hunger, the RainWings carelessly played with their food. They had enough fruit to spare the wildlife! They would laugh and dance in the treetops and breathe in their fresh, luscious air. Sometimes when life grew too stressful, Morrowseer would risk everything to stand at the edge of the tunnels and breathe in that blissful, glorious air of the tropical forest.

He needed it. The whole tribe needed it. They deserved it after thousands of years of suffering and torture on this decaying island.

But, they needed a plan. RainWings are unfortunately annoying to handle. While the rest of the continent forgot, the NightWings remembered the days when they were feared. When the rainforest dragons would be used as monsters to scare the dragonets, for their deathly venom and ability to disappear into the shadows were their greatest strength. It would be foolish to go running into their domain, even if they've been reduced to half-minded pacifists.

Yet, they figured out a solution. What was it? Well-

"Uhh, excuse me, Morrowseer?" a tenor voice rang in his ears. Morrowseer could feel his associate tapping his scales impatiently. "Are you done brooding by any chance? You've been staring at the entrance for ages. I haven't got all day."

His eyes glanced over to see a smaller NightWing standing beside him. His round glasses sat crooked on his snout, enlarging his dark green eyes. He fidgeted with his scrolls and blueprints in his claws, scowling.

"I suppose I am. Thank you for interrupting me."

"You're very welcome!" It was hard to tell if he picked up on Morrowseer's sarcastic quip or not. "Now then, let's move on. I need to get back to my work."

"Your work," Morrowseer said. "Your work involves you staring at dragons trapped in cages. You do not ever leave your lab unless I drag you out. Half the time when I come and check in on you, you are just sitting there and laughing to yourself while writing incomprehensible notes."

"Research! All research! Trust me, the scholars of the mainland would kill for what I've learned about these dragons. It's all a part of the process."

"Including having a RainWing run on a treadmill for nine hours while threatening to kill them if they don't?"

"That is precisely it, my friend," he said with a smile.

Morrowseer felt his joints stiffen from that mere sentence. He didn't care to be called a friend by this dragon. Their relationship was more one of...forced compliance. Mastermind on the other talon believed it to be more friendly than it truly was. Only natural. Morrowseer is the only dragon who talks to him.

"Now, let's move on. I don't want to be kept waiting. Time is valuable. A minute wasted is a minute you'll never get back."

"You can wait, Mastermind. It wouldn't kill you to learn the value of patience." He unpinned a corner of the map before then, lifting it up. Behind it was not a rock wall, but a tunnel large enough for both of them to comfortably fit through.

"Out of the way." He pushed past Morrowseer, scampering into the tunnel. Irritation flared up in him and he was ready to speak, but he swallowed his words. Anything he said would turn into an argument. Mastermind could never possibly be wrong or inconsiderate.

He trailed after him. As they continued, their pathway only grew smaller and smaller. Finally, a sharp curve. Mastermind trotted over to it, his talons clicking against the floor. "Finally! Took us  long enough."

It was a large and spacious room made of marble, streaks of obsidian black flowing through it. It was unbearably hot, with half of the room being floor and the other half being a massive pool of lava.

"I trust you told Battlewinner that we would be here by now."

"I did tell our queen that, yes." He checked Mastermind in the side. "Show some respect for her as well."

He scoffed. "If it makes you happy."

"It's so that you don't end up dead. I wouldn't go around insulting the flaming dragon that can drag you into your scorching and agonizing death."

"Eh, whatever. I don't care." He shrugged. "Besides, she knows I'm the most valuable dragon on this island. Without me, the whole operation would fail."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" He snorted.

"It's true though, you simply don't want to admit that you're not the only one with some power here." He straightened his neck, trying to look as tall as possible.

"Bold words coming from you." Morrowseer snapped. "If you had any sense of decency, you'd know when to shut your trap-" Before he could finish his sentence, the sound of rumbling and bubbling came before them.

The lava twisted and shifted before a pair of claws shot out of it, grabbing onto the ledge. The lava splattered and sprayed, some coming dangerously close to Morrowseer. Moments later, the head of a large NightWing breached the surface, steam and smoke pouring from every scale. She opened her mouth, frigid cold air fuming out. Then, her eyes opened. A dark black with a piercing blue glow that could only be described as the embodiment of frost.

"Ah, pleased to see you, my queen." Mastermind dramatically bowed, shooting Morrowseer a cocky look upon uttering those words.

"Enough with that..." Battlewinner hissed, her voice rough and scratchy, like the bellows of a horn before battle.

He blinked. "Hm, as you wish. Whatever happened to politeness and greeting your queen? To valour and respect and treating your ruler with-"

"Enough!" Battlewinner snarled, her claws scraping the floor. "I grow tired of your voice very...very quickly, scholar..."

"It would be more accurate to call me a scientist, but regardless-" He smirked, "-at least I'm the one who showed honour and respect to our glorious queen."

"Queen Battlewinner does not and should not feel obligated to give you any more attention than you deserve, especially over something as idiotic as bowing and spewing empty praises. If you want to find someone who'll listen to you spout nonsense and arrogance, you should look for the dragon you see when staring into a mirror; they're the only one who can stand to be around you," Morrowseer said.

"Is that what you really think of me? Eugh, to think I have to work with you..."

"Yes, how terrible for you."

"Silence!" Battlewinner growled. "Both of you..." Her eyes turned towards Mastermind, her head following suit. "Explain yourself... What news have you brought before me?"

"Finally! I have been preparing this all week. I believe you'll finally come around to appreciate the work I've done to support our plan."

"My plan." Morrowseer corrected. "Or rather the plan Queen Battlewinner and I made. You have no part in this. Don't pretend you're some great contributor, for your own sake."

The corners of Mastermind's mouth tightened. "Oh, please." He rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I've drawn up a plan. I would've brought more to show, but none of the RainWings felt like accompanying me. They just sat there dejectedly or tried to claw my eyes out, screaming obscenities and madness." He giggled. "Ah, what fun!"

"Make it quick..." Battlewinner rasped. "I don't have all day..."

Mastermind exhaled. "Fine. I can make do with that." He pulled out some scrollpaper, clearing his throat. "So, I've been experimenting a bit. I recall our previous conversation. You told me that you wanted a way to join us on land. Reasonable to want to walk amongst your citizens on the land you've fought so hard to rightfully claim. However, due to your- ahem- situation, it's a bit difficult to do so. I've spent weeks and weeks of countless nights, having to listen to the perpetual wailing of those RainWings. Do you know what it's like? It's enjoyable in the daytime, but at night it's quite annoying-"

"I said make it quick."

He snorted. "Alright. Fine." He presented the paper to Battlewinner. "I've been drafting a suit of armour. A light enough design for you to comfortably walk around in, but with enough space between the plates for one to pour fresh lava to keep you from dying." He pushed up his glasses. "Enough of an explanation to hold you over?"

Battlewinner stayed quiet for a second. "...you're certain it wouldn't kill me?.."

"Oh, definitely. I mean, what kind of royal scientist would I be? To kill my own queen by tricking her?" He laughed, pushing Morrowseer in the side. "Funny, isn't it?"

"The idea of you murdering our tribe's queen isn't exactly what I would call 'humour'."

"No fun. Neither of you. Don't know how to take a joke." He looked towards his queen, who was submerged in boiling hot lava and glaring at him with murderous intent. "But, back to the topic. I'm still working out some of the kinks in order to get a proper design that won't let the lava bleed through and kill you, but the idea is solid enough. Lava is extremely dense. By my calculations, it's practically three times more dense than water. There should be enough room between the plates and your scales for as much lava as is necessary to keep you alive as well as to let you move around freely. Perhaps even fly! Although, it'll take quite a lot of testing."

"How long will this take?..."

"Well, let's see." Mastermind held his talons to his chin. "Combined with the materials and...no, carry the fourteen...adding on that I'm dying of seven afflictions...hm, yes! My prediction is that I will complete a prototype version in less than two weeks."

"I need a better answer than that, scholar..." she grumbled. "I need a final product. I need it now. I need armour to protect me from venom. I need to walk among my dragons once more. I need to lead them into battle and take what's OURS-" Battlewinner cut herself off, going into a coughing fit. She quickly submerged under the lava once more.

"Uhh...she alright?"

"Yes. She tends to get...ramped up. It speeds up the process of the frostbreath. Too much and she needs to warm her body once again."

"Oh, thank the moons. I believed she was furious at me."

"She definitely is annoyed by you."

"Hm. Don't care though." He shrugged. "This is who I am. If anybody doesn't fit it appealing, it's their issue."

"Yes, it really is our issue that you go around talking like an idiot with no self-awareness or humility." Morrowseer glanced at him. "When was the last time you had a dragon nearly kill you? Remind me again. I think it's been far too long since the last time someone had put you in your place."

Mastermind chuckled. "I didn't know you were capable of such bold words! Ah, but I do understand. The wisest dragons shouldn't need to bother themselves with such brutality though. It's much...simpler, fighting and war. Doesn't require half a brain to use your fire and claws. It must be why you're in charge of that department."

"You..." Morrowseer's claws tensed. Before he could get another word out, Battlewinner came rising from the lava once more.

"I accept your proposal, Mastermind..." she said. "I expect you to show me progress soon..." Without saying anything else, she dipped back into the pool.

"She said yes! Aha!! I knew she would!" He laughed. "It's truly a fool-proof plan. I would start to question the leadership and intelligence of her if she had refused." He turned around. "Now! I must return to my lab. I have a suit of armour to build. Finally, something other to do other than poke and prod the RainWings. It's invigorating, but tiring after a while, no?"

"Yes, it gets exhausting to watch the torment of a dragon."

"It does! You get it."

"I was being sarcastic."

"...oh."

[perennialwitness]

The Real OG(an excerpt)

Please say the following aloud:

When you’re here, 

You’re family. 

If your mind made the connection to Olive Garden just now then we probably come from a similar background. Semi-suburban– too far to take public transit into the city, close enough to drive. Forty-five minutes, with no traffic. And we all know there’s no such thing as ‘no traffic’, only varying levels of density. The freeways more like rivers than roads, their red halogen flood line rising and falling with the moon and the weather. Kept fed by a sprawl of Commuter Towns, their  farthest edges in constant creeping development.

I grew up in one of these places, vast stretches of single-family homes connected by high-speed stroads. A town with clearly delineated lines between the Blacks and the Whites, everyone else fell somewhere in between. Then there were Subsections within that for the rich(meaning they more than likely owned their home) and the poor(straight down past section 8 and into the dusty outskirts). Streets would change suddenly from one to the next. The asphalt under your feet rapidly degrading as you made your way toward the Blacker, Poorer side of town. It mattered that you knew this. It was a way to communicate things oftentimes hard to say aloud. For instance, I lived on the poor Black side and went to school on the poor White side. Anyway,

Growing up, family events that warranted a drive to the city were rare. If it was your birthday, graduation, funeral, divorce– didn’t matter, there were only a handful of places to celebrate, all of them inhabiting the same mile long shopping plaza. There was; Applebees, famous for their happy hour specials. Chevy’s, Tex-mex where they make the tortillas out in the middle of the restaurant, which had the appearance of a beach cabana. Sizzler or Red Lobster if you were feeling extra spendy(dim lights, lots of wood grain, for date nights and so forth). And then there was the Olive Garden, which was reserved for nights when you really wanted to fill up. 

“Ain’t no bigger bang for your buck than Olive Garden on a coupon,” My step-dad would say then he’d rap his overstuffed wallet against the table and let out the hoarse rattle that was his laugh. He was right, if you were smart about it you could make one dinner last three days easy. 

Truth be told the food is barely food, classic recipes trimmed down to the bare necessities as a way of cutting costs and increasing turnover. Heapings upon heapings of pasta swimming in sauces brewed by the vat. Bread sticks, soggy with butter and oil, coming out in the dozens from the kitchen like clockwork. Servers in a mad dash to ensure every table’s basket full, lest they screech about meal comps, how they were advertised endless breadsticks and how they would sue if they weren’t offered compensation.

Bigger bang, bigger buck. 

To their credit the owners of the Olive Garden had tried to keep the place classy. The walls were painted to look like the cracked plaster of a Mediterranean villa, there were “stone” columns wrapped with vine decorations, arranged by someone unconcerned with structural support. Italian-sounding string accompaniments droned over the PA to complete the immersion. It was, all things considered, a nice place to bring the kids. And my parents, swept up in the fantasy, would drink wine there, instead of their usual Whiskeys and Vodka Sodas. They’d pretend they were in love, and we-- the kids I mean-- we tried our best to behave like “family”.

In my adulthood I avoided these places. Not because I cared about the quality, I don’t have qualms with cheap bad food. My aversion was psychological. These chains represented a place and a lifestyle that I couldn’t return to. The make-believe of it all. The gamified domesticity. It isn’t simple to correct your vision, removing the blinders is painful, seeing the truth of things deteriorates the sense of self. There’s just too much comfort in familiarity. So easy to lull oneself back to sleep amongst the herd, so more than anything else what I feared was regression.

[ell-arts]

I love how when it came to the way of rewriting most characters, we either keep most of their personalities and traits the same or just hit the restart button and make them COMPLETELY different than what they were in the show.

Like take Pac for example, in the show he's an absolute goof, he's willing to do his job to prevent a full strike of chaos, and he's pretty optimistic and positive towards the people he cares about. Yet he still can get aggressive very fast and has some angry outbursts a lot.

But from what I've seen of the way the fandom writes him most of the time, it's either his outbursts are more controlled, he's more anxious and nervous than anything, and he's way more wholesome and emotional. Or.... He's the cause of the chaos.

Personally it's just something I've seen not only in a few of your works, but others too. It's either we keep them the way they are, make a few tweaks, or just throw canon out the window and throw them into a vat of fanon behavior. :')

Yup!! Show's our playground now, we can do with canon whatever we want xD

I do like taking creative liberties, but I'll admit that I often prefer to stay true to the source material in terms of its charm or certain canon aspects. Or at least at this stage of the game... (I'm often playing around with new fanfic ideas for whenever CMC or TV is finished, and some of them do kinda throw canon out the window lol)

Generally, I like to keep the characters close to how they are in canon, but add a few bonuses. Kinda like levelling them up, y'know? With Pac, I do really like how he already is in canon, and instead of adding more personality traits to him, I'd rather deepen or accentuate his existing traits. Like...

Canon Pac is afraid of losing his aunt? Cool, let's make it so that his fear is so deep that he sometimes has nightmares over it. Which contributes to his overall nervousness in some instances. Why does he tend to get nervous? Cuz of a troubled childhood when he was too concerned with pleasing his peers in order to fit in, which may or may not have led to a lot of anxiousness in his childhood, which may or may not have developed into panic attacks. Make this an additional aspect of his personality and inner demons, and couple it with his canon self. What do we get? An absolute goof who's noble and good at doing his job and who's optimistic and positive towards the people he cares about, BUT underneath that hard-working, kind exterior is a little boy who still struggles with anxiety and a lot of self-doubt/inferiority, and he hides it well because he doesn't want to be a burden to others (stemming from his people-pleasing childhood AND from his new responsibilities as Pacworld's protector), and so he'll do everything in his power to do good, but often to the detriment of his own mental health...which or may not see a return of his panic attacks.

Boom. You've got canon Pac with an extra sprinkle of trauma.

And if you think Pac has it hard, wait until you see what I've got cooking up for Cyli, Spiral, and Elli.

[picturejasper20]

I was thinking about the difference between how Rand Ridley (Inside Job) and Rick Sanchez abuse and try to control their family. Rand Ridley’s abuse appears to be a more conscious, like, it’s something he chooses to do and he is aware of. He is more confrontational to Reagan, taking over the company by the end of season 1. He acts like an antagonist in multiple occasions. Regardless of this, there are some few occasions he showed to care about Reagan in his own twisted way.

Rick Sanchez’s abusive behaviour it looks to me that it’s something he isn’t always aware of. It comes off as not intentional. Like when he drags Morty to very dangerous situations and ignores how this could affect him because Rick is so used to having his morals completely broken at this point of his life. He tries to have connections, whatever it’s friends or a potential partner, and manages to screw it up in some way. (Season 4-Episode 2, Season 5-Episode 1). I read him more as a depressed lonely man who falls in terrible self-destructive habits and thus ends up hurting everyone that his cares about.

Of course, there are moments he acts antagonistic like in Season 3 when he tried keeping Jerry away from Beth only because he didn’t like him and episodes like ¨The Vat of Acid Episode¨ that show how sadistic and cruel he can be.

Worth of pointing out that Rand for time fell into a similar state like Rick when he was trying to find a reality where he could be together with Tamiko again and Reagan let him return to her life, only to realize there wasn’t a reality like that and it was impossible for things to go back the way they used to.

Rand’s behaviour is more of a conscious choice that he makes. In contrast, Rick’s behaviour is a consequence of his self destrutive toxic patterns that he has been doing for decades because of his own trauma and loss of moral. Although it could be argued that Rand lost some his morals while working for Cognito since it has been mentioned that it’s common for workers to develop disorders in there.

And yes, intentional or not, in both cases is still terrible since they both hurt people, just in different ways. Saying this in case someone wants to bring it up.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

The Essentialist

He threw out the baby, but kept the bathwater. That was Dom Afonso's method for creating miracles: to prepare the ingredient, to allow it to steep for a while, like a strong cup of red cha, and then to dispose of it, believing he had captured its most important part. The character, or flavour, of what he'd wanted to define. The essence. Having drained away that precious wheat, he felt that he could freely dispense with the chaff.

Of course, it fell to Margarida to do the actual dispensing. In this case, she returned the child to where it had been found, a park bench on Rua Luís António, not really any worse for wear, and certainly more fragrant than it had been this morning. Not that Dom Afonso had worried about its wellbeing. He lost all interest in his subjects once the process was complete, and might have happily allowed the child to perish, were it not for fear that the taint of death would ruin his vivified result.

An elixir of youth. It was the treasure that had captivated many a soul, from Alexander of Macedon to Juan Ponce to León, but they had always sought to discover it in some lagoon or cavern pool, rather than simply prepare it themselves. The infamous countess, Elizabeth Báthory, had allegedly bathed in the blood of a hundred maidens to hold back the march of time, but for Dom Afonso it had only taken the bathing of one, with not a pinprick on the baby's soft unspoiled skin.

When Margarida returned, the potion was stoppered, preserved in viscous amber, the process complete. That was another thing that never changed. She was enthralled by the magic that happened here, a spellbound audience as Dom Afonso distilled and decanted, boiling romance into stock and pickling courage in a vat of ocean brine, but she was never asked to truly be a part of it. Margarida mopped the floors and scoured the equipment, obtained ingredients and cleared them away again, but Dom Afonso performed the alchemy alone.

The month before, he had prepared a tincture of flight from fledgling feathers, plucked insect wings like delicate slips of lace, and even a measure of powdered pterodactyl bone, but she had never really seen how they combined, charged instead with sweeping up where he'd already been, cleaning the traces of what had already been done. She had come here to learn his method, but mostly saw just the beginning, and sometimes only the end result.

There were dozens of those in the workshop, sealed flasks arrayed in such a way to best catch the early light - and indeed those rays were captured in a flask labelled dawn, imbued with lark eyes and ocelot musk, a half-opened moss rose and east-facing sunflower, in beeswax and morning dew - and she had watched each from the outside, as if contained within her own glass bulb, tucked away and stoppered to keep her separate from the rest.

At first, she had simply blamed the demands of her job, having been hired to assist Dom Afonso, not to gawk as he performed miracles, thinking it only natural that she must be doing something else at the same time, and therefore always miss the moment of creation, as else he would not need another pair of hands. But she'd still been determined to catch a glance, here and there, to piece it all together over time - and perhaps, one day, be at hand to take the reins when he retired. Elixir of youth or not.

Now, though, she realised that it was impossible. Not because she lacked the capacity to learn - Margarida had always pictured her mind as a sort of empty flask, bound to be filled with the essence of his knowledge - but because Dom Afonso lacked the willingness to teach. At first, she had felt frustrated, seemingly always dismissed at a pivotal moment, but now she knew that was intentional - it was too regular, too well-timed, to be anything else. Her master was jealous of his secrets, and sent her away precisely as his work required their application.

Dom Afonso was a curious man. He was aloof, distant, no more attentive to her than he had been to the baby - he cared only for his work, and that which might aid it. Margarida had lived with him these past few months, and seen him show affection to just a handful of people, those who might serve as new ingredients: a woman with afflicted eyes, or a man with a luxurious head of hair. Having grown familiar with that cold, assessing gaze, it was almost a relief to be ignored.

He could only be described in absences, like a silhouette that blocked particular rays of light, the outline of a man but with lacunae in his heart. Margarida had once had a favourite uncle, Tio Gonçalo: her mother's older brother, the family comedian, the man who had first taught her to play bisca and bake custard tarts, as generous with his time as he was with his laughter, always with a boiled sweet in his pocket and a twinkle in his eye. Dom Afonso was the opposite of that. He was how she'd felt at Tio Gonçalo's funeral.

He seemed to lack any essence of his own, which perhaps made him more adept at finding them - although that made it hard for her to warm to him in turn. His face bore the deep red sheen of a Beira Alta apple, but held none of its sweetness inside. His only passion, his only saving grace, was his work. That was when he came to life, as far as Margarida could tell: she had sat through many a sermon on the theory, much though he deprived her of the practice.

Dom Afonso was a staunch believer in the cause of clarity: that everything could be distilled down to its essentials. A drop of youth today, a pinch of happiness next week. He'd taught Margarida that, if nothing else. His process was not limited to the extraction of senses, as a perfumier chasing delicate scents - here for a moment, the brevity of a breath, then gone in the breadth of a lingering breeze. Instead, his finds were the thing itself: the essential oils, or oleaginous essences, that made up everything that mattered in the world.

He might well be a sociopath, but he was also a homeopath, and she sometimes wondered which of the twain had come first. Perhaps his devotion to that religion had simply stripped him of all other cares, his other senses diluted so that he might focus on the piquancy of primal concepts - or perhaps this was all to fill that absence in himself, and he was still just searching for the vial marked empathy.

Sometimes he teased her with the prospect of discovery. There had been a time when she'd been allowed to stay after the water boiled, and attended closely as he crushed a wad of withered leaves, steeping them gentling in the pot, and felt brave enough to ask a question: "What is this one going to be?"

Dom Afonso's glance had been more withering still.

"Herbal tea," he'd replied.

On another occasion she'd been tasked with boiling the water herself, a quantity far in excess of any tea, coffee or cocoa requirements, and been thrilled to finally be included in the process. After diligently following his instructions for months, he had finally rewarded her with involvement, trusted to do something more important than scrubbing and scouring and sweeping up after him. It had turned out to be the water for his bath. He'd expected her to do it every three days after that.

That had sowed the essence of a plan. Deprived of any instruction to feed her ravenous mind, Margarida had whiled away those long hours thinking up her own ways to glean some of that forbidden knowledge: doubling back and hiding the next time he asked her to go out, leaving a cloth hung over a table so that she could crouch there just-so, breaking into his private rooms and searching for a notebook filled with golden secrets.

She resented all the tasks he had her do - drawing the bath, brewing the drinks, washing his clothes - but resented more the ones he didn't. Margarida wished that she could be the master for once, but she knew that Dom Afonso would never allow that to come to pass. It would mean his replacement, or at least her independence. That knowledge had been purposefully withheld: leaving her education incomplete, so that she, incomplete, could never leave.

The eureka moment had come in the bathroom. Margarida was filling the vast pewter tub, its clawed feet straining against the sudden weight, and reflected again upon that first misunderstanding: she had boiled the water expecting a cauldron, but been directed to haul the pot upstairs instead. It had been an easy mistake to make - she had witnessed many a concoction begun in a similar way, with a simmering pan of water prepared for its ingredients, and couldn't have known that her time would be different.

That was when she realised. She might not have seen much more of Dom Afonso's method, but she'd run plenty of his baths, and thus far the process was exactly the same. Oddly, even the temperature was similar. Her master always liked the water hot, one or two degrees short of scalding; just shy of the point where skin blisters and peels, as they knew well from their experiments. As a result, he was left with a perpetual sheen, the ruby countenance of a broiled lobster tail, glistening as if the water had been baked into his skin. He claimed that it kept him sanitised, boiling off his own essence so that it didn't leach into his work. Margarida wondered where that essence went.

She was charged with disposing of the water, too. With that in mind, she wondered if there was some other way of gaining his wisdom; to practice what he practiced, as he refused to preach, and see whether this first step in the process was enough - and, if not, even the slightest taste of his secrets might reveal the next. Margarida lacked the skill to separate the traces left behind, and the supernatant would no doubt also include his advanced age, his selfishness, his vanity. But that was no matter. Without the palate to discern, she would simply have to drink the lot.

If that didn't work... well, this was no time for half-measures, having hungered for months for what seemed rightfully hers. Margarida had often considered, watching the steam rise off of the water, that - were Dom Afonso to remain in the tub for too long, with the heat continually maintained - her mentor might eventually reduce into a particularly gamey stew. She wondered at its flavour, and its essence. The craft was everything to the man, and his body would surely be imbued with that lifelong vocation, one which she had coveted in vain for herself.

It might be kinder to kill him first, of course - but that might taint the result. That had been one of the few things he'd taught her, with the infant this morning being one example; live subjects were better, although it sometimes took the tongs to hold them steady for the course. He'd also shown her the virtue of ruthlessness: the insects, larks and hatchlings stripped for parts on his command, as her own soul grew calloused in the pursuit of his excellence. Two lessons, which would hold her in good stead for the experiments to come. It was just a shame he hadn't thought to teach her any more.