#and yes it is served in can shape or sliced

[sapphic-bats]

Warlock asks Nanny about it once.

She’s cutting apples for him, just the way he likes, and he’s gazing out of the window at the lush, green gardens that his mother so proudly upholds. Among the waxy leaves and spindly saplings, Brother Francis tends to the flora carefully, though Warlock’s quite sure he’s just taking certain leaves between his finger and his thumb, and studying them closely. But what did Warlock know about gardening?

He notices Nanny looking out those windows, too. Though she always gazes and stares with a deep intent, as if she only cares when she does, and it so happens that she never looks upon the garden empty.

What was that funny thing Nanny and Brother Francis had taught him? The thing that Nanny discouraged, to which Brother Francis promoted quite devoutly?

“Nanny, have you ever been married?”

Warlock knows what marriage is. After all, his parents are married, if you can call it that. They married, once, out of love. But it’s since faded. It’s more traditional, now. Out of convenience and a general apathy to trying again.

Nanny’s quick hand stills, blade edge flat against the cutting board. With her back turned to the young boy, he cannot make out her expression. He never can, what with her poised shades she wears pointedly upon her nose. But she speaks soon again.

“No,” she replies, simply.

Warlock considers this. “Do you ever want to be?”

Nanny, who had taken up the cutting again, pauses once more. She sets the knife against the board and tilts her chin towards Warlock. “Wherever have you learned such personal questions, dear?”

She’s not refusing to answer him. She never has. She just asks in true curiosity, and perhaps a slight avoidance. But Warlock’s eight, now, and he knows how to navigate her tricks.

“Where do you think?”

At that, she pauses, lips pursed with their consistent purple tint. The lipstick she wears, that faintly stains Warlock’s forehead when she kisses him goodnight and tucks him in after a bedtime story: often about a garden, or a bird that chirped too loudly, and was cast down to the ground by the other birds. One who became the kind bird of the grounds, and took in other reject birds that had fallen similarly.

She considers his answer a moment more, satisfied with the obvious influence she’s had on him. She turns back to the apple slices.

“Perhaps,” she answers.

There is quiet for a moment. He doesn’t mind, he’s grown up with Nanny at his side, and has become quite fond of the silence. It is where thoughts are made, she said once.

She finishes cutting the apples, and plates the sweet snack to serve to the boy. “What troubles you, dear? You seem awfully curious, all of the sudden.”

Not that she minds. Nanny never rejects curiosity.

“Nothing’s wrong, Nanny, it’s just—” he pauses, considers his next words and how to place them. “You look at Brother Francis a lot, and—”

Nanny interrupts him after an audible, suspicious gulp. “Who?”

He frowns, eyes boring into the back of her head. “You know Brother Francis.”

She seems quite comically nervous, like she’s pressed a wax-seal act over her true thoughts. “Oh, yes,” she decides, too much breath coming with her words. “The gardener.”

“You like him, Nanny.”

She turns, abruptly. “I most certainly do not!” Her voice comes out a tad shrill, though perhaps it’s just outrage and scandal.

Warlock narrows his eyes, perplexed. “But you look at him all of the time.”

“When has that ever had anything to do with- with love?” She struggles with the word.

The boy shrugs. “Mum and Dad don’t look at each other,” Warlock observes. “But Brother Francis looks for you, too.”

Nanny’s mouth, ready with a retort, or perhaps a counter-argument, flicks towards a different shape. One that might be, he does? Or perhaps Warlock is mistaken. She pauses, lips pursed again, and sets her teeth.

“I’m sure he does, love.”

The plate is set before him, and Warlock soon forgets his questions. He never asks Nanny again.

But he’s reminded of it when her eyes, barely visible in the light, flick towards the window into the dazzling garden.

Years later, Warlock is nearly sixteen, and has since let the thoughts from half his lifetime ago fade. They never die, just sort of… wait. Wait to be plucked again, notes of memory leaping from their tinny strings. Like a harp.

His mother takes him into town. Soho, where he has no interest in seeing, but his mother so desperately needs a new vinyl, a coffee, and though she never says it: a moment to get away from the house, or more specifically, her husband within it.

She agrees to let him wander. She trusts him, for all she hasn’t before. And perhaps, she says, the fresh, un-televised air could do him some good.

He’s only taken two steps out of the coffee shop, where his mother remains to await her tea, before he almost runs smack into two pedestrians, arm in arm. He takes a surprised jump back, tongue set with an angry scolding, when he gets a good look at them from behind.

“Nanny?”

They both freeze in unison, as if they both know the name, and the voice that has conjured it forth once more for the first time in five years. Warlock notices something else.

“Brother Francis?” He prods, shocked. “Izzat you?”

Both of the two now turn, and everything around the three fades into blurring colors and churning noises.

Warlock would be a rotten liar if he had said he hadn’t missed them dearly. He would also be a lousy boy if he didn’t recognize them by the backs of their heads alone, he thinks. Because he would know them anywhere. They’d always done a much better job at raising him than his own parents.

They both look different now. Brother Francis seems to have had dental work done, and has cleaned up quite nicely. Nanny, though, appears to have changed her style completely. Her- his? Their? Who knows. But she still sports a fine pair of shades upon the bridge of her nose.

The pair seem to stutter, splutter with a little awestruck surprise. It’s as if they’d never expected to see him again.

“Oh- Warlock,” Nanny Ashtoreth begins, feigning a cool-headed surprise. “How good to see you.”

She sounds different too. Less of a high strain on her voice, more natural.

But Warlock seems to finally feel a gear shift, and a puzzle piece clicks into place. He glances down to the space between the two, where their arms are linked.

In his dumbfounded state, he feels a smile split the trance.

They both see it at the same time, chins tilting to follow his gaze. When they catch where his eyes are, their stares mingle together in concern. It’s a look that wonders aloud whether or not they should be worried, or blatant.

Warlock looks back up to their faces. “I see now why you two left,” he adds, grinning wider.

He can’t help it. He was right all along.

Warlock remembers something, then. It takes all of his power not to burst out into a triumphant laugh.

“I’m sure he does,” he says, slyly.

Nanny’s eyes, illuminated from behind with daylight, widen. She remembers, too. Of course she does.

And she bites back a twinning smile.

[pasukiyo]

THE UNDOING OF DARKNESS

anakin skywalker/darth vader x f!reader word count: 6k warnings: darth vader, a depiction of murder, angst, smut, p in x sex (unprotected), inappropriate usage of the force, did i mention angst, anakin is also unburnt for the sake of this fic synopsis: sometimes she believes anakin skywalker still exists. darth vader will say that he is no more but she does not truly believe he is gone. after all, anakin once told her that even in death, he would claw his way out of the very earth to find her.

read on ao3

 Every breath feels like the rarest air in Fortress Vader. Not only is it stuffy, and the simplest of movements makes you break out into a sweat, but it has always felt more like a prison than a home. She’s tried to think of it as one, as it is the place where she spends most, if not all, of her days. It is hard, however, when all she can see is gray, orange, and red for as far as the eye can see. It is hard when she knows there is always the possibility that he is there, watching, scrutinizing, waiting. 

 He, the man she once held in such high regard, the man she never thought she would have, the man that always seemed so impossible and out of reach, the man she never thought would have given her a chance. Maybe he wouldn’t have, she thinks when she has nothing to do but sit by the sliver in the wall of the throne room that serves as a window, looking out into the fiery oceans of Mustafar, if he hadn't changed. 

 She knew the man who he once was. She knew the man before the days of apparatus, before the days of the Empire, before the days of darkness. She thinks she must be the only one left who knew Lord Vader as well as she. Yes, she knew the man Lord Vader had been, before the days of dictatorship, before the fear of existing, because existing, in these days, was fear in itself. 

 She thinks she must be one of the only ones left who knew of Anakin Skywalker. Sometimes, when she sees Lord Vader in the way she and only she sees him, she thinks she can see Anakin again, slipping through the cracks. Sometimes, she believes Anakin must still be here, somewhere, if even a fragment of him. Sometimes she will look into his eyes— the fiery pools they were now— and swear she will see a glimmer, a mirage of that cerulean ocean she once knew, slipping through the cracks of his inferno. 

 If Anakin Skywalker did still exist, however, Lord Vader made sure he never came to be. If Anakin Skywalker still existed, then he was simply locked away deep inside the cage that had been built around the new Lord Vader’s heart. She isn’t sure if it is possible to break through the iron bars— and frankly, she’s become too frightened to even want to continue trying. She feels guilty, like she has some sense of responsibility, of duty to the lost Anakin Skywalker, as she is the only one that Lord Vader allows so close, the only one who may see him in a state as vulnerable as he will allow her to see him. 

 She wonders sometimes if Anakin Skywalker cries out for her, much like the way she did when she was taken, plucked like a rose from her village in the outskirts of Galidraan. When she closes her eyes, she can still remember that day, the harsh cold on her skin, the painful inferno inside her chest, the binds used to restrain her hands behind her back. 

 “No!” She can still feel her scream ripping from her throat, the acidic, rumbling feeling in her chest as she watches the red plasmic blade of the dark figure slice clean through her uncle’s neck, and can still see the shape of his head tumble into the white snow through her watery vision. Although she knows she is merely looking into the past, the pain feels too real, like she is reliving her worst day again. 

 She lunges forward, like she intends to avenge her uncle, a foolish spur of the moment instinct, as she is bound by the wrists and with a blaster to the back of her head. The stormtrooper behind her knocks the butt of his blaster into the back of her skull and her head rings while her cheek finds the snow. She hears her cousins and her people cry behind her and when she pries a single eyelid open, she can make out their trembling silhouettes, on their knees, shoulder to shoulder, a wall of stormtroopers behind them. 

 The ringing begins to dull and she hears footsteps somewhere behind her. She cannot bring herself to move, as she is stunned with the realization that today would be their final day. All these people she’s grown up with, her family she swore she would protect— they would meet their ends today. She would never see her off-planet friends again— she would never see Anakin Skywalker again. That promise he made her that he would see her again feels empty now. She almost wonders if she was a fool to put so much faith in him and his Jedi friends to begin with, if she was a fool to think he’d want her, someone as simple and as plain as her. 

 But all the same, he said they would come should trouble find her beloved planet— so where was he now? She believes he cannot be dead, purged along with many of the other of his kind. She knows he is out there, somewhere. Everyday, she thinks he will come poking his head out from the snowy horizon. Everyday, she waits for that moment to come. She feels the bitter cold seeping into her bones now and thinks how foolish she’s been for believing in such a thing. 

 “The prisoner dares the thought of standing against me,” she hears a voice, deep and undoubtedly male behind her and feels a quivering somewhere inside her chest. The bile that’s been resting at the base of her throat threatens to rise when two stormtroopers step forward, likely from this dark figure’s command, and wraps their hands under her armpits, hoisting her from the ground. She presses her lips together to quell her sick as the world spins and all she can see is black and white. 

 The figure is tall and broad, much more so now that she was so close to him. She has to look up at him and she tries to blink away the blurriness from her vision, and when it does, she can make out the face of his mask. She glowers into the two black circles of his eyes, trying to keep her gaze locked on him rather than on the limp body of her uncle. 

 “You cannot do this,” she says, her voice shaky with uncertainty but feigning determination all the same. “You cannot take us. You cannot kill us. Ana…” she pauses and somewhere in her delirious mind she thinks perhaps she shouldn’t say his name, shouldn’t put yet another target on his back. But her brain tells her these will be her final moments and all she can really think of now is Anakin and of his promise she still tried to cling onto, even now when it was quite literally impossible for it to be fulfilled now. “Anakin will come for us. You cannot kill us.”

 A silence ensues and the masked man’s shoulders rise and she thinks she must have caught him by surprise. Perhaps he already knows of Anakin Skywalker, perhaps he merely wonders why a girl as plain and unimportant as she knows of a Jedi Knight when they’ve all been purged, seemingly from his hand, or at least, his command. 

 His black capes flows in the snowy wind and she trembles, more from knowing his stare behind that mask is devouring her rather than the cold. 

 “You speak in tongues,” he says at last, stepping forward, closer until all she sees is black, an endless void with two circles and a triangle for a face. “I can and I will take whatever I want, foolish girl. I will do what I please.”

 He straightens and with a black, gloved hand, points towards her people, her family. “Kill them,” he says simply and panic blinds her, taking control of her limbs. 

 “No. No!” She screeches into the howling wind, thrashing against the hold of the two stormtroopers behind her as she hears blaster shot after blaster shot and the sound of bodies falling into the snow. “Anakin! Anakin, please! Help me! Help us!” She screams again, sounding more like a fool than she ever has but she’s desperate as she tries to lift herself from the ground, kicking out towards the dark, wicked man before her. 

 All five fingers of the same hand the man used to damn her family to their deaths outstretches and it is like her body, her limbs are no longer her own. They freeze in place and no matter how hard she tries to will them to move, to will her arms to thrash about against their restraints and her legs to kick, they will not. Her heart pounds against her chest and it rises and falls with her shaky breaths as she is forced to stare at the man who has taken her entire world away in a matter of seconds. He steps forward again, looms like a dark cloud with the promise of downpour over her and she has no choice but to stare back, her brows knit together, the promise of tears stinging her eyes. 

 “The man you speak of ceased to exist long ago,” he speaks and she doesn’t quite want to believe him. Although, for a reason she cannot quite define now, she thinks he must be telling the truth, or at least, some version of the truth. “It’d do you well to rid your mind of these foolish beliefs. You shall not be saved. Your life rests in the palms of my hands, and I will do with it what I please.”

 Still, she cannot move, all she can do is silently cry, waiting for this man, this awful, wicked, yet somewhat familiar man to damn her to whatever fate he had in store for her. 

 “You will come with me. You will live in my fortress. You will be what I want you to be. This is a mercy, but do not consider yourself saved. Your life will still be mine to own, and it will be mine to end, should I desire it.”

 She opens her eyes and finds herself back in Mustafar again, staring out at the same fiery ocean she sees every other day. The pain and the memory of that day is still fresh, but she still cannot shake what she feels of Anakin— or rather, Lord Vader— even knowing what he is, what he is capable of. She hates herself for being so easy, for still wanting to believe that her Anakin is still there and that what she has with the new Lord Vader is love, a twisted, altered version of what her life might have been like with Anakin, should circumstances be different. 

 There are footsteps thrumming through the hall beyond the door of the throne room and time seems to still, her heart thudding against her chest as she waits for the door to slide open. When it does, he walks in, rolling like a dark fog into the room and despite the intense heat of Mustafar, she shivers, an icy chill seeping into the marrow of her bones. 

 She simply sits and stares as he stops in the middle of the throne room, her fingers wrapped around the fabric of her gown, chest heaving up and down, waiting for him to address her. She hates this— living in constant fear whilst simultaneously wanting him, wanting the man he used to be, Anakin, back. 

 Another few seconds of silence. 

 And then. 

 “Come here,” he finally speaks and his voice sounds not his own, a different man entirely. She blinks, swinging her legs over the ledge of her seat at the window, complying without a question. Sometimes she hated how easy she gave in to him, but even if she didn’t act of her own free will, she knew she wouldn’t have much of a choice anyways. Still, she hates how quickly she draws nearer, only stopping when she stands before him, looking up into his mask. 

 She purses her lips. She hates this mask. It reminds her of that day. It is the mask of a killer, rather than the face of a man. 

 She inhales, feeling air draw into her chest. Then, “will you let me see you?”

 Another moment of silence, save, of course, for the sound of his breathing through the apparatus. His shoulders rise and fall with his breath and she thinks it must have been a bad day. She internally shudders— tonight could go only one of two ways. 

 She feels a sense of relief, however, when his hands rise to the sides of his helmet, air hissing when he presses his fingers down on either side of the durasteel. Time stops altogether when he inches the helmet away from his head. Full, pink lips unveil behind the mask, a few ridged, faintly red scars like the jagged edges of broken earth spread across his cheeks, up to his strong nose and sharp, red eyes. Dark blonde curls spill over his face and her breath hitches because this is Anakin, but also not and she hates that she still feels something when she sees him, still wants him, and although it pains her to admit it— she still loves him. 

 She blinks up at him, unable to look away and he stares back, lips pressed together, fiery gaze devouring. Yes, it must have been a bad day, because although his gaze is usually unyielding, it is more intense than usual today. It pierces through her, as if he is sifting through her mind, and knowing what he is capable of, he may very well be. 

 It’s reminiscent of the way he used to look at her, back when he was still Anakin. Her Anakin. Her blue-eyed, kind, resilient Anakin. 

 He looked different then, no scars, save for the one on his eye, on his face. His eyes didn’t feel like drowning in a sea of flames, rather, they were oceans of warm cerulean, drawing her in with their kind gaze. She can still feel the rush of secret rendezvous in dark corners of rooms, where no one was watching, away from prying eyes and hushed whispers. 

 She can feel his hands— one warm, one deliciously cool to the touch— resting on either of her cheeks, her own hands wrapped around his elbows. She can still feel his lips against hers then, warm and slow but firm, dominant but soft, gentle. Anakin kissed her like she was a remedy, delicate and precious. Sometimes he still kissed her like this— warm, slow, firm, dominant, gentle. Sometimes it was almost enough to make her feel how she did then— delicate, precious, a remedy. 

 But nothing could amount to the way Anakin looked at her then, with vast blue eyes so inviting, so kind, and so him that she thought she would die if he ceased to look at her like that. This, of course, was not true. Yet, everyday she spent looking into the fiery depths that replaced his warm ocean, she thinks she feels pieces of herself, her old self, rotting. 

 Anakin pulled away from her lips and even though it was all those days ago, she still remembered how tenderly he brushed her hair away from her face, tucking it back behind her ear. She still remembers the pad of his thumb, the one with flesh instead of metal, smoothing circles into her cheekbones. She watches as his lips move to form words and she is simply mesmerized, so enraptured by this man she can hardly breathe. 

 “I will be going away soon,” he told her then, his breath like the warmth of a fire against her face. Her eyelashes flutter as she looks from his lips back to his eyes, wading further into his ocean, as if she could convince him with a stare to stay, to anchor himself here, to her. 

 “But…” she shakes her head, tongue swiping between her lips and her hands slide from his elbows to his wrists. “…but you cannot…” she sighs frustratingly, unable to find her words. “…it is not safe for us. You cannot leave…”

 “Hey,” he whispers in only the way he can, in that way that has her resolve slipping, her knees trembling, her heart stuttering. The wind whips at their hair and their clothes and snow falls behind him but he is so warm, a warm glow in the midst of the storm. She grows warm, warmer in his hands and Anakin’s gaze drops to her quivering lips, the skin of his thumb soothing over her lower one. “You are fully capable of surviving without me,” he assures in a murmur that rolls like thunder in her chest. 

 She shakes her head. “But we are weak!” she protests. “We are not strong enough to handle this on our own. My uncle he…” she closes her eyes, sucks in a breath, tries to ease the unsteady beating of her heart. “…he is only getting older. He isn’t well. The storm is only getting stronger, and if they come… we—“

 “No,” Anakin shakes his head, steps closer, cradles either of her cheeks in the palms of his hands. “Don’t say you can’t.”

 She tilts her head in his palms, unsure of his meaning. “But Anakin, if they—“

 “They will not touch you,” he says and he speaks with a sense of finality, and she knows there would be no question, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. She knows that what he says is true. His hands tighten around her face and his gaze is strong, unyielding, piercing where it meets hers. He almost doesn’t seem himself, like there is some other version of him present. She isn’t sure what to think of it, but what she knows for sure is that she knows she must be safe, because Anakin says it is true. “I will not let anyone hurt you, do you understand?”

 He searches her gaze, awaiting her answer. She stares back, wondering how someone like him could be speaking to her like this, touching her like this, caring for her like this. To be loved by Anakin Skywalker was like being a snowflake, falling from the heavens, making its descent to the ground— every one was unique, but its uniqueness may only be discovered by those who look close enough. Not many cared to take the time out of their day to see her, but Anakin did. Anakin saw her and held her in a way he and only he could. To be loved by Anakin Skywalker was to be seen like nobody else had seen her. To be loved by Anakin Skywalker was a rarity of its own. 

 She nods against his palms, her lashes fluttering as her gaze drops to his chin, to his lips. 

 “What is it?” He asks, lowering his head, catching her gaze in his again. She sniffs, wringing a hand around his wrist. 

 “What if I do not see you again?” She asks. “How long will I have to wait to have you like this again?”

 It is a selfish thought, she thinks. They are in the middle of a war for Maker’s sake, and Anakin is one of the most important assets of it. It is selfish of her to want to keep him all to herself, to want to stay hidden in a permanent rendezvous, away from eyes, away from pain, away from war. The galaxy needed him, that, she knew. But she needed him too. She doesn’t know what she will do with herself, biding the time until she sees him again. 

 “But you will see me again,” he assures in a quiet murmur, his hands dropping from her cheeks to cup either of her hands between his. He presses his lips to one of her knuckles, then to another, and then another until they’ve all been graced by his kiss. Her knees feel like jelly and she is glad he is there to support her, because she feels like she can melt into a gooey puddle of magma at their feet despite the snow. “No matter how far, no matter the time, I will always find you. There is no place in the entire galaxy where you can be where I will not find you. We are bound to one another, you and I are. Even in death, I would claw myself out of the very earth to find you.”

 She feels the bitter sting of tears pooling in her eyes, because she knows they are running out of time, and soon, he would have to take leave. She will only have these words and the memory of his touch to satiate her, until of course he keeps his word and finds her once again. 

 Anakin’s eyes fall back down to her lips before he collects them with his in a searing kiss, the kindling of a promise left in his mouth’s wake when he pulls away. 

 “We will see one another again,” he murmurs and she believes him. She knows he will keep his word. “And perhaps, we will meet even sooner than you think.”

 Blue swarms and begins to morph into an angry, fiery red and she is once again back in Mustafar, staring at Anakin but not Anakin again. Sometimes when she thinks her Anakin Skywalker is truly lost, she need only remember those tender words he had said to her, the last time she saw him as he once was. She will then look at Darth Vader and tell herself that all hope is not lost. Darth Vader will say that Anakin Skywalker is dead, but she knows it is not true. 

 Because Anakin Skywalker once told her that even in death, he would claw his way out of the very earth to find her. 

 “Something troubles you,” she whispers and Darth Vader does not move but his eyes do. His blazing gaze falls to her lips, down her arms, all the way to her hands. She follows their trail and knows what it is he must crave. Sometimes when she thinks she must be afraid of him, she reminds herself that this is only a boy who is lost, misguided. She wonders, she hopes, if in time, he can be guided back onto the right path again. 

 Her hands move to find one of his, his left, where she knows she will still find flesh underneath. She glances back up at him to find he is staring at their connected hands, lips pursed, waiting for her to continue. She sucks in a breath and pinches the tip of his glove at the middle finger, slowly, cautiously pulling it away from his hand. Her palm circles to cradle the back of his hand and while he does not shiver, the locking of his jaw does not go unnoticed. 

 Even after all this time, he still craves for touch, her touch, and her skin on his. It makes her wonder if he still thinks about it too, all their secret rendezvous, their nights of passion, bodies tangled together with only the moons as their witness. She wonders if he still remembers the words he used to always say to her, the tender, sweet little nothings he’d whisper in her ear, the promises for a better future he made woven in the tendrils of her hair. If he still thinks back to that day she last saw him as Anakin Skywalker, if he still remembers the words he told her. 

 She thinks he must, because he still fulfilled his promise: he came back, no matter what. Only not the same, but perhaps more of the same than she initially thought. She sees the locking of his jaw, his craving for her touch he dare not speak aloud and thinks maybe it could be true. 

 “Let me help you,” she says, because she knows he has no desire to speak. Darth Vader lifts his gaze to find she is already staring back as she brings his hand up to her face, cupping her cheek. The pad of his thumb subconsciously soothes over her bottom lip and she shivers, the tenderness of his touch a stark contrast to his demeanor. She knows what she is offering is only a temporary fix, but it is a start, and it is an understanding she didn’t quite have before. 

 He still craves for her, he still wants her. She doesn’t know if she can call what they have love, not anymore, but there is still a want. She thinks that maybe this is her Anakin slipping through the cracks. She decides to hold onto this sliver all that she can. 

 She presses her lips gently against his thumb, maintaining eye contact all the while, unwilling to break it. The blazing amber in his eyes intensifies and in an instant, his lips are on hers, replacing his thumb. She releases a mixture of a yelp and a moan into his mouth, letting his tongue scour her, devouring her. He seeks to conquer her but he still kisses her with desperation, almost insecurely, but not like he’s unsure. It’s more like he’s waiting for her to push him away, to curse and spit at him like he believes (and perhaps, does) deserve. 

 But she doesn’t. How could she? It’s hard to differentiate Darth Vader from Anakin Skywalker when they are one in the same, even while being entirely different. He still feels like her Anakin, he still shares the same shell as her Anakin. He kisses her with a mixture of Darth Vader and just the tiniest fraction of Anakin Skywalker but he is there, he is still there. 

 So she presses herself further into him. His right hand finds the small of her back and presses her further into him, his kiss more determined, his touch more certain. She pants against his mouth as he uses his left hand to unclip his cape, the heavy material falling in a heap on the floor behind him. She feels the shoulders of her dress slipping down her arms but does not feel his hands there and knows he is using the Force on her. It alights a new sort of blaze she’s never felt before between her legs and as his left hand grips her chin and his kisses trail down to her jaw, she burns brighter than ever before. 

 Her eyes are screwed shut as he sucks angry marks to the line of her jaw, her fingers holding on tightly to his sleeves. She thinks she hears the door slide open behind them but the invisible hand working at her clothes unties the knot at the small of her back and Darth’s teeth sink into her collarbone so she does not care. Her head tilts back and she hears the faint sound of footsteps retreating, the door sliding back closed, once again leaving them alone. 

 “An… Ana…” she hears herself begin to pant but knows it is a mistake as soon as he pulls away from her altogether, her body, now nude, feeling cold with the lack of his against it. She peels open her lids and shudders where she stands as his gaze pierces through her as if it intended to melt her to the very ground she stood on. She thinks she very well can but she knows there is no use of running so she stays, awaiting her fate. 

 “The name you call is not mine,” Darth speaks and he reaches out with a hand, his left, and her body is not her own anymore and her mind flashes back to the day where he found her, when he used this very power on her to strip her of her own will. She presses her lips together as the Force brings her down to her knees, the ground biting into her bare skin. She does not cry, does not even struggle. She simply waits— she’s already offered herself to him and she knows that he will not hurt her. He cannot afford to. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself without her. Because Anakin is still there. There is still someone inside of him that loves her. “It’d serve you well to forget that man, because he is gone. Dead. I want to hear you say my name. I want to hear you scream it until hell fears me.”

 She hates the effect he has on her. She can feel herself pulse between her legs and she inhales, fluttering her eyes closed at how pathetic she must seem. Still wanting this dangerous, nefarious man. The man who murdered her uncle. The man who murdered her entire family. But yet, still the man who said he would cheat death to keep her safe. 

 Darth’s gaze intensifies and she feels a prodding in her mind, encouraging her, no, commanding her to comply. She gulps, and then, “Darth.”

 The invisible finger toying with the outside of her mind crawls away and her body once again feels like it is her own but still, she stays in her place on her knees on the floor. Darth Vader’s footsteps echo the room as he steps forward until he towers above her. She peers up at him through her lashes, watches as he crouches, pinching her chin between the thumb and forefinger of his gloved hand. 

 “Obedient girl,” he remarks, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip. “You will not defy me, lest you wish for it to be the last thing you do.”

 Her head nods before can even begin to think. She knows she would’ve complied regardless. The ache between her legs wouldn’t allow her to act otherwise. It was disgusting, lusting after this man who swears he will be her demise. But he has a way of making her insatiable, unlike herself.

 “Good,” he says before he pulls away and she watches as he circles the center of the room, setting himself down into the throne in the middle, legs spread, waiting. “Undress me.”

 She gulps down another moan, the words alone making her stomach somersault. She wastes no time to pick herself off of the floor, painfully aware of how naked she is as she makes her way over to where he sits. Even sitting on his throne, he is still bigger, still stronger than her. She feels meek, small against him as she begins with the shoulders of his armor, finding his eyes as she removes it, piece by piece. He taps his fingers against the arms of his seat as she unbuttons his tunic and before she can move to slide it down his arms, he waves a finger and her hands find his belt without their own accord. 

 She doesn’t move for a movement, only stares at him as he gazes back. He cocks an eyebrow, the one pierced with a scar, expectantly and she inhales sharply, her gaze sliding from his face down to his exposed, toned chest as she begins working at his belt. She tosses it away along with the heap of clothes on the floor and unbuttons his trousers, feeling her center throb at just how close she is to seeing what it desires. Her tongue swipes between her lips as she frees his cock from his pants, her breath hitching as she blinks at the angry pink tip peeking from his waistband. 

 “You test the limits of my patience,” Darth Vader says in an annoyed, clipped tone. “My cock will be your throne, but only if you make haste.”

 She blinks again and she feels a ball of acid at the base of her throat as she tugs his pants all the way down to his knees, finally allowing his cock to spring free. She can’t help but gawk, even if she’s already seen it more times than she can count. It’s large to say the very least and it is hard, ready, eager for her. She recalls just how large it is whenever she’s had it in her mouth, how each and every vein of it feels when it is buried so deeply inside of her. Sometimes, she can’t believe that it is all hers to have. Sometimes, she doesn’t feel worthy of it. 

 She realizes she is testing his patience again, only when she feels that invisible hand wrap around her throat, her own subconsciously reaching for them, although they are not there. Breath is stolen from her and she knits her brows together, mumbling a tight apology. 

 “You are merely fortunate that I am not in the mood for games today,” he says and the Force brings her forwards, her knees hitting his. He leans towards her until their faces are mere inches away, his breath rolling like smoke over her cheeks. “So do not push my mercy any further. Sit on my cock.”

 She feels every syllable of his last sentence in her core and the invisible hand remains on her throat as she manages to bring herself closer, her knees on either side of his thighs. He does not touch her, merely watches as she struggles to align his head with her center. When she finally does, he uses this invisible grip on her throat to push her down before releasing her altogether and she gasps for breath, eyes rolling back into her head, her head tipping towards the ceiling as a moan rips from her throat. 

 She can feel every pulsing vein of his cock against her walls, can feel her delicate cervix being bullied by his angry tip. Her hands search for his shoulders and when they do, her nails dig into the sleeves of his tunic, the bitter sting of tears escaping the edges of her eyes. 

 Darth hisses through his teeth and his left hand finds her hip, his skin warm against hers where it kneads. A curse tumbles past his lips and his other hand, still gloved, weaves through her hair, forces her forehead down onto his. She opens her eyes and sees his glaring gaze piercing through to her own. 

 “I don’t know how you do this to me,” he snarls. “I don’t know how only you have this effect on me. Only you can make me feel like this. Only you can make me…” Darth is unable to control himself so he snaps his hips up into her and she cries, more tears streaming down her cheeks. “…fuck!” He howls, tossing his head back against his throne. “You are destroying me. It’s not fair. How are you doing this to me?”

 He says this last thing with a hint of a vulnerability she’s never heard from him before. It’s almost desperate, like she really, truly is destroying him, paining him. It’s hard for her to try and understand what this means when he is fucking her into a state of mind-numbingness, but there is only one thing, one word, one name that she can even think of. 

 “Darth!” She screeches but it is not the name she thinks of. She thinks of Anakin, how perhaps this, she is the key to freeing Anakin Skywalker from the mask of Darth Vader. Because this, this Darth Vader is but a mere facade— they both know it to be true. It is not who he truly is. He can try and deny it all he wants. But there is nowhere in the entire galaxy where he can hide that she won’t find him. Because he is and will always be Anakin Skywalker. 

 She knows that Darth Vader will try and fight it. He will tear down the entire galaxy before he admits it. He will destroy planets and will bring down entire monarchies before he admits it. He will kill and he will burn and he will destroy before he admits it. But not even that will be enough to hide from it, to run from it. Because she is Darth Vader’s destiny. She is Anakin Skywalker’s destiny. She will be Darth Vader’s destruction. And she will be Anakin Skywalker’s redemption. 

 She is the key to bringing Anakin Skywalker home. 

a/n: another long one for anakin 🤭 i absolutely love writing for him, he's so complex and so fun to explore and create headcanons of my own for. i hope i was able to do him at least a little bit of justice here. sorry if this seemed a little too slow burn and if there wasn't enough smut to suffice 😭 i went in like "oh yeah this is gonna be absolutely filthy" but oh well! i find i write a little easier when i go in without much of a plan lol since i get carried away easily and usually just let my thumbs do whatever the hell they want anyways 😭 anywho! thank you so much for reading! it always warms my heart to know my writing is being seen by others! 🥹🫶

psst, i also want to thank each and every single one of you who read a place in the sea of stars. i was not expecting the feedback that fic received and i am still so overwhelmed by all the love all this time later. thank you thank you thank you a million times over from the bottom of my heart. 🥹🫶

💫 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply to let me know! it means the world to me 🫶

TAGLIST

@your-nanas-house

@chaoticevilbakugo

@johnbassplayercutie

@arisksywlkr

@sydkneez

@sunnytotheend

[hazbinhazmeinachokehold]

Lucifer x reader

Summary: The reader tries to make a cake for an anniversary on short notice. It goes as well as you might expect.

Not proofread!

Your anniversary with Lucifer was right around the corner. Lucifer was the king of Hell, or the “big boss” as he would say it. He could get almost anything he would want. And well sure getting a gift is required for an anniversary but it would still be better. At Least emotion-wise. But as the saying goes “What do you get a man who has every?” The answer you settled on? A cake. I mean it was something you can eat which served a purpose that he didn’t always have at hand. Well, he did, in fact, he could snap food up but this was the closest you were going to get.

The recipe was confusing but the only one with ingredients you had on hand. You didn’t have time to get extra ingredients at a store. You barely had time to make the cake itself. So while you weren't cutting corners with the cake itself you had to whip up some makeshift frosting. The cake had one layer and was shaped like an apple. 

You quickly got the cake out the second the timer beeped. After only slightly burning your hand you slapped it on the oven top. You got the frosting and slathered it on the cake. You quickly realized you had too much red frosting and not enough cream, green, and brown-colored frosting. It was sloppy looking. And both you and the kitchen were covered with frosting… That’s it there's not but.

Suddenly Lucifer came in. “Hello!” He loudly announced. You hunched over the cake trying to hide it in the process you smeared more frosting on your top. Great. He entered the kitchen and you could hear his feet land as he jumped back. “What happened here?” You heard his concerned voice asked. Just great. This is perfect actually. 

You turned around,” Supri- AH FUCK!” You tried to present the cake to him but that pan was hot to the touch. You half haphazardly placed it back on the stovetop. “Ahem sorry, surprise. I hope you like cake!” You cringed as the words fell out of your mouth. You presented the cake as you walked to the side. Lucifer gasped in surprise. You tensed until he smiled. Yes! You mentally fist-bumped.

He took a slice. “Isn’t it too hot?” You asked before it hit you what you just asked. You both snorted before he took a bite and his face scrunched up. 

“It's great!” He strained. 

You mentally prepared yourself and took a small bite out of the cake. Through the pain caused by the heat, you could tell it tasted terrible. “Well, this was a failure.” You hunched over.

“No no! I mean it… isn’t the best cake ever. But you taking the time to make it is enough to make a great cake and gift.” He said. A smile appeared on your face. This was small. He was just assuring you like he did constantly. But assuring you that just trying to make him happy was enough made something take over you. Tears appeared in your eyes. “Are you okay?” Lucifer asked, his eyes slightly wide with worry.

“No, I'm fine.” Your voice cracked, “I’m just happy.”

“Ah don’t get too happy just yet! Save that for when you see my gift.” He said before he snapped and you heard a loud thump. You turned around to see a statue of you and him that was a few feet tall.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

[feyburner]

May I ask what your favorite biscuit recipe is? (I tend to go for Nancy Silverton's, but it's so much work and so much butter that sometimes I long for something else.)

I use my own recipe! Here it is.

BUTTERMILK BISCUITS

MAKES: 8-10 biscuits

INGREDIENTS

2 ½ cups (300g) AP flour

2 Tbsp (yes, Tbsp!) baking powder

1 Tbsp white or brown sugar or honey

1 tsp kosher salt

¾ cup (170g) butter (ideally salted), cold, sliced thin

1 cup (227g) cold buttermilk (1 Tbsp white vinegar + fill to 1 cup line with milk, let curdle 10 min)

optional: 1 Tbsp melted butter + 1 Tbsp honey, to brush over tops before baking

optional: honey butter (4 Tbsp softened butter + 2-4 Tbsp honey to taste; creamed), to serve

DIRECTIONS

1. Preheat oven to 450°. Grease a cast iron skillet, or line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

2. In a large bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt.

3. Work fat into flour: Add the sliced butter. Toss to coat each piece in flour. Use your knuckles and fingers to smash, rub, and smear butter into flour mix until it resembles coarse, moist, crumbly sand, with granola-like crumbles of butter. Some larger flakes are fine. Work quickly: Keep butter cold.

4. Add buttermilk in 3 parts, mixing with a spatula in between, just until large clumps form. You might not need all the buttermilk! Dough will be shaggy and moist but not unworkably sticky. (If too sticky, sprinkle liberally with flour during next step; brush off excess as you go.)

5. Form layers: Turn dough onto a clean, floured surface. With floured hands and a bench scraper, shape into a mass. Do not knead or overwork. Pat or roll out into a slab roughly 1” thick. Fold it in half, then pat back out. Repeat 3-5x to form layers.

6. Cut biscuits: Pat into a 1” thick slab. Use a biscuit cutter to cut 8-10 biscuit rounds, OR shape dough into a 1” thick rectangle (about 6x12”; the goal is 8 x 3x3” square biscuits). Using a large, sharp knife, slice ¼” off the outer edges to expose layers. Slide the edge strips under the dough so they don’t show. Cut the rectangle into 8-10 biscuits of desired size.

7. Arrange biscuits in cast iron skillet or on baking sheet with the sides very lightly touching. Brush tops with honey butter if desired (you can also brush it on after baking).

8. Bake 16-20 minutes until tall and golden brown.

NOTES

- Cast iron vs. baking sheet: Either works. Baking in a cast iron = crispy bottom crust.

- Cutting: The edges must be sliced to expose the layers so they can properly rise—use a biscuit or cookie cutter, not a drinking glass, or just cut square biscuits. If using a biscuit cutter: Do not twist while pressing down—it will smear layers together and inhibit rise.

- Arranging: Biscuits love to lean on each other. Make sure their sides are very lightly touching (not too close; they will expand as they rise) so they can cling to each other and climb higher during the bake.

- Keep dairy cold. If butter starts looking greasy, chill dough in fridge or freezer 15 minutes.

[carduelism]

Making RDR2 characters into bagels: Charles Smith

Hyperfixation is evil but also great so. Ever wanted to take a bite out of charles?yeah me too. So have this recipe for a herbal sweet savoury gingery bagel

(Recipes for Arthur and John are made and coming, just need to get photos ❤️ Expect the rest of the camp too)

Results:

Recipe:

Usually I'd be batch making bagels, but I'm just going to make 2.

1 cup of plain flour

Bloom 1/2 tablespoon of yeast in warm water (wait 10 mins) then add water as needed til dough comes together

(I don't like measuring liquid as it may over hydrate the dough and that's uncomfortable to work with)

2 tablespoons maple syrup

Pinch of salt

2 tablespoons of ginger

1 tablespoons of thyme

1 teaspoon of nutmeg

1/2 table spoon of cinnamon (because I’m evil and really like cinnamon)

You can also just measure seasonings with your heart if you are brave enough

Half your dough for the marbling. Add a teaspoon of blue food dye and the slightest dash of red

Knead each dough for 10-15 minutes. Put a cute video or music in the background as you knead if you want. And yes im sorry for making there be two doughs, you will need to knead separately for a combined time of 20-30 minutes 😞

Let doughs rest for an hour, or however long your ADHD brain deems an hour. The doughs should have doubled in size

Start working on the water you are going to boil the bagel in, I put a gulp of molasses in my big pot, turn the heat up and put the lid on, get it boiling! You can use other sweeteners too; honey, brown sugar, maple syrup.

Also preheat your oven to 180C/350F (fan-forced)

Third each ball of dough and then sandwich them randomly together. Mush the dough around for a bit to make sure there stuck to each other but not enough for the colour to start mixing. Then you can half the dough again and begin making the bagel shape via this method:

make a dough ball by rolling it around on your surface. Puncture your finger through the middle to make the hole (HINT: the hole will close in during the second rising and possibly during boiling, so make the hole bigger than you think it would need to be!)

Let the bagels rise for 10-15 minutes on some baking paper. I like to cut the baking paper underneath it into squares, it helps with placing it into the boiling water (as a guy with nasty burns from baking I get Very scared) and just falls off.

Once they've risen for the second time, place those bad boys in the water! Air lift them by the sides of the baking paper and drop them in carefully please I don't want anyone getting burnt. Now here is where you get to decide on texture;

Boil for a minute minimum, this gives the shiny effect and sets the bagels size but keeps a fluffier texture. If you like your bagels chewier and tougher like me, I go with 5 minutes lol.

Consider what texture you want!

Put the bagels on baking paper in a tray but before putting them in the oven, add an egg wash. Mix a whole egg together and brush that shit on top, makes the bagel brown nicely. If you don't have a brush, just use paper towel; dip it in the egg and brush it over the bagel.

For the decorative effects I put poppyseeds and chia seeds on the pale dough coloured side, and used the clean flat end of a texta (bit less than 1cm) dipped slightly in egg and then in flour for the dots.

OVEN TIME!!!!!! Put them in for 35-45 minutes (I accidentally under baked mine at 35 mins and they were a bit gummy…)

I would serve with well marinated meat though I Am pescatarian and fold salmon slices worked quite well too, of course veggos can use tofu too. used some stronger herbs instead of a salad, like rocket ect 😗

Enjoy!

[starflungwaddledee]

I would like to submit: 🪞, 🧋, and 🥘 if I may for Starstruck for the OC ask!!

[ >>> kirby oc ask meme <<< ]

🪞 (Mirror) - What would their Mirror World counterpart be like? If they are a Mirror World counterpart, what traits of theirs are reflected? Do the two of them get along?

more in-depth answer on a potential mirror world starstruck here, but i think in short... she might not exist. for a variety of reasons that are only partially to do with her. if she did exist and the two met, i think that prime starstruck would be hopelessly traumatised by the experience

🧋 (Boba Tea) - Come up with a Kirby Café item themed around your OC! It can be a savoury dish, a drink, a dessert, or something else entirely.

YES this is my favourite sort of thing actually i LOVE LOVE LOVE foods themed after characters!! i know i said i wouldn't draw anything for these but i HAVE TO for this one...

she would have a miniature tea-style menu item to reflect her eating style, which would come on a custom themed platter. it would be comprised of many small dishes and it would have savouries, sweets, and a drink all in one. for sweets there would be cotton candy macarons with a sherbet filling, and candied white peaches; with an optional add-on for a stack of star-shaped cinnamon-apple pancakes if you have some bigger eaters along with you. for savouries there'd be crumbed camembert cheese stars, served with plum chutney (in a take-home custom dish) and the most picture perfect pre-sliced apple you've ever seen, and coronation chicken sandwiches with cranberries the drink is a fizzing soda, using peach and white-grape flavour syrups to get a gradient, and it's topped with a thin layer of condensed milk

🥘 (Stew) - Do they have any favourite foods or comfort foods? What are their eating habits like? If absorbed by the Cook ability, what healing item would they summon?

she's happy to eat just about anything- edible or not- so long as she doesn't have to eat a lot of it. eating too much tends to make her feel a bit off, and she doesn't get hungry often so eating is not something that comes naturally to her. if it weren't for others she'd simply forget more often than not. her favourite foods are either things that are social that she can share with others (pizza, nachos, tacos, big bowl of fries), light snacks (crackers, dried fruits), or cheeses. she also seems to enjoy eating soda cans but that might be for the bit as much as anything i think for the cook ability she'd give a silly little peach, because that's kinda what she looks like. either that or macarons, which already exist in game!

[exhausted-archivist]

Tastes of Thedas Lore Blurbs

Here are all the recipe lore blurbs for Dragon Age: Official Cookbook: Tastes of Thedas. Putting them below the cut due to length, there are 72 recipe blurbs in total.

Starters and Refreshments

Eggs à la Val Foret

Ah, yes. Tons of cream! Exactly what I've come to expect from Orlesian cuisine. Do I have any tips for creating the perfect poached egg? Well, ever since I heard that Solas's bald head was once likened to an egg, I simply try to make my eggs just as round and shiny! So far, it's worked wonderfully and never ceases to put a smile on my face.

Nevarran Blood Orange Salad

Although I knew that Divine Victoria left behind a life of wealth and privilege to join the Seekers of Truth, it wasn't until I was in Nevarra, seeing exactly what she'd given up, that I truly gained an appreciation for the path she'd chosen. The best way to describe my first glimpse of the gardens of Nevarra is that it was like seeing a painting come to life. For a long moment, I could only stand there, so dazzled by the richness and vibrancy of it all that I was half-convinced I was actually still napping in the carriage. Surely, there was no way such beauty could be found outside of a dream. And yet the beauty before me was very much real.

So, too, was the picturesque tableau that arrived later that day on a plate: perfectly cut slices of blood orange artfully arranged on a lush pillow of bitter greens. Was this a meal or a still life, I wondered. In truth, the answer was both. For Nevarrans, food is as much a feast for the eyes as for the mouth. But even if your arrangement isn't quite worthy of being displayed in a museum, this salad will sing a symphony on your tastebuds.

Fried Young Giant Spiders

Just as people on the surface raise cows and goats, the dwarves underground raise spiders. Yes, to eat. The legs are fried and served with a sauce, which, true to dwarven fashion, is made with some type of alcohol. The precise kind depends on the establishment where you're eating your spider legs. Unfortunately, I couldn't get an exact recipe from any of the chefs I spoke to. These sauces are apparently closely guarded secrets and have spurred many a nefarious plot to acquire them - the competition to be crowned Orzammar's Best Sauce is fierce. But I've been assured that lichen ale is generally not used.

I've therefore come up with my own recipe, based on the many varieties I sampled while in Orzammar. Given that sourcing the requisite spider legs above ground is not nearly so easy, and the demand for such exports is minimal, I've substituted them with crab legs. It's not a perfect match, but it's close enough to satisfy me.

Stuffed Deep Mushrooms

Though the mushrooms growing underground in caves and in many parts of the Deep Roads are all called "deep mushrooms," there is no singular variety. In fact, there are several! Some mushrooms are squat, with broad, flat caps, while others are long and spindly, reaching toward the sky like an old man's gnarled fingers. They also have a multitude of applications, used in the creation of everything from restorative potions to deadly poisons. But in Orzammar, mushrooms are farmed for eating!

I was able to sample some of these dwarven delicacies, prized for their unique flavor and intoxicating scent. After only a few bites, I was struck with inspiration. How delicious would one of these mushrooms be when stuffed with cheese and spinach? The answer is: very. Rest assured that I selected this particular variety of deep mushroom not only for its shape, which is ideal for holding the maximum amount of cheese (and spinach), but also for the fact that it does not carry the darkspawn taint. While certain dwarves will insist that a deep mushroom's proximity to lyrium and darkspawn can only improve its flavor, I am quite content to leave that particular question a mystery, especially where lyrium is concerned. Although I'm hardly an expert on the stuff, I can't help but think about Fenris and how much suffering he endured as a result of his lyrium-infused markings. It seems to me that, barring any natural resistance, lyrium and the body are two things that probably shouldn't mix.

Rivaini Couscous Salad

When I first encountered couscous, I mistakenly believed it to be a grain, like rice or the more familiar Fereldan barley. I was swiftly corrected. In fact, couscous is a sort of pasta, made with semolina flour and water, although it's far smaller than your typical Antivan pasta. Couscous has a very mild flavor on its own--maybe slightly nutty. But where it excels is in its ability to soak up surrounding flavors, making it a perfect base for any salad. I'd love to experiment further, but so far, this particular combination of red bell pepper and mint has proven to be incredibly pleasing.

Crab Cakes from Kirkwall

I love it when recipes add a dash of whimsy into the mix. Food should be fun. I, therefore, took it upon myself to put this into practice with a classic Kirkwall dish. After all, who hasn't looked at their crab cakes and wished they looked a little more like crabs? Okay, maybe I'm the only one who's thought this. But now that I've brought this possibility to your attention, I'm certain you're interested as well! Best of all, these extra-crabby crab cakes stay true to the original recipe's flavors, so nothing is lost--only gained!

Fluffy Mackerel Pudding

Can it really be Feast Day without fluffy mackerel pudding? No! In fact, there's no dish I associate more strongly with the holiday than this unique combination of mackerel, onion, celery, and eggs. Granted, I've heard stories that, several decades ago, someone once attempted a diet consisting entirely of fluffy mackerel pudding. Now, that I certainly wouldn't recommend. It stops being Feast Day Fish if you eat it every day, no?

Snail and Watercress Salad

When the Avvar can't get their hands on a gurgut or a wyvern, they turn their attention to smaller prey. Much smaller prey. Snails are found on many a hillside boulder, making them an abundant source of food for the Avvar. Now, while some would wrinkle their noses or cry out in disgust at the prospect of eating a snail, I am pleased to report that, when prepared correctly, the texture, and flavor are actually good! I could happily eat a plate full of snails dressed in butter and oil, but those still on the fence about a snail's place in Lowlander cuisine might prefer to sample them in conjunction with other ingredients. Might I suggest a snail and watercress salad? It’s not exactly traditional Avvar cuisine, but my hosts certainly seemed to enjoy it.

Cave Beetles

You think that, after snails, I'd balk at beetles? Never! In fact, I greatly enjoyed this dwarven dish, which involves roasting cave beetles in their shells. However, I recognize that many may not have a palate that's nearly so adventurous. If that's the case, the cave beetles can be replaced with whole prawns while keeping the rest of the recipe the same. That being said, if you do enjoy the variation with prawns, I really recommend giving the cave beetles a try. They're quite similar in both texture and flavor. If you were to blindfold yourself, I doubt you could tell the difference!

For the Road

Spiced Jerky

Preserved foods play an important role in many different cultures across Thedas. Not only do they help certain communities weather times of scarcity brought on by the changing of the seasons, but they also ensure that long journeys away from home are possible. Imagine how difficult it would be for Dalish hunters to bring back meat the clan is depending on if they have to be back for supper night - or, worse, hunt on an empty stomach! This spiced jerky ensures that all Dalish hunters are well provisioned whenever they set out on a hunt so that no one, either the hunter or the clan at home, must go hungry. I do wonder, given how well this food keeps, whether it’s used in offerings made by certain Dalish elves to Fen’Harel. Although his shrines are usually located well outside of Dalish camps, I can’t imagine that leaving behind food that’ll readily spoil is good practice, especially if the prevailing opinion about these shrines is to avoid them. Besides, he is the Dread Wolf. If any god would enjoy a good piece of jerky, it should be him!

Grey Warden Pastry Pockets

Unlike many of us, Grey Wardens often don’t have the luxury of sitting down for their meals. Instead, they’re off on patrol, usually in less-than-pleasant climates, which makes their work all the more exhausting. In their shoes, I imagine I’d be downright ravenous, well beyond what a handful of nuts could hope to sate. But a pastry stuffed to the brim with meat, potatoes, and onion? Now, that would keep me going, and the Grey Wardens certainly seem to agree! While the original recipe produces a much tougher pastry - mostly to keep the whole thing from falling apart in one’s pack - another variation, championed by newer recruits from Orlais, incorporates the far more delicate Orlesian puff pastry. Whether eaten hot or cold, the results are certainly delicious, but I wouldn’t recommend storing these pastries anywhere they might be jostled. Otherwise, you might open your pack to find a mess in place of a meal!

Pickled Eggs

Got a fever? A cold? An aching shoulder, perhaps? Ask any Fereldan for advice, and they’ll be quick to prescribe you a pickled egg, the Fereldan cure for…well, pretty much anything! Actually, no, I take it back. You don’t even have to ask. Looking a bit under the weather is prompt enough for most Fereldans to unleash a deluge of eggs, which is exactly what Commander Cullen found waiting for him in his office during the worst of his lyrium withdrawals. Whether the eggs really work is a completely different story, but I’d be the last person to complain if one was offered to me. I am Fereldan, after all. Still, next time you feel a bit of illness coming on, try one of these salty-sour eggs. You never know; it might actually work. And at the very least, you’ll have the opportunity to enjoy one of Ferelden’s finest snacks!

Unidentified Meat

Have you ever heard a tale so exciting that you decided then and there that you absolutely have to see the truth of it for yourself? That was me when I learned about the mysterious, impossible-to-identify meat that’s often served in taverns across Tevinter - usually with a heaping portion of Nevarran flat bread. Of course, sometimes, the truth is far less exciting. Because what did I find on my plate when I ordered a portion of this strange meat? Was it quillback? Dracolisk? Giant? No. It was chicken - chicken legs, to be precise. Ah, well. They were still delicious.

Seheron Fish Pockets

Alas, for all my desire to see every last bit of Thedas, there are still certain places where I simply cannot go. Take far-off Seheron, for example, a land that, according to the Hero of Ferelden’s companion, Sten, smells like tea, incense, and the sea. Sounds lovely, no? What a shame then, that all my knowledge comes secondhand - and this recipe is no exception. I learned of this recipe from a member of the famous mercenary band Bull’s Chargers. A group favorite, the fish is packed with flavor. On its own, this combination of spices might prove a bit too much for the more delicate Orlesian palates, but I find that the soft wrap and crisp vegetables temper the resultant heat a fair bit. Do note, however, that this dish has a tendency to fall apart if eaten haphazardly. I suppose that’s why the mercenary who shared this recipe with me emphasized the importance of sitting down properly. He seemed to think I might stand in my chair to eat it instead. Who does that?

Fereldan Hearty Scones

Traveling is tiring work, especially when circumstances beyond your control necessitate going by foot instead of carriage. Thankfully, I had these hearty scones from home to keep me going! Unlike their sweeter, more delicate counterparts, Fereldan scones are packed with cheese and bacon, making them certain to keep you full until your next meal. Unfortunately, this also makes the scones a prime target for any nearby mabari, who love cheese and bacon as much as any other Fereldan. Don't make my mistake! Take a moment to survey your surroundings before enjoying your first bite; otherwise, a four-legged someone might do the honors for you.

Crow Feed

You don’t see much rice outside of Antiva and its neighbor, Rivain. In fact, it’s an especially rare sight in Ferelden, where any grain is seemingly always either barley or wheat. Evidently, very little of the rice Antiva produces ends up being exported, making it relatively cheap compared to other grains. It’s no wonder, then, that rice is a key component in dishes favored by poorer Antivans. However, that doesn’t make them any less delicious! Take crow feed, for example - a simple dish of rice, butter, and onions named after the (in)famous Antivan Crows. Although it’s most certainly cheap, the taste is fit for a king!

Black Lichen Bread

No doubt your face is already creasing in trepidation. “But wait,” you think, “isn’t black lichen toxic?” And yes. Yes, it is. But high temperatures seem to largely neutralize the lichen’s toxicity, making it safe to consume. If you’re still concerned, you can easily substitute any surface varieties for the lichen used in this recipe. Just make sure to thoroughly dry it, as you would any lichen from underground. You can also use bark in place of lichen, but I think that defeats the point. This is supposed to be lichen bread, after all, not bark bread!

Hearth Cakes

Some lovely comfort food, courtesy of the Dalish. These cakes are traditionally made over the hearth on an iron griddle or skillet (hence the name). While the original recipe calls for halla butter, I’ve found that other types of butter work just as well. The resulting dough stays moist on the inside, but crisp and flaky on the outside. In other words: perfect. Although hearth cakes can be made plain, I recommend adding some dried fruit into the mix. Cranberries, raisins, and currants all work. I believe the Dalish simply use whatever is on hand. Of course, if you’re feeling a bit mischievous, you could mix in some hot peppers instead: Just be prepared to be cursed as loudly and vehemently as Fen’Harel, the Lord of Tricksters himself!

Peasant Bread

While traveling through Orlais, I spied this rustic and hearty bread being eaten by both Dalish and city elves alike. The recipe is very straightforward, calling for wheat, salt, and grease in nearly equal parts, and it produces a biscuit that feels like it would be right at home in any Fereldan dish. It does a wonderful job mopping up any last bits of stew left inside your bowl, but it also pairs well with a bit of butter and jam.

Soups and Stews

Merrill’s Blood Soup

In the same vein as Llomerryn red, this is not actually blood - it’s just red. The color comes from the beetroot, which gives the soup a rich, earthy flavor that goes well with the roasted chickpeas sprinkled on top. Some might find the vibrant crimson hue off-putting, in the same way many shun the practice of blood magic. However, as mages like Merrill have shown, I think it’s best to not judge by appearances or by what you think you know. Take the time to experience things for yourself, and you might find yourself pleasantly surprised!

Fereldan Potato and Leek Soup

Most people immediately think of Orlais when it comes to creamy soups, and I can’t blame them. However, as often as cream might appear in their cuisine, the Orlesians certainly don’t have a monopoly on it, whether in soup or otherwise. This dish is 100% Fereldan through and through, and the recipe I’ve noted here is actually Mum’s. Of course, I couldn’t help but put my own little twist on it. Instead of using a side of toasted bread to give the meal a necessary bit of crunch, I turned my attention abroad, settling on chickpeas from Rivain, toasted to crouton-like crispiness. In a way, this recipe is very much a reflection of me, now that my journey is coming to an end. While my origins are unmistakably Fereldan, my travels across Thedas have touched me in a lasting way, and I’m all the richer for it.

The Hanged Man’s Mystery Meat Stew

A famous dish from the Hanged Man tavern in Kirkwall - or infamous, I suppose, depending on your perspective. Personally, after having heard so much about it, I couldn’t wait to taste it, even if the establishment, as Fenris once so succinctly put it, smelled of sour ale, vomit, and desperation. Oh, yes. I can hear what you’re thinking. A Fereldan excited about yet another stew. How predictable. But this is the tavern’s feature dish! Why shouldn’t I be excited? It’s made from a different meat every morning. I suspect mine was pork, although after overhearing the waitress tell another patron that they hang people who ask stupid questions from the rafters, I declined to confirm.

Fish Chowder

As Antivan as it gets! A bowl of this thick, creamy soup will have you feeling like you’re in Antiva City. No need for any pickpockets, corrupt politicians, or Antivan leather to further enhance the experience - the word “enhance” being entirely debatable, of course. I can’t imagine that the smell of rotting flesh would do much for anyone’s appetite, though Zevran Arainai might disagree with me on that. Evidently, becoming an accomplished assassin can have a pronounced effect on one’s tastes. But if you ask me, this desire for rather unusual accompaniments is likely born of something much more universally understood: homesickness.

Sweet and Sour Cabbage Soup

This Fereldan staple is often more solid than liquid, filled to the brim with cabbage, tomatoes, and other vegetables. Paired with a thick slice of dark bread, it makes for a filling and satisfying meal, one guaranteed to leave you full of warmth for hours afterwards on even the coldest of days. A perfect fit for us Fereldans, you might think, but we aren’t the only ones who enjoy this soup on the regular. Apparently, there’s a troupe of actors in Orlais whose sole focus is a popular comedy set in the fictional Fereldan village of Wilkshire Downs. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to see it for myself, as the performance was sold out almost instantly. But in order to play their roles most convincingly, the actors went so far as to change their diets to match those of their characters. For example, there’s a mayor who specifically eats cabbage soup. Personally, I don’t think I’d enjoy subsisting only on cabbage soup for an extended period of time, but you can’t help but applaud them for their dedication to their craft!

Lentil Soup

Lentils and Onions - open any pantry across Thedas, and I’m certain you’ll find these two ingredients sitting on the shelves. They’re both relatively inexpensive and keep well for an extended period of time. Best of all, they go with pretty much anything! Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if these two Thedosian staples played a starring role instead of a supporting one. So I combined a recipe that’s popular in elven alienages with some classic Tevinter flavors to supply an answer to this question. And what a delicious answer it is!

Nettle Soup

I first encountered nettles as a child, when I tripped and fell face-first in a whole patch of them. Many tears were shed, along with a lecture from Mum to play elsewhere from now on. In short, it was far from a pleasant experience. So I was understandably dubious when confronted with the idea of using nettles as an ingredient in my cooking. How could something so painful to the touch be in any way edible, let alone pleasant on the tongue. Funnily enough, I didn’t even have to taste it to understand. Though I doubt she’d appreciate it, I immediately thought of Lady Morrigan. She is, in a word, prickly, much like a nettle. And yet, despite her oftentimes cruel manner, no one can deny that she’s done much for Thedas’s benefit, helping not just the Hero of Ferelden, but also the Inquisitor. She’s a perfect example of how first impressions are not always the most correct. So, yes, nettles are both incredibly nutritious and delicious, contrary to my expectations.

King Alistair’s Lamb and Pea Stew

Hearty, humble, and straightforward to make - the three key aspects of any good Fereldan stew. This is a dish so ubiquitous that it’s become almost synonymous with Fereldan cuisine in general. I’m certain you’ve heard many a clever quip about our stews, perhaps even from Fereldan! But let me be the first to assure you that, no, contrary to what King Alistair may have said, we don’t cook our ingredients until they’re all “a uniform grey color.” Throwing them into the largest pot we can find, on the other hand… …that much is true. If you’re going to make a stew, you might as well make a lot of it! Although Mum’s stews will always rule my heart, I’d be lying if I said this recipe - its namesake’s view on Fereldan stews aside - didn’t come close to stealing the crown. (Sorry, Mum!)

Main Courses

Stuffed Cabbage

Gathering is just as important as hunting for the Avvar. It’s like Mum said: You can’t live off only meat, and any meal without vegetables is a meal half-finished. Of course, I didn’t understand her reasoning as a child, especially one who was single-handedly waging a war against the green menace on my plate. But now that I’m older, I have a new appreciation for her words. Plus, with a bit of proper seasoning, and some meat, even the most unappealing of vegetables can be delicious.

Antivan Gnocchi

Phew! Antivan meals sure are something to behold - and, to think, for Antivan nobles like Lady Josephine, these decadent spreads are just another dinner! Every time I thought we’d reach the last course, another was swiftly brought out. After ten dishes full of ingredients like olives, truffles, pasta, and cream, it’s a wonder I didn’t have to be rolled away from the table! In retrospect, I probably overindulged in the gnocchi, which were dressed with leeks and a rich cheese sauce. While they’re delicious, these small lumps of wheat, flour, egg, salt, and potato are incredibly filling. Still, I cannot say I won’t repeat this mistake next time I find myself at an Antivan table - nor will I regret it if I do!

Antivan Paella

Bordered by the Rialto Bay to the east, Antiva is populated mostly on the coast. It’s no wonder, then, that seafood plays a  starring role in Antivan cuisine. There’s no dish that exemplifies this more than the classic Antivan paella. Rice, saffron, and a variety of seafood (from whole shrimp to cuttlefish to mussels) come together to create an aromatic smorgasbord of everything the ocean has to offer. Best of all, it’s all made in a single pot - truly a dish after my own stew-loving Fereldan heart, if King Alistair’s thoughts on Fereldan cuisine are to believed! Although paella is traditionally cooked in a shallow, wide pan called a paellera (or, more confusingly, a paella in certain regions of Antiva), it can be prepared in virtually any deep skillet. Be sure to pair your paella with a glass of wine - ideally, an Antivan vintage, according to Lady Josephine, whose opinion on such matters can certainly be trusted - for the full experience.

Grilled Poussin

The Chasind sure love their poussin. And who can blame them? I love it, too! It’s a great alternative to the roasted turkey one might normally trot out for guests - although, I admit, the length of the guest list will likely be the deciding factor here. A poussin is a significantly smaller bird, after all, and as much as we might love the kitchen, sometimes we must be economical in our choices. Still, for a more intimate dinner party, you can’t go wrong with this dish! Although the Chasind typically cook poussin in a large pot over an open fire for an extended period of time, a similar effect can be achieved with any other cookware of suitable size and an oven. Marinating and basting the meat to keep it moist. That’s the secret to a meat so tender that it practically falls off the bone!

Gurgut Roast with Lowlander Spices and Mushroom Sauce

It was spring when I trudged through the Frostbacks on my way toward one of the many Avvar settlements that populate the area. As this is the time of year when the Avvar begin preparing for the following winter by smoking meat, pickling vegetables, and drying fruit, I thought it an ideal time to visit and observe. Unfortunately, springtime is also the gurgut’s mating season. As a result, I nearly discovered firsthand why travelers are advised to keep their distance from these brightly colored beasts. Luckily, a nearby group of Avvar hunters quickly came to my aid, and I was spared the indignity of beating at the beast with a ladle. In an expression of my thanks, I shared with them several jars of spices from home, which they happily accepted. These Lowlander spices are prized among the Avvar and often reserved for feasts are rare delicacies. What unparalleled good fortune, then, that I later had the opportunity to dine on the slain gurgut, now roasted and seasoned with the spices I had gifted, at the hunters’ hold.

Nug Pancakes

Although some see nugs only as pets, they are edible. In fact, nugs constitute a key part of dwarven cuisine, so much so that Varen, the first dwarf to attempt eating a nug - albeit out of desperation - became a paragon for his culinary discovery! I'd liken the flavor to a cross between pork and rabbit. Very tender, especially when roasted. But of all the nug-based dishes I've sampled, my favorite is still the nug pancakes (with nug-gets coming in a close second). I've noted down the recipe here and recommend you give it a try! Of course, if you cannot bring yourself to eat nug, other meats can be substituted in its place.

Fish in Salt Crust

The Avvar are generally rather utilitarian in their cooking methods - lots of stews, which I can hardly find fault with. But holds by lakes and rivers have a unique way of cooking fish. Instead of using a pan, they’ll wrap the fish in pungent leaves and salt, then leave it baking all day over banked coals. Like a stew, this method of preparation does not require constant attention. In addition, the salt helps keep moisture inside the fish, which turns the flesh creamy and tender. Plus, there’s a great deal of fun to be had when cracking the salt open! It adds a level of drama that I’m sure even the Orlesians would appreciate.

Roasted Wyvern

Having made their home in the inhospitable Frostbacks, the Avvar live on whatever they can glean from the land, hunting all manner of beasts, from harts and rams to large creatures like lurkers and gurguts - sometimes even wyverns! But take care! Although wyvern can be delicious, if they’re not prepared correctly, they’re devastatingly poisonous, a consequence of their venomous nature. I’ve made sure to include detailed instructions. I’m no Antivan Crow like Zevran Arainai, after all; the last thing I want is for anyone to be poisoned via dinner!

Nug Bacon and Egg Pie

Ever since I heard about Sister Leliana keeping a nug as a companion, I’ve desperately longed for a Schmooples of my own. Of course, as adorable as nugs are, allowing them anywhere near a fully stocked kitchen is a recipe for disaster. You’d think that after seeing Mum nearly lose her mind trying to keep the Hero of Ferelden’s mabari out of her larder, I’d be a touch more aware of the security of my own roasts. And yet…that cute face… Suffice it to say, I discovered firsthand just how voracious these little omnivores can be. These days, the closest thing to a nug in my house is this traditional Fereldan farmer’s pie.

Starkhaven Fish and Egg Pie

In some ways, this famous pie mirrors its namesake. Not only is it almost oval in shape, but it’s also stuffed to the brim with fish from the Minanter River, lending the impression that it, like the city of Starkhaven, sits perched upon the river’s bounty. But where the city is crowned with solid rings of tall, gray stone, this pie has a light, flaky crust that, I imagine, is far kinder on one’s teeth –not to mention, far tastier! As beautiful as Starkhaven is, with its lavish estates and fountains, I’d much rather take a bite of one of its pies instead. Of course, if Starkhaven’s prince were on offer as well… just kidding! I’d still take the pie. Given Sebastain Vael’s popularity, though, I might be alone in this decision.

Cacio e Pepe

A classic Antivan dish that graces the tables of both rich and poor alike. Composed of three pain ingredients – pasta, cheese, and pepper – cacio e pepe is delightfully simple. And yet, it is also very easy to get wrong, as I quickly discovered. The sauce must be smooth, not clumpy, a surprisingly tall ask when your tools are dry cheese and water. But do not despair! This skill, like all others, can be learned, and with a bit of practice, you too will be able to make a sauce that even the most scrutinizing of Antivan grandmothers can’t help but approve of. And let me tell you, that nod of approval is worth every ounce of struggle. So let me be the first to offer it to you, as Mum did for me when I was a child helping her in the kitchen: I’m so proud of you for persevering!

Turnip and Mutton Pie

I already know what you’re thinking. A Fereldan about to extol the virtues of turnips? Of course! They’re a wonderful little root vegetable, capable of being prepared any number of ways–whether boiled, stir-fried, roasted, steamed, or mashed–and even eaten raw! Although they certainly make a great addition to any stew, for now, I’d like to introduce you to the wonders of turnips in pies.

This particular pie is a classic Fereldan dish served at taverns across the kingdom. Tender chunks of lamb and turnip are enveloped in a buttery crust that, together, never fail to put a smile on my face. It doesn’t matter how cold or miserable the day is. None of that is any match for a belly full of warm, rich, turnipy goodness. Even just the smell alone is a comfort that no other food could ever hope to match. And although you could certainly evoke it by throwing a bushel of turnips into the fire, as Cole once did, I think putting them in a pie is a much tastier idea.

Smoked Ham from the Anderfels

Contrary to what the rumors (or perhaps just the importers) would have you believe, this ham does not taste of despair - whatever flavor that might be. Although the Anderfels are largely ill-suited for farming, pigs do surprisingly well there, in spite of the notoriously inhospitable climate. As a result, ham from the Anderfels is generous in size and, when glazed, makes for a delicious meal. In terms of glazes, my personal favorite is made from a combination of apples and apricots. However, I’ve heard that one glaze, in particular, made from wildflowers, can turn a smoked ham as hard as jade! Not at all suitable for eating, but I imagine it would pack quite the punch, especially in the hands of a warrior like Divine Victoria!

Roasted Turkey with Sides

If you're attending the Prince of Starkhaven's birthday celebration or any dinner party in the Free Marches, chances are, you'll find this feast waiting for you. The roasted turkey, cooked to golden-brown perfection, sits surrounded by a host of different sides, creating a picturesque scene that's certain to impress everyone lucky enough to secure an invite. Unsurprisingly, this culinary tableau is far from a quick-and-easy meal. The chef who prepared the rendition I enjoyed in Kirkwall informed me - after much persuasion - that the turkey alone took hours to prepare. Add a few sides, and there goes most of the day, especially if you don't have a full kitchen staff to assist you! Unfortunately, I discovered this the hard way when I later attempted to put this recipe into practice. By the time everything was properly cooked and ready, it was late into the evening - well past dinnertime, even in Antiva, where dinner is usually a late-night affair. So take my advice, and budget more time than you think you need. Also be sure to invite some friends! This is definitely a meal that's meant to be shared, which, in my opinion, makes it the best kind!

Sides

Sera’s Yummy Corn

This recipe is simple, yet strict. No wraps. No non-yellow corn. Peel halfway, then wash and cook; peel again, and eat. Personally I think other varieties of corn would work just fine - I agree with checking for rot, of course - but the suggestion was met with such disgust from Sera that, well, I couldn’t bring myself to try it. Also, while the original recipe advises acquiring the ingredients through less-than-honorable means, let me assure you that merchant-bought corn is absolutely fine. Friends of Red Jenny can, of course, pilfer a few ears from an undeserving noble, as usual.

Stuffed Vine Leaves

The first thing I did upon arriving in the Tevinter Imperium was head for the nearest tavern and order this classic Tevinter appetizer. These tender leaves are stuffed with rice, herbs, and sometimes minced meat. When topped with a bit of lemon juice and a dollop of tzatziki sauce, they’re sure to leave you in a state of bliss with just a single bite. In my case, I was so enchanted by the delicious flavors that I didn’t even notice the commotion outside! Apparently, there was a disagreement between a magister and another magister’s son - about what, I couldn’t say. After all, I was too busy eating!

Honey Carrots

In much the same way as the Inquisition is to the Inquisitor, a meal is more than just a main course. Sides form an equal part of the equation and deserve just as much care and attention as the dish they’re served alongside. It’s a lesson Mum taught me long ago and one I haven’t forgotten since. So of course, I noticed when this Orlesian staple made an appearance. It graced my table not once, not twice, but every single time I dined in Orlais. And while I enjoyed the traditional Orlesian rendition of this dish - which is on the sweeter side, thanks to a liberal application of honey - those who prefer a level of sweetness more in line with a carrot’s natural flavor should employ a lighter touch.

Nevarran Flat Bread and Yogurt Dip

There’s something supremely satisfying about a tall stack of Nevarran flat bread - and I don’t just mean in an aesthetic sense. Of course, being pleasing to the eye is certainly a consideration. This is a Nevarran dish, after all. But the process of being able to go from dough to ready-to-eat bread in minutes reaches a whole level of satisfaction on its own, especially if you’re used to waiting hours for a loaf to finish baking! Best off all, this bread can be eaten in a variety of different ways, whether on its own, brushed with oil, or as a vehicle for an assortment of dips. Personally, I’d love to try it with a good stew from home one day.

Sweet Delights

Blancmange

When translated literally from Orlesian, blancmange means “white eating,” which, I suppose, is pretty accurate. This dish is a white pudding made with either milk or heavy cream that’s been thickened. On its own, it possesses a relatively mild sweetness–particularly by Orlesian standards. But that’s because it’s generally served with various toppings, such as a red grape compote, to amplify the dish’s sweet flavors. The toppings are also a great way to decorate an otherwise plain-looking dessert. I’ve seen everything from designs composed of toasted almonds to ribbons of fresh mango. There’s really no limit to what you can do!

If you’re looking for a particularly elegant option, you need only turn to Lady Vivienne for guidance. After all, she’s the veritable queen of style, no matter the medium. When it comes to blancmange, her preferred arrangement remains true to the dish’s name, offering a pristine white-on-white tableau of white chocolate curls and whole jasmine flowers. The result is gorgeous on its own, but when served on a dark plate, it looks all the more stunning!

As stunning as that is, I prefer to add a cherry sauce to top the dish.

Poison Stings

Traveling is exhausting, as I’ve recently discovered. Even if you’re just sitting in a carriage, it can often feel like you’re walking every step of the way. Thankfully, I’m not the first to take long journeys across Thedas. Dorian Pavus traveled all the way from Tevinter to Ferelden in order to join the Inquisition - and rather quickly, at that! His secret? Chocolate-coated orange peels, colloquially known as poison stings. They’re sweet and sour, crunchy and chewy, and are certain to perk you right up whenever you’re starting to feel a bit worn down.

Dalish Forest Fruit Cobbler

Mum always knew there’s no greater comfort than a warm slice of cobbler - and the Dalish know it too! The first time I had a bite of this dessert, it was like sitting in Mum’s kitchen all over again, letting the simple pleasure of her baking wash away the day’s troubles. Hard to feel the sting of a skinned knee or a lost game when your belly is full of warm, gooey goodness, no? Although Mum usually made her cobblers with strawberries and rhubarb - only the stems, of course, as the leaves are poisonous - you can follow the Dalish’s lead and use whatever forest fruit is currently in season.

Dwarven Plum Jam

One of the great joys of this journey has been the sheer variety of foods I’ve encountered. However, there are certain places that, by nature of their climate or simply location, offer little in the way of choice when it comes to locally produced foods. The dwarven city of Orzammar is one such place.

Though it is underground, the city is by no means isolated, and trade with the surface has ensured that foods from above ground have soared to great heights of popularity below. Jam, particularly that made from plums, seems to be in especially high demand. The price, however, was enough to make my eyes water! It’s no surprise that only the wealthiest and most influential residents of Orzammar can afford it.

That’s not to say the rest of the city’s population is doomed to live in a jamless existence! While in Orzammar, I spoke to a local jam maker who, rather than purchase the jams directly from merchants, has opted to import only the individual components. They hope that, by making the actual preserves themselves, they can sell their product for a much more reasonable price. And the results, I dare say, were very sweet.

Sour Cherries in Cream

Imagine that you, like me, are at a dinner party in Orlais. You’ve just finished polishing off the second-to-last course, the latest in a long slew of extravagance, and you’re starting to realize that perhaps you overindulged earlier in the evening. But how could you not? The food was just so good. Now there’s only dessert left, and your stomach feels like it’s about to burst. At this point, you cannot imagine how you’ll manage to choke down whatever tower of sugar and cream awaits you in the kitchens. All you know is you have to. You cannot be rude to your host, after all. What a relief, then, when dessert finally arrives, and you’re presented with a small bowl filled with black cherries dressed in sweet cherry sauce and whipped cream. Evidently, even the Orlesians are sometimes in need of lighter fare. And so the night ends, with stomachs still intact and no offense caused. A happy ending for all!

Treviso Energy Balls

As a Fereldan, I’m no stranger to hardship. The Fifth Blight took much from us, but the darkspawn are hardly the sole cause of suffering in Thedas. Take Treviso, a port city in northern Antiva, for example: Treviso was captured and liberated several times during both the Qunari Wars and the New Exalted Marches. As you can imagine, during times of occupation, food was scarce, and those living in the city had to make do with the limited ingredients they still had. Of course, people can be remarkably creative, particularly in difficult times. You need only look to the work Anders did in his clinic in Darktown to know that much. And so the Treviso energy ball was born, combining peanut butter, oats, and dried fruit into a bite-sized treat that’s just bursting with energy! Perfect for when you’re out sabotaging weapon caches - or just taking a hike.

Rice Pudding

I assumed a mercenary would be paid in gold. But according to the second-in-command of the Bull’s Chargers, this is not always the case! One time, he, the Iron Bull, and five other Chargers defended a village from fifty bandits, an awe-inspiring feat by anyone’s measure. I certainly listened in slack-jawed amazement as Krem recounted the tale. How incredible they must have been! If only I could’ve seen it for myself. Ahem. In any case, once the bandits were defeated and it came time for the Chargers to collect on the payment they were owed, instead of receiving a sack of gold, they got several bags of rice. When I asked what they did with all this rice, Krem only shrugged and said, “When life gives you rice, make rice pudding.” I don’t believe truer words were ever spoken!

Goat Custard

You’ll find custards all across Thedas in a dizzying number of variations. I sourced this particular recipe from Rivain, where it has gained great popularity as a dessert. The custard is made from goat’s milk and studded with roasted figs to add a touch of sweetness to the dish’s overall richness. If you’d like to further enhance the dish’s sweet flavors, milk from the Ayesleigh gulabi goat can be used, as it boasts a natural sweetness that makes it prized by custard connoisseurs everywhere.

Baked Goods

Antivan Apple Grenade

It’s no secret that I delight in creative presentation when it comes to food. Whether it’s a crab cake designed to look like a crab or a dish featuring a fish peeking its head out of a pie, the extra touches are all certain to leave me clapping my hands with glee. Thankfully, this Antivan dessert nails it on both counts! Its name comes from the fact it resembles the fire grenades reportedly used by the Antivan Crows assassins - not just in shape, but also in heat! I discovered that part for myself the hard way, when I bit into the piping-hot apple at the center of these sweet pastry bundles with a touch too much enthusiasm.

Found Cake

The Hero of Ferelden’s mabari is very good at finding items. One time he even brought back a cake! As I understand it, the cake in question was a chocolate cream variety, topped with white frosting and fresh strawberries. Of course, I had to try my hand at reproducing it, and I think the results are sure to delight. I did, however, make the decision to omit the few flecks of drool that apparently clung to the original. As much as we love our mabari in Ferelden, I don’t think their spittle makes for a very appetizing ingredient. Not even Teyrn Loghain, who, I would argue, is far more tolerant of mabari drool than I, is liable to enjoy a cake that’s become intimately acquainted with the inside of a mabari’s mouth.

Varric’s Favorite Cinnamon Rolls

When you hear the tales of Thedas's heroes, what you don't always hear are the silly names Varric Tethras called them. Some of them more fitting - Blondie, Curly, Ruffles, Broody - and others a little more...ironic. Tiny? Chuckles? I can easily imagine his amusement at the exasperation of those around him, but that's Varric for you. He can disarm you with his humor and charm (or quite literally, through his spy network). I'll tell you a secret, though-I think he has a soft spot for the soft heroes. "Daisy" for Merrill, "Sunshine" for Bethany, "Kid" for Cole. I've even heard rumors that there was a kind, appeasing hero he called "Waffles". And "Waffles" is just on short step away from him calling someone a "Cinnamon Roll," which I've heard is one of his favorite sweets. (Some of those heroes would decidedly deserve that nickname, too.) I whipped up a batch of cinnamon rolls while thinking on it, and I believe they're the perfect treat to have while listening to him spin you a tale. Warm, sweet, comforting- the kind of treat not for listening to Hard in Hightown, but for hours spent reminiscing.

Croissants

The Orlesians certainly know how to make a good pastry! It’s no wonder Lady Vivienne starts off her day with one of these, the most well-known of all Orlesian pastries and, in my humble opinion, the most delicious. But, by Andraste, these little crescents are a lot of work to make! In order to achieve that wonderfully flaky texture croissants are known for, the dough is layered with butter and then rolled and folded several times over before being rolled into a thin sheet. It’s times like these when I wish I had a strong companion like the Iron Bull or Commander Cullen to take over the duties with the rolling pin. Anything to spare my arms the indignity of being reduced to limp noodles!

Cherry Cupcake

These delightful little cakes are decadence in bite-sized form, as pleasing to the eye as they are the tongue. Although they were served alongside other sweets, carried from one private box to the next by a servant on stilts at the Tevinter theater, I was so enchanted by the pink color that I barely noticed what else was on offer. It was only after I’d had a cupcake (or four) that I heard these tiny cakes were once used as a vehicle for deadly poisons! Thankfully, my cupcakes were poison free, and so is the recipe I now pass on to you.

Chocolate Cake

I didn’t have to travel very far to get my hands on this recipe. In fact, I didn’t need to travel at all! This cake is actually one of Mum’s recipes. She baked it for the first time on my tenth name-day, and it made for a sweet celebration that not another name-day passed without me begging for an encore. Thankfully, Mum was kind enough to indulge me, even though, more times than not, she already had her hands full with the Couslands’ meals. And so whenever I think about her love for me, this cake inevitably sits front and center in my mind. It therefore seems only fitting to include here.

Varric’s Favorite Pastries

Leave a plate of pastries, fresh from the oven, to cool on a windowsill, and you might soon find a certain member of House Tethras lurking nearby. It’s unsurprising, given that the man’s first thought when it came to renaming the Bone Pit was apparently “the pie fields.” I can’t blame him, of course. I, too, love a good pastry, whether it be biscuit, roll, or bun. And after an extensive consultation with the famed arbalist himself, I’ve put together this sample, which is sure to delight! But whether you choose to leave them within dwarf’s reach well, that is entirely up to you.

Sugar Cake

There’s often joy in simplicity, as illustrated by this humble cake, which is topped with a sweet mixture of butter, sugar, and almonds. I purchased one off a surface dwarf merchant who assured me that it would be well received by any companion. According to him, even the Hero of Ferelden purchased a few for this very purpose. Of course, for me, traveling alone, this cake isn’t as much a gift as it is a perfect pick-me-up after a long day of travel. But perhaps one day, I’ll have a beloved companion to bake this cake for.

Lamprey Cake

The lamprey is one of Thedas’s more unique-looking creatures, with its long, slender body and toothed, suction-cup mouth. It’s also one that’s seldom found in the kitchen. Unless, of course, the kitchen belongs to Lord Norbert de la Haine, whose fondness for pickled lampreys was just as unfortunate as his desire to conquer the Free Marches.

Given that Lord de la Haine’s tastes were rather singular, it’s better, I think, to bring the lamprey to the dinner table in spirit only. Rest assured, you’ll find none of its noxious flavors in this cake. I’ve limited myself to merely borrowing its shape.

Tevinter Pumpkin Bread

Granted, I didn’t need much tempting to visit Tevinter. After all, how else was I going to sample Dorian Pavus’s favorites? But if I did require some convincing, these wonderful treats would certainly do the trick! Best of all, because the ingredients are so limited, I can share this recipe with more people than ever - provided, of course, I don’t eat the whole pan myself.

Drinks

Lichen Ale

Deep underground, food is easily defined. So long as it’s edible and capable of being scavenged, it’ll eventually find its way into someone’s stomach. That being said, the surface dweller’s understanding of the word edible may not exactly align with that of an Orzammar dwarf. The best illustration of this is lichen ale, the drink of choice among the dwarves in Dust Town. Put simply, it is toxic, and I do mean that in the literal sense. In sufficient quantities, it can even overpower the heartiest of dwarven constitutions. As a result, the rest of us must approach this drink with caution. Although most can tolerate a few sips without issues, I think we’d all much rather enjoy a full glass of any beverage–particularly when we’ve made it ourselves. I, therefore, took it upon myself to devise my own rendition of lichen ale, using the dwarven recipe as a base. Now we can all enjoy the look and (most) of the flavors of the original without fear of poisoning ourselves in the process!

The Hissing Drake

During my visit to the Gilded Horn, I chanced upon a group of young men engaged in a contest of sorts. The goal? To drink as many Hissing Drakes as possible in quick succession, with the person who drank the most being crowned victor. Evidently, they’d already had a few drinks before the idea occurred to them, as no sober individual would dare down more than a single glass of the stuff at a time due to its fiery effects on the stomach. In fact, when it comes to ill-advised drinking contests, I’d say this one is a close second to the game Admiral Isabela once played, with participants drinking based on the number of enemies they had. Suffice it to say, that one killed a man. Thankfully, in this case, no one died. But I think the young men managed only two or three servings before they were forced to rush for the nearest balcony, where they were promptly divested of all their pride and bluster. I have no doubt that next time the urge to compete takes hold, they’ll follow my advice and choose a soothing Fereldan ale instead.

Hot Chocolate

Varric isn’t the only one who loves sweets. And, no, I’m not talking about myself; I’m talking about the Iron Bull! Hot chocolate is a particular favorite of his, to the point that it’s practically a necessity. Although the cocoa powder he swears by is sometimes difficult to find, it’s well worth the effort. Add hot milk and some Orlesian guimauves like the Iron Bull does, and you’ll have a drink that’s certain to please. Personally, I’m partial to topping it all off with a bit of whipped cream dusted with cinnamon, but there are many ways to dress up a cup of hot chocolate.

Antivan Sip-Sip

I was warned that this particular drink packs a bit of a bunch. More than “a bit,” I’ll say. Anyone capable of downing an entire glass of this is made of sterner stuff than I! I could scarcely manage more than a small sip each time I brought this to my lips - and that was with the added help of a tall glass of water! Perhaps that’s why it’s called a sip-sip - because each sip of it must be chased by a sip of something else.

Dragon Piss

I really hope the name is figurative. It probably is - or, at least, that’s what I’ll tell myself now that I’ve sampled this less-than-enticingly-named drink. Perhaps the name Dragon Breath would suit it better? After all, it certainly burns like a dragon’s breath - both in the glass and on the way down!

Rivaini Tea Blend

A cup of tea is often the perfect accompaniment for any sweet treat, although it can certainly be enjoyed on its own. Personally, I’d still prefer the added biscuit on the side. Not just because I like desserts–I do, of course–but because it’s great fun deciding which to pair with all the various blends.

When it comes to tea blends, the most famous is probably the classic Rivaini tea blend, a mixture of peppermint, lemon verbena, oregano, and licorice root. It’s a wonderfully soothing combination that’s said to have healing properties. In fact, I believe Empress Celene Valmont I of Orlais takes it throughout the day to alleviate headaches. Given how messy Orlesian politics are wont to be, with chevalier cousins vying for the throne and elven handmaids turned both spymaster and lover, I imagine there must be a pot of the stuff boiling at all times.

The Golden Nug

From the name, I expected this drink to be gold, but it’s actually pink! Evidently, inspiration was drawn from the living creature rather than the golden statue I passed in Haven (of which I’ve heard there is more than one). A base of white Seleney wine sweetened with a splash of West Hill Brandy dilutes the color of the pomegranate juice and mulled raspberries into a softer, pinkish hue. The goal is to imitate the color of a typical nug, after all, not a severely sunburnt one!

The Emerald Valley

The sisters of the Chantry truly make some marvelous creations - namely, the spirit used in this drink. Distilled from over seventy different herbs and flowers, it has a complex, varied flavor positively bursting with all the freshness of an emerald-green valley.

Chasind Sack Mead

After having sampled some Chasind Wildwine, I wasn’t surprised to learn that their mead is equally strong. Some might even call it brutal. For me, the flavors are almost poetic. First, there’s a nearly overwhelming rush of honey, tinged with the sour-sweetness of apple blossoms, that fills the mouth with all the bright warmth of a summer’s day. But as the initial sweetness fades, there comes an unexpected bitterness, reminiscent of the slow decay into fall, then winter. In essence, the turning of the seasons, all in a single cup - well, sack (although you can certainly fancy it up with a stunning decanter, as I’ve done here).

[sihaya74]

NEW The Lessons of Bryan Fuller's Hannibal S1: E6 -- HOPE IS THE THING WITH SURGICAL TROPHIES

Lessons of Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal

S1:E6 – HOPE IS THE THING WITH SURGICAL TROPHIES

Hello readers and #FannibalFamily! Yes, it’s been a hot minute since I have updated this blog. What can I say? Life has a tendency to intervene. A few real-life events knocked me out of my daily writing pattern and I am just now beginning to regain my balance. This blog is, however, something I am committed to finishing no matter how long it takes, and so, I am digging back into the scripts of Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal and prepared to create my next installment – an analysis of the theme, the message, the universal lesson in the happenings of Season 1, Episode 6: “Entrée.”

I must make an important note that at this point, I have rewatched the show some five or six times. But this is my first time delving into the scripts for all the episodes. I have to occasionally remind myself about scenes in these episodes or lines of dialogue that wound up being cut or moved to a different episode. But since I am approaching this project as an English major and analyzing both the show and the scripts as a TEXT – (my literary theory professor, Dr. Hogue, always said that everything in life is a TEXT and he was damn sure right about that) – then I see no issue with the fact that sometimes the words I am analyzing didn’t always make it to the screen in the exact form they started out in. Hannibal is a series that is a feast for all the senses – its visual beauty, its soundtrack and score and sound effects, the effort put in to rendering the most beautiful depictions of food on the screen and so perhaps the viewer can imagine their taste – (I have dreamed feverishly about those High Life Eggs more than once, I can tell you) – but all of it begins where good stories start – on the page. And so, it is to the page and the words that I remain loyal.

This episode of Hannibal, “Entrée,” had two authors. Kai Yu Wu conceived the story and Wu and Bryan wrote it together. The episode was directed by Michael Rymer.

In the order of our French dishes, by which each episode of the first season is named, at this point in the series, we have partaken of the following: a pre-dinner drink, a little bitty appetizer, a bowl of hearty soup, some eggs, and a chicken or fish dish baked in a sauce and served in a scallop shell or scallop-shaped dish. And so now, a viewer must ask, “What’s next?” That or: “I need to take a break because I’m full.” At which, Bryan Fuller points at the viewer’s plate and says, “You’ll clean your plate and you’ll like it. You’ll love it. You’ll beg me for another season when we’re done.” Just trust him. He’s the chef. You always trust the chef. They know what they’re doing.

In a classic French meal, the entrée is not necessarily the main dish and it is not always served – sometimes they skip courses. When it does appear, it is usually a meat dish, in a sauce (GOTTA HAVE A SAUCE), and with sides. In American cuisine, entrée has come to mean a MAIN COURSE always. And what an entrée is in American cuisine varies wildly by what is on the menu, who is eating it, and how many fried cheese sticks and jalapeno poppers the person had prior to the entrée arriving at their table. Still, the idea holds. When you say the word “entrée,” people expect a main course – something substantial, something that sticks to your ribs. And in this episode, there is definitely a lot of meat – meat that has been rubbed and aged over the last five episodes and is now sliced and steaming from the oven. This episode is mostly about advancing the MAIN storyline – that of the Chesapeake Ripper and the FBI’s and namely, Jack Crawford’s, attempts to catch the seasoned killer. (Seasoned… see what I did there? YOU GOT PUNNED!)

And on a thirsty side note: After viewing the scene in which Will Graham reenacts the murder of nurse Elizabeth Shell, the fact that the episode is named “Entrée,” makes complete sense. Hugh Dancy in that scene is an entire meal with ample meat for leftovers. (Seriously – JFC – if you haven’t seen it, or seen it lately, do yourself a favor and have some GOOD FOOD.)

We start the episode with our introduction to one of the series’ completely original characters, Dr. Abel Gideon, a former transplant surgeon, who after being convicted of the murders of his wife and her family, has been incarcerated in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, for the last two years. The character is portrayed with amazing skill, subtlety, and awesomeness, by Suzy Eddie Izzard. I have been a longtime fan of Izzard’s work and was insanely pleased to see the actor amongst the cast members.

I must point out the literary significance of the character’s name – Abel Gideon, a smorgasbord of Biblical allusion. The import of the Doctor’s first name is obvious – Abel, in the Biblical version of things, was the first murder VICTIM, slain by the hands of his jealous brother, Cain, who was angry that God liked Abel better and had a right fit about it. The character of Gideon is slightly more complex, but basically it goes as follows: Gideon was a prophet in the Old Testament. He destroyed the idols of Baal and others in his town’s temple because the townspeople were worshipping false gods. An angel told him to. Then, Gideon led the Israelites against other “heathen” tribes and won. They wanted to make him king, but he told them their only king was God. Still, he had them melt down the golden earrings of all their enemies who had fallen in battle and they wove the golden thread into an ephod, a priestly garment that is worn under the breastplate. Gideon put it in the temple and the people started worshipping it as an idol, because I guess, it was gold. Old Testament people always seem really impressed by gold. The Scripture is unclear, but it does say that the ephod was “a snare unto Gideon, and to his house” (Judges 8: 27).

You could say Gideon was a hypocrite, or more accurately, a terrible fool because he tried to stop the people from worshipping false idols and then he just led them into doing it again by creating something they would see as a sacred object. At best, Gideon was naïve. At worst, he was a fraud.

Dr. Abel Gideon’s name therefore could translate into something like: Dr. VICTIM FRAUD – or Dr. VICTIM FOOL. Despite his intelligence, he is lured directly into Dr. Chilton’s trap to believe and admit he is the Chesapeake Ripper solely because of Frederick’s needy ego – Frederick wants more feathers in his cap – he doesn’t have near enough and Hannibal Lecter’s are brighter and bespoke and where the fuck did he even find a custom featherer in Baltimore?

Then, later in the series, Gideon is led directly into the trap of the true Chesapeake Ripper and probably desperately wishes he had stayed in the BSHCI and eaten his stewed apricots and minded his own business.

Poor Abel is nothing but a puppet for two different egotistical psychiatrists. Unfortunately for him, one of them happens to be Hannibal Lecter.

And so, we begin the episode with the scene of Gideon passed out on the floor of his cell in the BSHCI and a team of prison guards approaching his limp form very cautiously and eventually shackling him, hand and foot, to a gurney, and wheeling him into the hospital infirmary, where he is treated by the aptly named Nurse Shell.

As evidenced by my previous discussion of Gideon’s name, I have come to realize the significance of character names in Bryan Fuller’s work. They are often allusions or tributes – homages to the work of other writers, directors, artists, scientists, and so on, that Bryan admires. For example, one has to assume that the surname of Bryan’s beloved Bedelia (another original character), Du Maurier, is a tribute to author Daphne du Maurier, author of many books and film adaptations of suspense – such as Rebecca, which Bryan and many of his horror colleagues discuss in the fabulous AMC/Shudder series Queer For Fear, on which Bryan was an executive producer and director. Basically, Mrs. Danvers was either literally or only metaphorically all up in Rebecca de Winter’s undergarments and when the woman died, Mrs. Danvers decided to make it everyone’s problem. The movie is awesome. Go watch it if you haven’t already. And then watch Queer For Fear. I believe they discuss Rebecca in both episodes two and four.

Anyway, Nurse Shell is correctly and tragically named because a shell of her former self is what she winds up as when the deluded Gideon is done with her.

As Nurse Shell turns her back, Gideon extricates the broken-off tine of a fork he has hidden in an incision in his palm. I believe this scene is an homage to the scene in The Silence of the Lambs when Dr. Lecter unearths a metal fragment from the back of his jaw, the inner workings of a ballpoint pen that has fallen into his hands. He uses this makeshift lockpick on his own handcuffs, much to the chagrin of Lieutenant Boyle and Sargeant Pembry. Classic scene.

Anyway, Gideon uses this tine to pick the lock on his handcuffs and when Nurse Shell turns around upon hearing the heart monitor hit a flatline, it’s lights out for the poor woman. We do not see Gideon kill her, but we see the results of his work soon.

Next, we see Jack Crawford and Will Graham vaulting up the front steps of the hospital, Jack explaining that based on the method of Nurse Shell’s murder, Freddie Lounds has run an unconfirmed story suggesting that Abel Gideon is the Chesapeake Ripper, which would explain the lull in murders for the last two years. Will is indignant that he is “fact-checking for Freddie Lounds,” but Jack coddles him with the statement, “You’re fact-checking for me” (Wu and Fuller 2).

There is heavy foreshadowing in the following exchange between Jack and Will before they enter the hospital:

WILL GRAHAM: I’m always a little nervous going into one of these places. Afraid they’ll never let me out again.

JACK CRAWFORD: Don’t worry. I’m not going to leave you here.

WILL GRAHAM: Not today                         (Wu and Fuller 3).

I really do recommend you watch the series more than once so this dramatic irony is not lost.

            Once Jack and Will enter the hospital, we see the first appearance of another of our main characters and one of the most important in the Hannibal canon: Dr. Frederick Chilton.

            In Fuller’s series, Chilton is rendered flawlessly by actor Raul Esparza, a deep daddy of mine (see ADA Rafael Barba of Law and Order: SVU fame). Esparza is another Fuller Favorite, having appeared in one of Bryan’s previous masterpiece shows, Pushing Daisies.

            There have been three actors who have portrayed the petty and obsequious Dr. Chilton, starting with Benjamin Hendrickson in 1986’s Manhunter. The second actor, and perhaps the most well-known portrayal, is that of Anthony Heald who took on the role in both 1991’s The Silence of the Lambs and reprised the role in 2002’s Red Dragon.

            Heald’s portrayal of Chilton is masterful – the Doctor is intelligent, but smarmy – officious and gladhanding – his pass at Clarice in the early moments of the film immediately puts the viewer off on him. Hannibal only seals the audience’s hatred of the Doctor by regaling Clarice with Chilton’s petty tortures of him, which are effectively contrasted by the treatment Hannibal receives from the ever-present orderly, Barney Matthews, played by awesome Frankie Faison, who treats Hannibal with a cautious respect, as a zookeeper might treat a venomous reptile. Barney never forgets what Hannibal is capable of. Chilton supposedly knows as evidenced by his relation of Hannibal’s biting attack on a nurse – he left only one of her eyes, ate her tongue without his pulse getting above 85 – but still, Chilton prods and humiliates Hannibal in unnecessary ways that LITERALLY come back to bite him in the end.

            Esparza’s Chilton is as intelligent as Heald’s, but slightly more savvy, ounces more petty, a bit more of a drama queen, and as opposed to Heald’s Chilton, who is ostensibly tortured and eaten by Hannibal at the end of The Silence of the Lambs, Esparza’s Chilton, in Fuller’s hands, is the favorite whipping post of killers and law enforcement alike – being practically disemboweled by one murderer, shot in the face by a traumatized Ripper victim, and later suffers the fate that Harris’ original Freddy Lounds suffers, a lip-ectomy and burning at the hands of Francis Dolarhyde. Freddy Lounds dies in both Manhunter/Red Dragon from this attack, but in Fuller’s Hannibal, no matter what, Frederick Chilton continues to survive, almost Fuller’s own version of the endlessly respawning Kenny of South Park fame.

            By my calculation, at the end of Season 3, Chilton is down 3 lives, so logic dictates that he has 6 left. If Fuller ever gets to make the full 7 seasons of Hannibal he imagines, if Chilton averages a death per season, he should survive the completed series with 2 lives left over, proving him to be the true winner of The Hannibal Games.

            But, once again, I digress…

            As Jack and Will sit in Chilton’s office, Chilton can barely seem to contain his curiosity about Will. Chilton’s open is clunky and obtuse; he says, “Doctor Bloom just called me about you, Mister Graham. Or should I call you Doctor Graham?” (Wu and Fuller 3). From his first line, Chilton seems to embody his later Season 2 remark, a gem from Harris’ canon, that attempting to analyze Will “makes [him] feel…like a freshman pulling at a panty girdle” (Fuller and Lightfoot 20). Chilton’s questions are telegraphed from a mile away – his overtures for more information are blunt and tasteless. Chilton’s questioning of Will, throughout the series, is contrasted with that of Hannibal – the difference is like watching a skilled surgeon with a scalpel as compared to a poorly trained medical student with a plastic spoon. Chilton can’t cut it, in any fashion. Will seems to understand this from the beginning – he sizes Chilton up correctly from their very first meeting.

            In their conversation, Chilton betrays himself a little, saying of Nurse Shell, “I can’t help feeling responsible for what happened. I had sessions with Gideon for years…I had no idea what he was hiding. And now one of our staff is dead” (Wu and Fuller 4). Of course, this is foreshadowing of Hannibal ascertaining later in the episode that Chilton is indeed COMPLETELY at fault. However, the most interesting thing about this exchange is Jack Crawford’s reaction. The script indicates that after Chilton’s remark here, it “strikes a chord with Jack…who can relate” (Wu and Fuller 4). Undoubtedly this “relation” is about Miriam Lass, Crawford’s lost trainee, who is first introduced in this episode.

            This is all important because of our lesson in this episode and because it highlights one of the driving motives of Jack’s character. In Episode 1, Jack and Alana agree that one of Will’s deepest motives is fear. If that is the case, then we can say that one of, perhaps the most, significant of Jack’s driving motivations is GUILT. Jack’s guilt is so present, so prevalent, so real, it is almost tangible. He feels guilt about Bella, about Miriam, later about Beverly, about Will, about Pazzi. His guilt is so weighty, so integral to his being, that often it overwhelms him, wobbles his sense of reason and the health of his psyche. Our lesson is not about guilt, but it is about an emotion Jack Crawford will not allow himself. In his position as Special Agent Jack Crawford, head of the FBI’s storied Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico, Jack does not allow himself much in the way of the easier emotions in life – laughter, joy, wonder – these are not things he can traffic in. Jack Crawford lives in a chapel of death. He is a chronicler of pain.

            As Chilton continues to prod Will for information, Jack finally states, “Graham isn’t here to be analyzed” (Wu and Fuller 5). It’s funny to me how people in the show, including Will, keep insisting that he’s NOT THE ONE to be analyzed, but since the very first moments of Episode 1, even the murders seem secondary to everyone else’s analysis of Will. It’s ironic, but I imagine purposefully so. Chilton retorts that “perhaps” Will “should be” analyzed; Chilton wants Will to speak to his colleagues in the hospital, but then he stops himself, saying, “no, no, not this trip. Dr. Bloom was very severe with me on that point” (Wu and Fuller 5). I also find it quite ironic how no one listens to Alana’s advice about handling Will. It speaks to the usual patriarchal pooh-poohing of women, even when they are extremely accomplished members of professional fields. Thankfully, Bryan saw to it that everyone who discounts Alana’s advice winds up paying for it.

            Just before escorting Jack and Will to the infirmary where Will can view the crime scene, Chilton says, “Next to a battle lost, the saddest thing is a battle won” (Wu and Fuller 6). This sentiment is attributed to the Duke of Wellington, and later to writer Robert Jordan, but to me the importance of it here is how it so perfectly illustrates the difference between Harris’ Chilton and Fuller’s Chilton. Every once in a while, especially in Season 3, Chilton seems to disinter these gems of wisdom from the muddy bottom of his intelligence. Often, lines like these, coming from Frederick are like an icepick of truth stabbed into the temple of the scene. A viewer who is familiar with all of the Hannibal canon can see – Fuller’s Chilton is smarter and more poetic than Harris’ Chilton, who is a slick, sad functionary who is both out of his depth with Hannibal Lecter and out of his league with Clarice Starling. Fuller’s Chilton is never in Hannibal’s league, but at times, real insight flashes up from the shallows of his brain, and it makes his character more sympathetic to the viewer. We feel sorry for Fuller’s Chilton. Harris’ Chilton never arouses such pity.

            When Will and Jack finally view the nurse’s body, it is described as follows:

She’s IMPALED on the BROKEN FRAMES of several PRIVACY CURTAINS that have been fashioned into SPEARS. They PROTRUDE from wounds over the entire canvas of her body. Additional shards of wood and metal prop her organs above her corpse, giving them the appearance of floating outside her body.                              

(Wu and Fuller 6)

The visual of this tableaux is important, as it will contrast with the Chesapeake Ripper’s actual rendering of the famous medieval Wound Man shown later in the episode in a flashback. Later, Will calls this murder “plagiarism.” The viewer, especially one who has watched the entire series at least once, can understand Will’s assessment easily. The Chesapeake Ripper is an artist – even when his tableaux are deconstructionist in nature, like Beverly Katz’s murder scene in Season 2, there is still a lingering sense of the whole that once was. The essence of the thing that has been taken apart is still suggested by the Ripper’s composition. Gideon’s attempt at mimicry is just that – a sad parody. He merely skewered organs like Nurse Kabob. He merely jabbed implements in her like Nurse Pincushion. There is no whole left to be had.             In Act One, we see the replaying of the gurney scene at the beginning of the episode, except this time with Will in Gideon’s place. This time, we see the attack on Nurse Shell; this time at the hands of Will, who is doing his mental recreation (pendulum swingy – this is my design-y) of the scene.

            Will’s recreation here is filed very lovingly by the #FannibalFamily under the title, “THINGS THAT HAVE NO BUSINESS BEING INSANELY HOT,” but Goddamn it… it is.

It’s not just Will’s torn open shirt – it’s not just the visible sweat on his muscled chest and furrowed brow (although those things REALLY HELP) – it’s the power and the confidence Will exudes when he is in the mental guise of the killer. In truth, every time Will does a mental recreation of a crime, he becomes inordinately hotter because he is not the unsure, confused, flinchy Will Graham of outside-his-mind – he is the take-charge, aggressive, Will Graham with some goddamned agency, that he only seems to be able to muster when he slips into the minds of other people – that is until the end of Season 1, anyway. Will’s agency gets a glow up in “Savoureux,” just wait.

            I will say that when Will gouges Nurse Shell’s eyes out with his thumbs, that’s a major ick for me. Eye stuff always deeply bothers me. I had two very invasive eye surgeries as a child and I think it makes me sensitive. The needle in the eye scene in Fire In the Sky is a trauma from which I will never recover.

            After Will’s recreation is finished, the viewer is then treated to a flashback three years earlier when the character of Miriam Lass enters the series. It is well known that Miriam Lass, played astonishingly by Anna Chlumsky, is Bryan’s substitute for/homage to the character of Clarice Starling, who, because of copyright issues, Bryan could not use in Hannibal. This, of course, is a damn shame, because Clarice is a god-level character and I would love, love, love to see what Bryan could do with her. (I would also like – if we ever get future seasons – to see Ardelia Mapp, Barney Matthews, and Multiple Miggs show up, but I digress…)

            Miriam and Clarice share similar backgrounds – they were both FBI Forensic Fellows – Clarice had the great distinction of studying under fingerprint examiner par excellence, Jimmy Price – but they both came through the same program there and at the FBI Academy. Their university degrees differ a little – Clarice is the daughter of a lawman, which Miriam does not seem to be – but both women are the same with regards to their stunning intellects, dogged determination, and their fascinations with and devotions to “the Guru,” Jack Crawford. It reminds me of a passage from The Silence of the Lambs. At the end of the chapter, (I tell you, Thomas Harris knows how to end a fucking chapter) – after Starling and Crawford return from the Potter Funeral Home in West Virginia, Harris writes, “She watched him walk away, a middle-aged man laden with cases and rumpled from flying, his cuffs muddy from the riverbank, going home to what he did at home. She would have killed for him then. That was one of Crawford’s great talents” (96).

            Jack tells Miriam that he has culled her from the herd of FBI hopefuls to work for him in the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program (VICAP) because she is at the top of her class, has impressive credentials, and wrote him a fan letter when she was accepted into the Academy. When Jack brings up the Ripper, he says, “The Ripper is very hot right now” (Wu and Fuller 10). Jack is, of course, indicating that the Ripper is on a spree, having taken “his last two victims in six days” (Wu and Fuller 10). But I can’t help but think of Zoolander every time I hear Jack make this remark. “Ooooh, that Ripper – he’s so hot right now…” And let’s be honest, if there’s anyone who could pull off a perfect “Blue Steel,” it’s Mads Mikkelsen.

Miriam impresses Jack with her assessment of the Ripper – not a “true sociopath,” but a killer with “some of the characteristics of what they call a sociopath,” but that in truth, “they don’t know what else to label him” (Wu and Fuller 10). Jack then begins briefing Miriam on the case and we are flashed back to the present and find ourselves sitting with Alana and Will in Frederick Chilton’s office.

Alana and Will are both there to interview Gideon – they will be conducting their interviews separately and then comparing notes. Chilton is “convinced” Gideon is the Ripper (when he knows damned well he’s not), Will is convinced Gideon is NOT the Ripper – Alana is unsure. Chilton informs Alana that even though she only had two sessions with Gideon when he was first admitted to the BSHCI, Gideon has “given [her] a lot of thought” since then (Wu and Fuller 12). It ups the creep factor and of course mirrors the novel Red Dragon, like much of this scene does, except that the inmate is Hannibal Lecter and the person he’s “given a lot of thought to” is Will Graham. Hannibal thinking a lot about Will is deep canon. Always has been. Always will be.

Alana goes into interview Gideon first – when she does, the script indicates, “The STEEL DOOR of the maximum security section closed behind Alana Bloom. She hears the bolt slide home” (Wu and Fuller 13).

I’m always deeply thrilled at how often the writers of Hannibal return to the “Forward to a Fatal Interview” from Harris’ Red Dragon and snatch little phrases from it they leave like glistening Easter eggs for fans to find. This is one such bejeweled egg – a Faberge of one, in fact. This forward is about how Thomas Harris came to create the characters of Will Graham, Clarice Starling, and most importantly, Hannibal Lecter. In the final paragraph, he says, “When in the winter of 1979 I entered the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane and the great metal door crashed closed behind me, little did I know what waited at the end of the corridor; how seldom we recognize the sound when the bolt of our fate slides home” (XIII).

An adaptation is a beautiful thing when you have such beautiful source material to work with. I am forever fascinated by what different filmmakers and actors have done with the Hannibal canon, but we cannot, should not, ever forget the mind that created it and created such compelling characters that withstand the test of time and are enriched every time a new generation of writers and viewers return to them.

The interviews between Alana and Gideon and Will and Gideon are now intercut with each other, a wonderful technique that allows the viewers to compare and contrast for themselves, the differences and similarities between Alana and Will in their questioning, the differences between Gideon’s reactions to Alana and to Will. The most important fact that seems to arise from the interview is when Will says to Gideon about the death of Nurse Shell, “Brutalization of the body was done posthumously. The Chesapeake Ripper usually does that sort of thing during, not after” (Wu and Fuller 15). Will never buys Gideon as the Ripper. His other murders were spontaneous, not planned. Gideon is not an artist; he’s a plagiarist. What Will can’t figure out is why Gideon is copping to murders he didn’t commit.

We begin Act Two with Jack Crawford arriving unannounced at Hannibal’s office, just as the Doctor is about to leave for the day. Hannibal asks if Jack was just “in the neighborhood?” – Jack answers, “Something like that” (Wu and Fuller 16). This line is one of those TV/film chestnuts that you hear over and over and it never actually happens in real life. I have never in my life had someone show up at my door saying they were “just in the neighborhood.” Just like I have never had a cat suddenly jump on me from some unseen elevated position when I am in a darkened alleyway or corridor and things feel all spooky. It’s film logic. It’s kooky, but it works.

Bella is out of town and Jack has come to Hannibal to pry some sort of information out of him about Bella’s cancer – how she’s feeling, what she’s saying, what she thinks – all of which she is not telling Jack and all of which Hannibal cannot tell Jack due to doctor-patient confidentiality. Jack becomes angry. Their conversation is enlightening with regards to Hannibal’s character:

JACK CRAWFORD: You talk to me about Will Graham.

HANNIBAL: Will Graham isn’t officially my patient. We have conversations.

JACK CRAWFORD: What do you consider this?

HANNIBAL: Desperate coping.

                                                                                    (Wu and Fuller 17)

The line here – “desperate coping” – is such a wonderful illustration of how accurately Hannibal is portrayed as having some sociopathic tendencies or at least the tendencies of a narcissist. Throughout the series, Hannibal shows how he can go cold at a moment’s notice – how he can so easily shift from a seemingly caring, compassionate individual to a nightmare of stone-faced, murder-eyed calm. It’s terrifying. I was once very much in love with a man who could do this – he was not a murderer, but he could go dead-eyed and cold on you like this in seconds – and you never knew when it was coming. It scared the shit out of me.

            Some might say that Hannibal’s line here is compassionate, that he feels for Jack and his attempts to handle the imminent death of his wife – but I think the line is meant to cut Jack to the quick – he slices right into the meat of Jack’s pain here – as if to say, “Yeah, your wife’s dying. Pull it together, wimp.”

            It is canon that Hannibal prods people to cause pain – it is entirely for his own pleasure. A good example is from The Silence of the Lambs. When Hannibal meets with Senator Martin, supposedly to tell her the “real name” of Buffalo Bill (ha ha), he makes a cutting remark about the Senator breastfeeding her daughter when she was a baby. Then this happens: “When her pupils darkened, Dr. Lecter took a single sip of her pain and found it exquisite. That was enough for today” (201).

            The man drinks pain. What else is there to say?

            Then Hannibal immediately “salves” the wound he has created (“Salve” is the word used in the script directions) – saying “I’ll offer this one insight: she thinks she married the right guy” (Wu and Fuller 17). See Hannibal playing with Jack? Always playing.

            Jack then says, “I look at her side of the bed and wonder if she’s going to die there or where she’ll die and I feel myself going uncomfortably numb” (Wu and Fuller 18). I believe this to be a reference to Jack’s actual, canon death that Thomas Harris wrote for him in the novel, Hannibal. It is a death that I completely understand but hate like fire because I think a character like Jack deserved a lot better. I feel that Bryan was writing a better end for Jack.

            The end in question is as follows. Clarice Starling has already been drugged and hypnotized, pulled into a strange “relationship” with Hannibal – they live in Buenos Aires together under assumed names. Clarice finds out that Jack has died from the FBI website. Apparently, “after Crawford was home for a month from the hospital, the chest pains came again in the night. Instead of calling an ambulance and going through it all again, he chose simply to roll over to the solace of his late wife’s side of the bed” (483).

            I understand it, but dammit Jack deserves better. I believe Bryan was going to give him better. At least he gets to go to Italy and kick Hannibal’s ass. At least he gets another chance.

            Jack and Hannibal have a conversation about loss, which leads Hannibal to ask, “Who else couldn’t you save, Jack?” (Wu and Fuller 18). Once again, Hannibal pokes at the wound, tugs at the scab. We know full well that Hannibal has Miriam Lass hidden in a damp, darkened oubliette of a well in a secret farmhouse – all wet and cold with a missing arm in a dirty nightgown and in desperate need of some wet wipes and dry shampoo. We know this – which means all of this questioning about “the lost trainee” is just Hannibal enjoying himself, just Hannibal savoring Jack’s pain. I really do think he lets Miriam live because he likes her – (the same reason book/film Hannibal lets Clarice live – she’s a “deep roller”) – but I also think he lets Miriam live solely to give her back to Jack – just like he gives Bella back to Jack when he thwarts her suicide attempt. Just as he takes Abigail away from Will, then gives her back, then takes her away again – Lucy and the football. Hannibal is “curious” what will happen, but also because he loves the pain. Pain is so much more than hum-drum everyday life – and Hannibal doesn’t like mundane pain – like the worries and neurotic spoutings of Franklyn Froidveaux or Neal Frank, no. Hannibal wants Greek tragedy level pain – a boy who wants to be a killing monster, a girl who wants to kill the brother who has been raping her all her life, a man watching his wife die, a man torturing himself with guilt because he lost another girl, and Will Graham, whose pain is beautiful in its kaleidoscopic, ever-changing qualities – it is always the pain of the killer he is profiling, the victim he is investigating, and sometimes, Will’s own deeply buried pain, abandoned by mom, distant from dad, outcast at school, outcast among colleagues, always alone and beautiful, always alone and confused – in terms of pain, Will is 31 Flavors.

            At this point, Jack refuses to tell Hannibal about Miriam Lass – but later on he breaks. The breaking is always Hannibal’s favorite part.

            We are now flashed back again to three years earlier; we see Miriam and Jack surveying the Wound Man tableaux rendered by the authentic Chesapeake Ripper. The victim is lashed to his worktable, and all of his tools from the peg board on which they once hung are dug into the man’s body in varying places all over the corpse.

            This is not an unfamiliar moment. Jack with a whip-smart profiler assessing the carnage of a crime scene; he has also cleared the way for that profiler by sending all “the others” – the crime scene techs and photographers and forensic creatures -- away. Jack seems to understand that the brilliant ones need to be unfettered by noise and stimuli, even before Will Graham joins his pack. Miriam concludes several important things about both the murder and the murderer, namely that the victim was awake during the attack, and that the Ripper was selective about the organs he harvested. Miriam calls these organs “surgical trophies” – in this way, she is half right (Wu and Fuller 19). It is Will who will determine that the Ripper’s trophies are edible and et. The Ripper is a medical doctor, male, and – and I love this line – “exotic somehow” (Wu and Fuller 19). I believe the “exotic somehow” is meant to refer to the fact that Hannibal Lecter is European. I assume Europeans do not consider themselves “exotic,” but most Americans are flabbergasted by anyone with an accent different than theirs, so… If “exotic” is referring to the fact that the Ripper is being played by masterful and devastatingly beautiful actor Mads Mikkelsen, then yes, he's EXOTIC AS FUCK. Point is, he’s not your run-of-the-mill American. He owns a cravat – more than one probably. He probably has a bidet – he calls sedans “saloons” – and he buys all his table linens and china at Christofle. Miriam compliments Jack’s “peculiar cleverness” and we move out of the scene back into the morgue at the BAU, where Team Sassy Science is examining Nurse Shell’s body and Will is observing (Wu and Fuller 20).

            The team is discussing the similarities between Nurse Shell’s murder and the Wound Man murder. They are attempting to rule Abel Gideon IN or OUT. They are unsure how Gideon could have known about the wound patterns the Ripper inflicted on his victims because those details were kept away from the press. Will says, “I see the Ripper but I don’t… feel the Ripper. He’s an artist. This is… plagiarism” (Wu and Fuller 21). Will has his finger on Hannibal’s pulse from the very beginning of the show – whether it be Hannibal as the Copy Cat or Hannibal as the Ripper – when Will finally realizes the two are one and the same, it seems like something that has been on the tip of his tongue since the very beginning. And Will is also very correct in assessing that the real Chesapeake Ripper is not going to let Gideon take credit for his work.

            We end Act Two with Jack Crawford at home, asleep in his bed alone, his wife still out of town at a NATO summit. The phone rings. Jack shakes awake and picks up the phone. The clock reads 2:47 A.M. Clocks are an important motif in Hannibal, especially in Season 1. I will address what I think the motif means when I get deeper into Season 1, when Will’s encephalitis begins to worsen, but needless to say – clocks are humankind’s desperate attempt to not only measure but control time – and quite frankly, time rarely cooperates.

            When Jack answers the phone, he doesn’t recognize the voice at first – or perhaps he doesn’t believe what he is hearing. The words said by the caller are important because it is these words used to torment Jack for the rest of the episode:

MIRIAM LASS’S VOICE: Jack… Jack… Jack… It’s Miriam. I don’t know where I am. I can’t see anything. I was so wrong. I was so wrong. Please… Jack… I don’t want to die like this.                                                            (Wu and Fuller 20).

And then the line goes dead.

            We start Act Three back at the BAU. Beverly Katz has checked all the online databases for telecom systems and says she cannot find a trace of any call to Jack’s home at 2:47 AM. As Brian Zeller continues to question Jack’s skills of perception and memory (that maybe Jack dreamed it, that he doesn’t remember what Miriam sounds like), Jimmy Price points out, “whoever called could have tapped in from that little box outside your house. Or the junction in your neighborhood. There would be no trace signal to track” (Wu and Fuller 23). We, the viewer, know this is exactly what the Ripper – Hannibal Lecter – has done, solely because he is Hannibal Lecter, the James Bond/MacGyver of serial killers. He is a psychiatrist, a medical doctor and a surgeon; he speaks/reads/writes at least four languages that we know of. He is a world-class chef, butcher, snail cultivator, beer brewer – he can tie knots, sew, handle a variety of weapons. He can fist-fight – he can ballroom dance. He can give lectures on Dante in the medieval Italian. Obviously, he knows how to tap a phone line. I also feel very certain that Hannibal can fly a plane, hack into any computer (although he finds it distasteful), make his own soap (Fight Club style), and he knows at least one martial art, if not more.

            Incidentally, tapping into phone lines is also something Francis Dolarhyde can do – both later in Season 3 when he taps into the phone line at Hannibal’s office and calls Hannibal in the BSHCI with the call masked as Hannibal’s lawyer. But, according to Bryan, the Marlow murder in “Apéritif” is one of Francis’ early murders, and he had to tap into the Marlow phone line to record Mrs. Marlow’s call to the security company. It occurs to me that being a serial killer must create endless hobbies, solely based on things you have to learn, like phone tapping, lock picking, glass cutting, tree-climbing, and “this-is-my-designing.”

            Will points out that the 2:47 call obviously didn’t come from the BSHCI, and therefore, could not have been Abel Gideon. When Brian Zeller again suggests that perhaps Jack dreamed the call, Jack shouts at him, “I know when I’m awake” (Wu and Fuller 24). The script then indicates, “Will reacts to that, not always sure he knows the same” (Wu and Fuller 24). Poor Will’s encephalitis is worsening. It only serves to isolate him from others who might possibly help him. And the only person he thinks can help him is actively worsening his condition. I forgive him later, but from this point through the end of Season 1, I am mad as hell at Hannibal. My loyalty is to Will. Hannibal not only doesn’t help my poor baby, he purposely alienates Will from the people who could help him. Grrrrrrr…

            Next, we see Will in his classroom at Quantico. Soon, he hears the clacking of hooves on the floor of the corridor. When he looks up, he sees the Black Stag sidling toward him – then this vision morphs into the reality of the circumstance, Alana Bloom and Jack Crawford walking into the room. Jack floats the idea of baiting the Ripper with a well-placed story in the media, a story that will anger the Ripper because the reporter will heavily suggest that Abel Gideon is the REAL Chesapeake Ripper. Will thinks the scheme is dangerous. He says, “You might push the Ripper to kill again just to prove he isn’t in a hospital for the criminally insane;” to which Jack replies, “I have to push, Will” (Wu and Fuller 26). Jack’s statement is very telling – not just about his relentless pursuit of the Ripper, but of himself as a person. Jack does indeed “push.” He pushes everyone. He pushes Will so hard he practically has a nervous breakdown. He pushes him into the hands of the Ripper himself. He pushes Miriam so hard, he pushes her into that same man’s hands. He pushes his wife so hard, she flees to that same man for advice.

            Considering that Hannibal and Jack don’t officially meet until Episode 1, Hannibal is already WAAAY involved in Jack’s life and already deeply embedded in Jack’s head. It’s funny upon their first meeting in “Apéritif,” that Jack is meeting his nemesis and doesn’t know it. The man who took Miriam from him, who will take Will from him, who will take Beverly from him, who will almost take Jack’s own life. Talk about “a bolt of fate sliding home.”

            Will is disgusted with the idea that Jack is going to cahoot with Freddie Lounds, but you know how Jack has to push, so the next scene reveals Freddie Lounds entering a conference room at Quantico to meet with Jack, Will, and Alana. Jack and Alana are amiable and friendly to Freddie; Will is cold and bitchy (and insanely hot…) Jack tells Freddie he wants her to confirm her story about Gideon being the Ripper. Alana promises to talk to Chilton to get Freddie an interview with Gideon. In one of my favorite of Freddie’s lines, she says, “Not to snap bubblegum and crack wise, but what’s my angle? Is he the Chesapeake Ripper or you just want me to tell everybody he is” (Wu and Fuller 28). Jack suggests he could be because Gideon is a surgeon. The three then discuss the fabled list of professions which psychopaths most favor – journalists and law enforcement being two more. I often wonder if there is also a list of professions that psychos LEAST inhabit. Like, in the bowels of the BAU, a criminal profiler is saying, “Well, we know he’s not a pet psychic, a cupcake baker, or a crossword puzzle author, so we can rule those out! Thank God!”

            We are then transported to the high security sector of the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane and see stylishly dressed and coiffed Freddie Lounds entering the prison and introducing herself to Abel Gideon.

            When Freddie’s story is finished and published to Tattlecrime.com, we then see Hannibal at his desk with his little tablet reading it – his face as close to “bothered” as you ever see Hannibal come. This is the same face he makes when Franklyn leaves a soiled tissue on his end table, when Mason Verger stabs his chair. I like to call it Hannibal’s “I’m About To Cut a Bitch” face. This is one thing I will say for Mads Mikkelsen over and over again – he acts with every part of his body, including his beautiful face. Fannibals love to discuss Mads’ microexpressions – the little twitches at the corners of his eyes, the dead-eyed, yet sarcastic stares, the tears that appear from nowhere, the minute turnings of his lips into wry smiles – and the most prized being the MIKKELSNARL, the King of All Expressions. The look on his face when reading Freddie Lounds’ story makes you fear for her. Amazingly, she survives. It’s actually insane.

            We then see Dr. Chilton and Alana dining with Hannibal at his home. Hannibal says that the dish is a lamb tongue served with Duxelle sauce and mushrooms, created by famous French chef Auguste Escoffier. After some tongue wagging amongst the diners, Hannibal says to Chilton, “Don’t give me ideas. Your tongue is very feisty and as this evening has already proven, it’s nice to have an old friend for dinner” (Wu and Fuller 30). This line is, of course, a tribute to the ending scene of The Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal’s phone call to Clarice in which he implies he will be soon killing and eating the bumbling Dr. Chilton. As previously stated, Fuller’s Chilton stubbornly survives every season.

            Alana, Frederick, and Hannibal begin discussing Abel Gideon. Frederick proudly claims Gideon to be the Ripper. Alana begins questioning Frederick and asks, “Is it possible that you inadvertently planted the suggestion in Gideon’s mind that he was the Ripper?” (Wu and Fuller 31). Frederick replies, “Psychic driving is unethical” (Wu and Fuller 32).

            I have to admit that I NEVER heard the term “psychic driving” before Hannibal. Truly, it sounds like a Cronenberg video game for the Atari 2600. Hannibal says that psychic driving is allowable “in certain circumstances” and actually seems to arouse some gentle suspicion from both Alana and Frederick (Wu and Fuller 32). They don’t seem suspicious that Hannibal is the Ripper – we are a looooong way from that – but they both seem a little shocked that Hannibal might condone the practice, even in narrow cases. Hannibal so desperately wants to play, I think he actually overplays his hand here. He so rarely gives anything away and usually only does so on purpose – perhaps Hannibal’s admission is just to facilitate the conversation Hannibal has in the kitchen with Frederick, in which he states that he believes Frederick already has “psychically driven” Gideon, but it seems a little haphazard to me. Perhaps he’s still amped up because Freddie Lounds has landed a hit on him.

            Speaking of Gideon, we now see him in his cell at the BSHCI, this time being questioned by Jack, who states point blank to the prisoner, “You’re not the Chesapeake Ripper” (Wu and Fuller 33). Gideon tries to convince Jack, tries weakly to explain why he, supposedly as the Ripper, takes surgical trophies, why he didn’t display the bodies of his wife and her family, and so on. Gideon ascertains that Jack is not concerned with those prior crimes.

            DR. GIDEON: But you’re not here to talk about my wife or even the night nurse.

            JACK CRAWFORD: What am I here to talk about?

            DR. GIDEON: Your trainee. Miriam something.

                                                                                                (Wu and Fuller 34)

This minor detail, the fact that Gideon does not know Miriam’s last name, proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that Gideon is not, cannot be the Chesapeake Ripper. The real Ripper, Hannibal Lecter, has a meticulous memory palace built in his mind. Thomas Harris explains the grandiose proportions of the Doctor’s psychic estate in both Hannibal and Hannibal Rising. In Hannibal, Harris even treats us to a description of the palace’s interior. It has a “Great Hall of the Seasons… [a] hall of looms and textiles…[and a] Hall of Addresses,” just to name a few wings (252-254). Hannibal actually retrieves Clarice Starling’s address from this cognitive library, buried in a mental construction that Harris says, “is vast, even by medieval standards” (252).

            I know for a fact that Hannibal Lecter remembers the name of every victim he ever killed, how he killed them, what organs/limbs he took, what dish he made with them, and how they tasted. There is no way he forgets a victim’s name. With the exception of the incidental goons from the Questura in Season 3 or Mason Verger’s goons, Hannibal knows the name of every victim he chooses. No way he would forget Miriam’s last name. Gideon is an amateur.

            As their conversation continues, Jack’s phone rings. He walks out of Gideon’s cell block to answer the call as the caller ID announces the number as “HOME.” Jack misses the call and redials. He believes the caller to be his wife, having returned early from her trip. Whoever answers the phone (you know who), then plays the same haunting recorded message – Miriam Lass scared, alone, and begging Jack to help her.

            Immediately, we are in Jack Crawford’s bedroom, where Team Sassy Science is pulling and processing evidence from Jack’s bedroom carpet, bedside phone, and even his wife’s pillow. Will is once again observing. Jimmy Price pulls three sets of prints from the phone – the first two sets are identified as Jack’s and his wife’s. The third set is later identified as belonging to Miriam Lass. Beverly even finds a long blonde hair on Bella’s pillow. Will, of course, asks questions: “Did Miriam Lass know where you live?... Did you know you were sending her after [the Chesapeake Ripper?]…” and then states, “Whoever made that phone call thinks you were close to Miriam Lass and feel responsible for her death;” to which Jack replies, “She was my trainee. I am responsible for her death” (Wu and Fuller 36). Jimmy Price floats the idea that Miriam may be alive since her prints are on the phone. Jack cannot accept the idea.

            This new evidence spins Jack into another flashback – the circumstance of Jack’s last meeting with Miriam – the last time he saw her alive. They are back at Quantico – Miriam has skipped a class called “Exclusionary Rules of Search and Seizure” to ask Jack’s opinion about a report she left on his desk (Wu and Fuller 37). Jack seems needlessly cruel to Miriam in this scene. He tells her “go back to class” and “Frustrated, Lass? Better start forming a callus or frustration is going to wear you through” (Wu and Fuller 37).

            This is perhaps one of the reasons Jack feels so guilty about Miriam’s death, or what he believes to be, death. In their last conversation, he wasn’t very nice. This is one of the unfortunate things about life. The last time I saw my father, the night before he died, the last thing I said to him was, “Dad, don’t eat all that ice cream.” My father was a diabetic and my mother and we children fought him tooth and nail to eat better. Towards the end of his life, he merely circumvented us – he hid Snickers bars in the clothes hamper, peanut butter crackers in the visor in his truck – he finally just broke down and started buying all the sweets he wanted himself since my mother refused to buy them. He was unstoppable. The last time I saw him, he was digging into a half-gallon of Blue Bell chocolate ice cream, and so I told him not to eat it all. All he said to me was, “Bye.”

            If I had known that was the last time I would ever see him alive, I would have told him that I loved him. I would have told him that even though he was a shitty dad, abusive and obstreperous, that I still loved him, and I always would. I have to content myself with the idea that either my dad knew that I loved him or he just didn’t care.

            Miriam’s report makes a smart but dangerous suggestion in the hunt for the Chesapeake Ripper. She explains, “If the Chesapeake Ripper is a surgeon, we should look at medical records of all the known victims” (Wu and Fuller 38). Jack points out that this search would obviously be illegal – medical records fall under very tight privacy laws. Then, the following conversation proves yet another thing to the viewer about Jack’s character:

JACK CRAWFORD: It’s one thing for a trainee to go poking around private medical records without a warrant, very much another if “The Guru” did it…

MIRIAM LASS: Better for a trainee to ask for forgiveness than an FBI agent to ask for permission?

            JACK CRAWFORD: In my experience.

                                                                                                (Wu and Fuller 38).

There is something to be said of the fact that this is exactly the way that Jack “loses” people. This strategy is how he loses Will, how he loses Beverly – sending subordinates to do things he can’t do. I suppose it is a comment on larger patriarchal culture – how men in power get little people to do their dirty work for them – everything from cleaning their toilets to fighting their wars. It is not lost on me that two of the people that Jack “loses” this way are women. Strong, stubborn, beautiful women who went off doing things Jack couldn’t do because of “rules.” I love Jack Crawford with all my heart – but he should feel guilty. The loss of Miriam Lass IS very much his fault.

            After this conversation, Miriam wanders off to begin her search of the medical records and we are flashed back into the present where we see Alana Bloom again at the BSHCI, again interviewing Dr. Gideon. Two scenes here at the end of Act Four and the beginning of Act Five, one where Will has a conversation with Chilton, and one where there is a lockdown in the prison were cut from the final episode, so I shall skip them.

            The scene we alight upon is Jack, back in the present, walking down a hallway at the Academy, and once again his phone rings. Jack accepts the grim possibility that the call might once again be the Ripper taunting him and answers it. It brings us to one of the most interesting and important locales in the series, the abandoned observatory. The real location is the David Dunlap Observatory in Richmond Hill, Ontario, Canada. We see the observatory several times in the series – it is always a place of gruesome revelations.

            We see Will, Beverly, and Jack approaching the building – Beverly explaining that the last call Jack received from the Ripper “traced here. Or within a 100 feet of here” (Wu and Fuller 42). Jack then redials the last number the Ripper called from – one that wasn’t masked or anonymous. They hear a distant ringing coming from inside the observatory.

            They enter the building, and underneath a bunch of discarded equipment, at the base of the main telescope, they find a severed arm, the hand holding the ringing cell phone. A note on a card beneath the arm says, “What do you see?” (Wu and Fuller 43). The viewer understands that this is Miriam Lass’ arm – it explains the fingerprints on the phone in Jack’s bedroom.

            I must say, I do find the image kind of funny… Hannibal in his squeaky murder suit – which I affectionately call his “garment bag” because DAMMIT that’s what it looks like – a garment bag with sleeves turned sideways – in Jack’s bedroom, opening a plastic bag and tweezing out one of Miriam’s head hairs, laying it on Bella’s pillow – making the call from Jack’s bedside phone and then laying Miriam’s decapitated hand over the receiver – pressing the finger pads down with his own to make sure the prints stick. I always imagine Hannibal waving Miriam’s arm around with a dramatic flourish when he’s done – like some morbid maestro conducting an insane symphony all of his own composition.

            The episode ends with a flashback – Miriam Lass showing up at Hannibal’s office door to question him. The Wound Man victim was a “Jeremy Olmstead” Hannibal had treated for an arrow wound in his thigh the man received while bow hunting – when Hannibal worked in the emergency room, most likely at Maryland Misericordia Hospital in Baltimore. Hannibal says he doesn’t remember the man (he totally remembers) – but under the guise of going to retrieve his notes from the years he worked in the ER, he leaves the room, removes his shoes, and then in his stocking feet creeps up behind Miriam, just as she discovers Hannibal’s own Wound Man drawing and begins to realize the trouble she is in. Hannibal begins choking Miriam – this is the episode’s second installment of “THINGS THAT HAVE NO BUSINESS BEING INSANELY HOT.”

            The script describes the scene as follows:

Hannibal is like a column of marble, motionless as Miriam twists and throws, trying in vain to knock him off balance. She reaches behind her head, clawing at Hannibal but he presses his face almost sensually against the back of her neck to protect face and eyes from her slashing fingernails. Miriam’s eyes roll, defeated, tear-filled, knowing she’s going to die. She begins to go limp in Hannibal’s arms.

                                                                                    (Wu and Fuller 48).

This scene is an homage to the same scene in Red Dragon when Hannibal attacks Will from behind, just as Will spies a medical book on Hannibal’s bookshelves that contains the Wound Man drawing. Will’s gut is slashed by Hannibal in this attack – in Fuller’s Hannibal, Will’s gut is spared until the end of Season 2.

            This is why I adore Bryan’s Hannibal so much – it is not just an adaptation; it is a remix. Scenes are moved and laid in the hands of different characters. Conversations are shifted – things Hannibal said to Clarice, he says to Will – characters are gender-swapped or their fates are interchanged. Much of Bryan’s remix remains the same – like the tiger scene between Reba and Francis in Season 3 – but so much of it is recut, reimagined, broken down and put back together. Hannibal is an artist of deconstruction and reconstruction and so is Bryan. I still say and always will that Hannibal is the best show ever on television. Good God, it is that fucking good.

            But, you ask, “JESUS CHRIST! WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GET TO THE LESSON?” I shall now deliver.

            The lesson takes place in the scene just before Miriam’s attack. After having discovered Miriam’s decapitated arm, Jack is badly rattled and goes to see Hannibal at his office. When questioned by Hannibal as to what he believes the Ripper’s motives are for trying to convince him that Miriam is alive, Jack responds “Hope. The Ripper wanted to cloud my vision in the fog of hope;” Hannibal then says, “It can sometimes be brave to allow yourself hope” (Wu and Fuller 44).

            Hannibal then asks Jack when he gave up hope that Miriam would be found alive and then makes the leap from one woman in Jack’s life to another saying, “Don’t give up hope for your wife. Not yet” (Wu and Fuller 44). At the end of the scene, Hannibal coaxes Jack into telling him about Miriam, even asking what her name was. I have to say it, but making Jack tell him, as if he is absolutely unknowing of the details, about Miriam Lass and her disappearance seems almost masturbatory to me – Jack is talking dirty to Hannibal and doesn’t even know it. Hannibal sits there, absorbing every minutiae, every crease of pain in Jack’s face, every flutter of guilt in his eyes, enjoying every moment knowing exactly where Miriam is, and how she disappeared. Perhaps it is in this discussion with Jack that Hannibal decides to spare Miriam’s life. Perhaps that was always his plan. Hannibal couldn’t have known he would be called in to consult with Jack on his beautiful, but twitchy profiler, so who knows how long he was willing to wait, keeping Miriam alive, bleeding her for info that would bring him directly into Jack’s domain. All of it is devious and cruel.

            It is perhaps the cruelest of things for Hannibal to talk to Jack about hope. The viewer knows that Hannibal is the one who has given Jack this “false kind” of hope (Wu and Fuller 44). It is important to remember that on a first time viewing, an audience member is not aware that Miriam is still alive. Just as on a first time viewing, the audience does not know that Abigail Hobbs is still alive after her ear turns up in Will’s gullet and then his sink. This “give the desperate loved ones a piece of their missing people and taunt them with hope” like a sadistic kidnapper, but one with no asking price, is a pattern Hannibal uses twice in the series – both times to manipulate people he cares for – to spin them in circles and watch the motion – no doubt in this spinning, Hannibal searches for weak spots, but he also delights in their pain and confusion.

            It is interesting to think that the people Hannibal seems to care most about are the ones he plays with in this way. Will, Jack, Bedelia – he offers hope; he yanks it away. He lies and lies until suddenly, at the precise moment it will make the greatest impact, he tells the truth. A colossal tease is Hannibal Lecter. But he plays with these people because they interest him enough to invest time and effort into them, into both their pain and their pleasure.

            Hannibal pokes at Jack’s hope not just about Miriam, but about Bella. As a surgeon, Hannibal knows the hope for Bella is even more of a longshot than for Miriam. But he wants Jack to hope because without hope, there is nothing to lose. It is best that Jack, Will, Bedelia, Alana – that all of them have something to hope for, something to lose. They will all become truly dangerous to Hannibal if they don’t. Which is basically what happens with most of Season 2 to Will, and for Jack and Alana in Season 3 – vengeance arcs – when Hannibal has stripped them of hope.

            Our lesson resides in Hannibal’s line: “It can sometimes be brave to allow yourself hope” (Wu and Fuller 44). Leaving aside Hannibal’s qualifying statement of “sometimes,” the most important diction in this line is of “brave” and “allow.”

            Mostly, we allow hope for others. For a sick friend, a family down on their luck, a whole group, a whole country – a sports team or a heroic dog – we can give our hope to them. That makes sense. And it feels good.

            But often, hope is not a thing we are willing to give ourselves. It seems like something only for other people, like compliments or compassion or birthday cakes. Hannibal says it’s “brave” to allow ourselves hope because when our lives are in abject turmoil, hope is the last thing we want to give ourselves because… hope hurts. When things don’t turn out as we want – when we don’t get the promotion – we lose the contest – we fail the test – we screw up the date – or worse yet, our loved one dies – when we crash and burn, utterly crash and burn – we remember the hope we had beforehand and say, “You fool. You stupid fucking fool. How did you even dare to hope?”

            And so the lesson, dear reader, is this – as he often is – Hannibal is right (the bastard…)

            It is brave. Let yourself have it.

            ALLOW YOURSELF HOPE. BE BRAVE.

            I know it seems easy for me to say. It’s not. It’s hard for me too. Some days, I just can’t do it. But you and me… we’ve got to keep trying. I deserve hope. And so do you.

            It seems impossible is this world full of pain and death and smiling villains.

            But if Jack Crawford can muster hope from a decapitated arm and a dying wife who won’t talk to him, you and I can too.

            Here endeth the lesson…

References:

Fuller, Bryan and Steve Lightfoot. Writers. “Kaiseki.” Hannibal, season 2, episode 1, Chiswick Productions, 2014.

Harris, Thomas. “Foreword to a Fatal Interview.” Red Dragon, by Harris, Berkley, 2000, pp. IX-XIII).

Harris, Thomas. Hannibal. New York, Delacorte Press, 1999.

Harris, Thomas. The Silence of the Lambs. New York, St. Martin’s Press, 1990.

“Judges 8:27.” King James Bible Online, www.kingjamesbibleonline.org/

Judges-8-27.

Wu, Kai Yu and Bryan Fuller. Writers. “Entrée.” Hannibal, season 1, episode 6, Chiswick Productions, 2012.

[lunareclipse39]

The Princes' Whore (Pt. 9)

Aemond still searches for Sameria, getting more and more desperate as time goes on. Aegon starts to improve in his recovery. Daemon grows more and more attracted to Sameria, causing jealousy in Rhaenyra. Sameria is ordered to prove her loyalty to Rhaenyra in a most unimaginable way. Sameria charms another man.

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Sameria

"Wait, Aemond is in love with Alyonna?" Daemon smirked.

"Indeed. He denied it, but made no effort to hide it." I shrugged.

We were having dinner, me, Daemon, Rhaenyra, her son Jacaerys and his betrothed Baela Velaryon. I was telling them about why I ran away, but left out parts of course.

Rhaenyra chortled, nearly choking on her wine. "I never thought Aemond would be the kind to fall in love."

"And with Alyonna of all people. She is a beautiful, innocent thing, with an ethereal voice, but my is she the most dull, boring creature alive." Daemon huffed.

"She's actually quite sweet, and well-read." I said.

"Yes, but still boring." Daemon said.

"And you insulted Aemond?" Rhaenyra started to grin.

"Yes, multiple times." I nodded.

"I would have liked to see that." She smiled.

"It was either living in fear of his violent mood swings, one moment he would be sweet and caring, the next he was trying to kill me, or run away. The fact I called him an inbred, sister-fucking cunt didn't help." I shrugged.

I earned myself merry laughter. "That was a good one." Daemon smirked.

Dinner was over and I headed to my room, exhausted. I undressed and slid on a nightgown Nyssa had left for me on the bed. My eyes drooped close as soon as they felt the softness of the bed and the warmth of its sheets.

The following morrow Nyssa burst into my room, opening the curtains, the blinding sunlight making me wince. "Apologies, princess." Nyssa said, hurriedly placing a pile of dresses, undergarments, and shoes. I groaned, sliding out of bed and stretching, yawning. Nyssa helped me get dressed in another black dress, this one wholly black, a silver dragon finely embroidered in the lower right side of the skirts.

Nyssa fastened my black leather boots, and sat me at the desk to style my hair into a braided ponytail. She proceeded to fasten a silver locket with the sigil of House Targaryen, well, the black faction. I thanked Nyssa, as she proceeded to make my bed and I left the room, going down for breakfast. Nobody was in the dining hall, and I was served porridge, bread with butter, and apple slices. I thanked the servants when I finished and started roaming about, hearing voices coming from one of the rooms. I see Rhaenyra has a small council as well. Of course she does.

I entered the kitchens, deciding to bake. It would keep my mind off things.

"Princess, if you'd like something you need only ask." A cook told me.

"It's quite alright. I am a cook and baker myself." I reassured.

I looked around the kitchen, and noticed loads of lemons. I shall make lemon cakes.

Daemon

"We need more dragonriders. I'd say we storm the capital with as many dragons as possible." Jace said.

I snorted. "The Greens may only have four dragons but one of them is the largest and strongest of the bunch."

"Then we find a way to lure Aemond and Vhagar out of King's Landing. The king is injured and in no shape to ride his dragon, who is also badly injured. Queen Helaena has gone mad, and cannot ride her own dragon, Dreamfyre. The Greens really only have two dragonriders, Aemond and Daeron. With Aemond lured away we can take on Daeron, who is not even in King's Landing from what I've heard." Lord Corlys crossed his arms.

The doors croaked open, and Sameria waltzed in, carrying a tray of what looked like lemon cakes. I smirked. She gingerly placed the tray on the table, as we all stared at her.

"Thought you could use the sugar. I certainly can." She winked, taking a lemon cake and taking a bite, leaving the room.

"You should eat them. Sameria is the best cook and baker I have ever come across." I spoke.

"And how would you know?" Corlys frowned.

"I had the pleasure of tasting her creations in Harrenhal, with limited resources. Now imagine what she can do with an arsenal of as many ingredients as possible." I smirked.

The others made impressed expressions, and dug into the lemon cakes. Jace moaned in pleasure, making me laugh. "This is so good."

"Of course it is." I smiled, reaching for a lemon cake.

I savored its citrusy taste in all its glory. Sameria has a touch for food like no other. "While these lemon cakes are delicious, let us focus on the matter at hand." Rhaenyra spoke.

"We have one new dragonrider, Nettles, in the Vale. Little minx claimed Sheepstealer by feeding him, well, sheep." I grinned.

Rhaenyra tightened at this, giving me a glare. She thinks I have feelings for Nettles, and I do, but they are purely of admiration. The girl has no magical blood yet managed to claim a dragon. This is both, a good thing and a bad thing, and impressive.

"Yes, but we need more. Seasmoke is still riderless, as is Vermithor and Silverwing." Rhaenyra crossed her arms.

"No one that is not of Velaryon blood will claim Seasmoke." Corlys said.

"None of your grandchildren or my children with Laenor are available, Lord Corlys, so we have no choice but to have Seasmoke be claimed-"

"No." Lord Corlys shook his head. "My wife and son are dead because of you. You will not take away my son's dragon for your own gain." He hissed.

Rhaenyra gulped, looking down. "I regret not sending anyone else to help Princess Rhaenys, Lord Corlys, and it is a guilt that will haunt me to the end of my days but please, we are at war, and we need all the resources we can muster."

"You'd do well not to speak such treason again, Lord Corlys." I warned.

Corlys clenched his fists, glaring at me, and stormed out of the room. Rhaenyra sighed. "I already have someone in mind to claim Seasmoke."

"Who?" I asked, curious.

"Ser Steffon Darklyn. He has Targaryen blood, however diluted, but he can certainly try." Rhaenyra said.

"Mother, I don't think risking one of our best knights is wise." Jace spoke.

"I agree." I said.

"We are all risking ourselves here, Jace. I myself will attack any suspected Green supporters soon, perhaps the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. We need to weaken my craven half-brother and do so soon. They are starting to gain strength and we cannot let that happen." Rhaenyra said.

"Then let us move. I shall go back to Harrenhal. Don't want any of the greens knowing it is unguarded." I shrugged.

"Will you be taking the princess Sameria with you?" Rhaenyra asked, crossing her arms.

Great. Will she be jealous of Sameria as well? "No, my Queen. I shall leave her here, or perhaps she would be better off in Driftmark. Poor thing will get so bored here, and I don't want her to be a burden on you. I am sure Lord Corlys won't mind hosting her." I offered.

Rhaenyra scoffed. "Leave her here for the time being. I'd like to keep her close. I am not entirely convinced we can trust her."

"I assure you, she is harmless." I promised.

"She stays here." Rhaenyra decided.

I sighed in defeat, nodding.

Sameria

I have spent three days on Dragonstone, and am already bored. Thankfully it is an island so I can amuse myself by taking long walks on the shores and even swim, but I was looking forward to visiting Driftmark. Rhaenyra doesn't trust me at all, and while I do not blame her, I wish I could do something to earn her trust. My cooking and baking doesn't seem to be doing the trick.

Right now Ser Steffon Darklyn was in the process of claiming the dragon Seasmoke. I was nervous for him. Seasmoke was a relatively large dragon, pale gray in color with blue-gray scales. The dragon roared, making us all jump, save for Rhaenyra, who watched intently as Ser Steffon tried to tame the dragon, dragon keepers at his side aiding him in calming Seasmoke down. Lord Bartimos Celtigar was in our company as well, and he was as uneasy as I was.

"I think I've got it!" Ser Steffon grinned, but in that instant Seasmoke rose his head and roared, fire raining down on Ser Steffon. I screamed, watching in horror as the poor knight roasted alive, and widened my eyes in even more horror as he unsheathed a dagger and slit his throat.

My entire body was trembling, and I made haste to leave but Rhaenyra stopped me. "No, Sameria, stay." She spoke, turning to me. "I think you should try and claim Seasmoke next."

I blinked, staring at her, and burst out laughing. She's joking, right? "Oh, my Queen, you're funny."

But Rhaenyra wasn't laughing. In fact she was very serious, not at all amused at my laughter. "My Queen, I cannot possibly claim a dragon. I've no Valyrian blood, much to the disappointment of my father." I shrugged.

"Your father thinks you have Valyrian blood?" Rhaenyra raised her eyebrow.

"Yes, but he's a highly imaginative person." I shrugged again.

"You don't need Valyrian blood to claim a dragon. A girl in the Vale named Nettles claimed one just recently, and did so by feeding it sheep. Though the dragon is called Sheepstealer, because it feeds on sheep. Perhaps you can feed fish to Seasmoke, charm it, or, better yet, cook fish for him, entice him with your cooking." Rhaenyra smirked.

"My Queen, why, exactly, are you so insistent on me claiming a dragon?" I wondered.

"Because I need dragonriders, and you must prove your loyalty to me. This is how your queen asks you to do it." Rhaenyra said, her violet gaze boring into my sapphire one.

"There must be another way for me to prove my loyalty. I can't claim a dragon, I've no skill in battle, I am absolutely useless to you." I pleaded.

"Then make yourself useful." Rhaenyra insisted.

A squire came through suddenly, bowing to Rhaenyra. "Your Grace, Lord Corlys Velaryon is back, and in the company of a young man. Your audience is urgently requested."

Rhaenyra sighed, nodding. I sighed in relief. Rhaenyra is no better than Aemond. All Targaryens seem to be quite horrible, save for Aly and Helaena, and perhaps Aegon. Daemon might not be so bad either, but I hardly know him. It's too soon to say. I don't understand what I've done to upset her, but I know one thing: I cannot stay here. I hastily ran up to my room, opening the dresser but that is when Nyssa entered my room, standing in the doorway.

"Princess, her Grace requires you." She announced.

I gulped, nodding. I followed her out, my hands shaking. I curtsied before Rhaenyra. "Yes, my Queen?"

"Looks like you are in luck, princess." She spoke, her tone a bit snarky. "My husband insists you go to Driftmark, and Lord Corlys here accepts your presence."

I widened my eyes, then smiled. "Thank you, Lord Corlys."

"The pleasure is mine, princess." Lord Corlys nodded.

I went back to my room and packed my dresses and jewelry, coming back down to join Lord Corlys outside, where he waited for me. "You will enjoy Driftmark, princess." Lord Corlys said as he helped me onto a boat.

The island of Driftmark was very close to Dragonstone, considering it was a very short ride. High Tide, the seat of House Velaryon, stood majestically under the scorching sun, its ivory walls glittering, its silver roofs shining so bright they blinded you upon looking at them. Lord Corlys helped me down from the boat, as his guards led us to the gates of High Tide. The pearly gates made no sound as they opened, and I was admiring everything around me.

"Lord Corlys, may I ask why I am suddenly here on Driftmark? Because Queen Rhaenyra was not so keen on me coming here before." I said.

"Daemon vouched for you, princess. He worried her Grace might mistreat you the same way she mistreated Nettles, out of pure jealousy. She thinks Nettles and Daemon were having an affair, and now she thinks you and Daemon are having an affair." Lord Corlys sighed.

At this, I let out a merry laugh. "There is nothing going on between me and Daemon. He hardly spoke to me in Harrenhal."

"Yes, but her Grace is paranoid, and sees betrayal everywhere. This war has been tough on her, on all of us." Lord Corlys looked down, as we entered the castle.

The interior of High Tide was the perfect representation of its house's connections to the sea. A massive anchor hung on one wall, ropes dangling from it. The skeleton of a shark hung on another wall, little white sea shells were embedded into the marble floors, and there were many windows, providing great sources of light.

"You may settle in any empty room you find, princess. After that you are free to roam as you wish, including visiting the nearby town of Spicetown. I do request, however, that you do not use your real name, keep a low profile, and do not reveal your royal status." Lord Corlys instructed.

"Of course, Lord Corlys, and thank you." I nodded. I watched him leave and in that moment I picked yet another room. This room was smaller than the one at Dragonstone, but still spacious enough and had a large window that overlooked the sea. Oh, what I would give to permanently live here. The dresser was made of pale oak wood, as was the desk and the vanity. A small, seashell-framed mirror stood on the vanity, as well as a comb made of pearls. The posts and headrest of the bed were also made of pale oak wood, and the bed covers were blue-green with a seahorse embroidered in gold thread.

A painting of a sea horse hung on the right side of the bed. I undressed, planning on wearing my pale green, layered dress, but in that instant a servant girl burst into my room. "Oh!" She covered her eyes. "Apologies, princess. I didn't know you were here."

"It's quite alright." I nodded.

"Would you like me to bring you dresses? Princesses Baela and Rhaena have dresses they don't want anymore, and surely wouldn't mind you having one." The servant girl offered.

I bit my lip, pensive for a moment before nodding. "Yes, and thank you."

The servant girl disappeared and came a while later, holding two dresses. One was ocean blue with white, shimmery outlining, the sleeves long and pointy, the other was blue-green, like the bed covers, with pearls embroidered into the bottom of the sleeves, the waistline, the shoulder areas, and a pearl necklace went across the collarbone. A seahorse made of seashell was embroidered into the bodice. I chose that one.

The servant girl, whose name is Shella, fitting name given where she resides, drew me a bath. The bathtub was made of pearl, and shone with the few rays of sunlight bursting through the tiny window of the bathroom. I smiled in bliss at the feeling of the water, and I washed myself thoroughly, emerging from the tub smelling like lemons. Shella came back to help me dry myself and get dressed in the dress I had chosen, the fabric feeling smooth and cold against my body. Shella combed my hair and I just let it down.

While the sun was scorching outside still, I remained in the castle, wandering about, thinking of how grateful I am to Daemon for insisting I be brought to Driftmark. I heard voices talking, and Lord Corlys was conversing with a young man that looked somewhat like him. When Lord Corlys saw me, he beckoned me over.

"Princess Sameria, that dress suits you. Baela hates dresses." Lord Corlys complimented.

"Thank you, Lord Corlys." I smiled.

"Addam, this is Princess Sameria Martell. Long story." Lord Corlys said, then turned to me. "This is Addam of Hull, my nephew."

"A pleasure to meet you, princess." Addam lifted my hand and kissed it.

"The pleasure is mine." I smiled.

"Are you enjoying your stay so far?" Addam asked.

"Yes, very much. I am very grateful to be here. Driftmark is lovely." I beamed.

Lord Corlys and Addam chuckled. "Princess, we are about to have lunch. Why don't you join us?" Lord Corlys suggested.

"I would love to." I nodded.

The dining hall was a room full of windows overlooking the sandy beaches and the sea, the dining table long and easily fit about fifty people. I sat across from Addam and on Lord Corlys' right side. Servants came scurrying through, carrying trays of food as well as plates and cutlery. We would be having fish cooked in lemon juice and butter.

We said a prayer and began to eat, and the fish was delicious. "Princess, I am told you are a great cook yourself." Lord Corlys spoke.

"I try to be, my Lord." I nodded.

"You must make us something one day." Addam grinned.

"I shall like that." I grinned back.

After lunch I wandered about again, deciding to visit Spicetown once the sun went a bit down, since it was too hot. Addam approached me, clearing his throat. "Are you looking for something, princess?"

"Please, call me Sameria, and yes, is there a library?" I asked hopefully.

"Certainly." Addam led me to it, and like the dining hall, the library had many windows that overlooked the sea, the floors made of blue marble and columns of pale oak wood bookshelves lined one after the other, filled to the brim. I grinned widely.

"What do you usually read, Sameria?" Addam asked, curious.

"Romance novels, adventures, books on history and philosophy. Right now I am trying to discover more about Valyria's extinct families, and my possible connection to one of them." I admitted.

Addam raised his eyebrow. "An intellectual I see. And you have Valyrian blood?"

"My father insists we do, through my mother. He is obsessed with the Valyrian Freehold, as well as with the Empire of the Dawn. He insisted I accept the marriage offer to Aemond Targaryen to continue my supposed Valyrian bloodline, and to look further into our ancestry, which the Keep has." I shrugged.

"I heard about your marriage to the prince. I am so sorry, princess." Addam said apologetically.

"It's in the past, so let's leave it there." I shrugged again.

"Indeed. Why does your father think you have Valyrian blood?"

"My mother had a Valyrian name, Rhaessa, and she came from Volantis, a known former colony of Valyria. She had sapphire eyes like mine, and silvery white hair. She claimed to come from lower nobility, and to be a descendant, far removed, of a Valyrian noble, but nothing more. She didn't like to talk about her family or its origins." I looked down.

"I see." Addam nodded. "Interesting."

"She passed away three years ago."

"I am sorry." Addam said.

"House Dayne of Dorne also has Valyrian features yet they are not necessarily Valyrian, which is why I am skeptical of my father's insistence we have Valyrian blood. It doesn't matter. It's probably so diluted it makes no difference." I said simply.

Addam and I talked a bit more, and I learned he is from the nearby town of Hull, and his mother's name is Marilda. He is a sailor and has a vast knowledge of the sea, which I find fascinating. He also claimed the dragon Seasmoke, just very recently, which is the reason Rhaenyra and I were interrupted.

"Rhaenyra tried to have me claim Seasmoke." I blurted as Addam accompanied me to my chambers, books in hand.

Addam widened his eyes in horror. "Why would her Grace do such thing?"

"She said she didn't fully trust me, and that I must prove my loyalty." I scoffed.

"Surely there are other ways to prove your loyalty. Only Valyrians can claim dragons." Addam pointed out.

"Would have been a good way to find out if I am in fact Valyrian." I joked, and Addam laughed.

I entered my chambers and set the books down on the desk, planning on reading them tonight. I also noticed small pieces of parchment paper were neatly stacked on the side of the desk, an inkwell with ocean blue ink next to them as well as a quill. I have never seen ocean blue ink before. Wow.

When evening came Addam took me to Spicetown, and I had changed into my pale green, layered dress. I had wrapped the matching scarf around my head, to keep a low profile. Spicetown was a lively little town, filled with market stalls, fishermen, sailors getting drunk with said fishermen, dancers, harlots, and children collecting sea shells and making jewelry with them or painting them. I smiled.

"How much for the seashell necklace?" Addam asked a little boy.

"One gold." The little boy replied.

"How about two gold?" Addam winked, and the little boy grinned widely.

He paid for the necklace and turned to me, beckoning me to turn. I widened my eyes. "No, Addam, I couldn't-"

"Yes, you can, and I insist." Addam placed the necklace around my neck, making me smile.

"Thank you." I nodded.

"It suits you." Addam smiled.

He led me further down to the town of Hull, his home. Hull was not as lively, but still charming.

"My mother and brother are not home, but perhaps tomorrow you can meet them. They'd be delighted to meet you." Addam smiled.

"Of course. I better head back. It is getting late." I said.

"Allow me to escort you back." Addam offered, and I accepted.

Once back at the castle I took another bath, slid on a pearly white, silky nightgown, and snuggled into bed. It was a long, but fun day.

The following morning I was abruptly awoken by Shella, who frantically shook me awake.

"Princess, wake up. You must leave." She urged.

"W-What? Why?" I yawned, sitting up.

"War is here, my Lady." Shella said.

I widened my eyes in horror, jumping out of bed. "Prince Viserys was captured on his way to Pentos, and his brother Aegon escaped on his dragon. The Triarchy, allies to Aegon the Usurper, have attacked." Shella informed, frantically starting to get me undressed but I stopped her, going over to my window.

Dozens of ships sailed this way, making me widen my eyes in horror, sending a chill down my spine. We really are at war.

[pacthesis]

nostalgic food

i’ll want to reference this in the future

gỏi cuốn (spring roll with chicken, egg, rice noodle, carrot, lettuce, avocado)

peanut sauce is just peanut butter+water, hoisin+sriracha sauce, and a tiny bit of sesame oil (tastes good with almost anything imo)

yellow curry

rice noodle with chicken, potatoes, yams, onions, carrots in a creamy coconut milk and yellow curry paste broth

lemon juice and salt mix with garlic chili for dipping

bò kho (vietnamese beef stew)

kho is a cooking technique where a protein is braised in a mixture of fish sauce, sugar, and water or coconut juice to make a salty/savory result

bread dips in stew beef/potatoes dip in lime juice/salt/pepper mix

cucumber slices to offset the salty

xá xíu (cantonese style bbq pork)

the seasoning mix is made of sugar, powdered soy sauce, onion and garlic powder, and spices

the pink color very much freaked out middle schoolers at lunch

cơm tấm (broken rice, grilled pork, egg, pickled carrots/daikon with scallions/oil garnish and fish sauce)

bún bò huế (thick round rice noodle with beef soup)

more "fun" than phở imo

bún bò broth: spicy salty flavor (lemongrass, spicy chili, fermented shrimp paste, fish sauce)

phở broth: earthy sweet flavor (cinnamon, star anise, onion, ginger, garlic, herbs)

bánh mì (baguette sandwich with chả lụa (pork sausage), xá xíu (cantonese style bbq pork) coriander leaf (cilantro), cucumber, pickled carrots, and pickled daikon combined with pâté and buttery mayonnaise)

salmon instead of nem nướng̣ (viet grilled pork) with bánh hỏi (rice vermicelli)

feat nori (dried edible seaweed)

wrapped with lettuce and dipped in nước mắm (fish sauce)

bánh cuốn (rice noodle rolls filled with ground meat, wood ear mushrooms, onions)

topped with chả lụa (pork sausage) and fried red onions and nước mắm (fermented salted fish sauce)

a fav of grandpa's

pizza man mispronounces it as "bun goo" which makes my mom giggle cause the way he says goo sounds like penis

bánh tét (glutinous rice rolled in a banana leaf into a thick, log-like cylindrical shape, with a mung bean and pork filling)

bánh rán (deep fried sesame ball filled with mung bean)

bánh da lợn "pig skin cake" (tapioca starch, rice flour, mung bean, taro, coconut milk)

bánh bột chiên (fried taro rice cake, a fav of pizza man)

phở (broth: earthy sweet flavor- cinnamon, star anise, onion, ginger, garlic, herbs)

ive called phở mid but while eating this i was like huh this is good actually then my dad says this time he simmered chicken bones for hours like he's supposed to instead of using canned broth

improvised bún thịt nướng (rice noodle bowl with chopped grilled pork, egg roll, veggies, crushed peanuts, fish sauce)

a way to deal with leftover noodles from gỏi cuốn

every time i eat this i think of the time me and pizza man were in new orleans and he asked if i wanted to eat at a viet place and i was surprised cause he's not really into a lot of viet food but anyway i got bún thịt nướng

thịt kho (pork with eggs braised in sticky savory caramel of sugar, fish sauce, coconut water)

i have distinct flashbacks of being in the middle school cafeteria with my thịt kho and kids around me going "what is that??", "ewwww" lol

cháo (rice porridge with chicken or a white meat fish- often served with crunchy cabbage salad)

my dad likes it with youtiao (chinese donuts)

being sick means eating this! but we also eat it a lot when we’re not sick!

when my mom was young she would say yes to any dude that asked her out and order an obscene amount of food/the most expensive things on the menu and never hear from them again but my dad took her to a cháo place cause that was his favorite but apparently for cheapskates

he proposed two weeks later and she said yes

my mom is such a menace i wanna be just like her

[feverinfeveroutfic]

The Hungry Lion Throws Itself on the Antelope | Kinktober 2024 | “ginger snaps”

prompt: hunger

pairing: alex/portia

word count: 2019

song: “kisses down low” by kelly rowland

I never realized how hungry I was until I stood next to Portia and we let the soup cook there on the stovetop. I hoped that the matzoh balls were shaped to perfection as they bobbed about in the broth with the shredded chicken and the vegetables. I could hardly eat anything when I was hung over, especially when the hangover came with a sore feeling in my back and my stomach as well as a headache dead center in my head, but I could stand to eat a big bowl of this soup, however.

She rested a hand on my upper back, and she gave me a gentle stroke right in between my shoulder blades.

“How long, do you think?” I asked her with a gentle massage of my stomach.

“A few more minutes,” she replied. “The matzoh’s almost there.”

“That’s what my bubbie and my aunt always told me growing up,” I quipped to her, and I couldn’t help but grin at her.

“Your who?”

“My bubbie. Grandma. That’s what I get, if I’m honest.” I shrugged my shoulders and rolled my eyes a bit at that. She stroked my back again, and that time, she followed it up with a lean into my body. A little something more to take the pain away.

She then moved her hand over to the can of wooden and silicone spoons, and she picked out a ladle for the soup. I reached behind her for the cupboard off to the side for a couple of bowls, and she picked out the one on the left for a helping. When she set it down on the counter in front of me, I couldn’t help but lean forward for a whiff of the soup.

“Smells like my aunt’s house,” I declared to her as she served up another bowl, which I believed was for herself. She put the lid on the pot and, once she grabbed a couple of spoons for us, we headed into the living room. It wasn’t that cold in there that time, and thus, we could sit in there and have this soup, peppered with those spices and fresh vegetables.

“The cold will also help you feel better, too,” she assured me as we took our spots on the couch in unison. “The warmth of the bedroom can lull you about and put you to sleep. The cold in here will keep your body temperature down, and it’ll help the soup sit with you better, too.”

I took my first bite of soup, and I was hit with the ginger as well as a slice of white scallion and a bite of chicken. My stomach churned a little bit, but it dissipated once I had swallowed it down.

She kept her attention on me as I kept on eating her soup, and I went about with it at a slow pace lest I stop and puke again. The matzoh balls were delicious and perfect, and then I remembered that I had made them and shaped them with my own sickly hands. Nevertheless, I was eating matzoh ball soup made by Portia, a little gentile girl with the head of lilac purple locks.

“Everything sitting down well?” she asked me at one point.

“Yeah, and it’s utterly delicious, too,” I assured her before I slipped a matzoh ball the size of a ping pong ball into my mouth.

“Those balls came from you, after all.” I snickered at that, and I tried to not let some of the broth shoot through my nose.

“Let me guess, you’ve been waiting since I got here to make that joke,” I quipped to her, and I covered my mouth with my free hand.

“As a matter of fact, I have, yes!” she declared, and she drank down the rest of her broth right then. I picked up the final carrot, and I drank down the broth as well. My appetite had in fact returned because I was wanting a second bowl full.

“More?” she offered me.

“Please,” I answered, and she took my bowl back to the kitchen for another good scooping of the soup into our bowls. I watched her from the couch, and I immediately regretted that from the pains all up inside my back and my hips. I turned on back around, and I held a hand to my head. My headache persisted, but it started to go away once she came back with another bowl of soup for me.

And at that point, I knew I was feeling full, that time a comfortable lush full, one that made me lean back against the cushion and run my fingers through my hair. Portia sweetly took my empty bowl from me, and she set it down on the coffee table in front of us, right next to her bowl. She then leaned into my face again, that time for the softest kiss on the side of my face. I couldn’t help but let my toes curl into the carpet. I licked my lips and relaxed every inch of my body at the feeling.

I turned my head for a look into her sweet face.

“I have plenty of hunger running through me still,” I assured her, and I couldn’t help but let my eyes hood at the sight of her. “I’m feeling better, I’m feeling a lot fuller than I did before… and, if I’m honest, I want to give those full-bodied kisses another try.” Portia leaned into my face again, that time for another kiss on me, that time for a kiss on my forehead followed by my cheek, followed by a sweet one on my lips.

“I want to make sure you’re comfortable first, though,” she told me, and she held onto my face with nothing more than her fingertips. “You’re feeling better? It’s staying with you?”

“And how,” I assured her, and I bowed my head a little bit at that. “The ginger and the garlic help me with the feeling a great deal.”

Portia kissed me again, once more on the lips, and then she ran her fingers up through my hair.

Carefully, I leaned back onto the arm of the couch. I was made of scar tissue, and she was giving me something for the pain. She straddled my hips, and she gently patted my belly with both hands. She leaned forward, whereby she placed either hand on either side of my body. She rubbed her chest against my own as she kissed me on the side of the neck. A line of kisses down my bare neck onto my collar bones.

Gingerly, she undid the buttons on my shirt, and she nudged it open for me. My whole chest was exposed, and she ran her kisses down the center of chest. Her lips all around my nipples once again, and then she moved back on up to my shoulders as well as the top parts of my arms.

She lifted up one hand and kissed the back, followed by my wrists. I had this odd soreness on the inside of my wrists so her kisses felt utterly delicious there.

Her fingers grazed down the middle of my chest, which in turn sent a deep chill across my skin. She moved her hands up again, and she wriggled them a bit all the while, and the chill presented itself even deeper across my skin. My stomach was still steady as she brought her lips there. The feeling sent such a soft, silken feeling within, something that eased me more than the taste of the ginger in the soup.

I clasped a hand to my forehead. My headache was gone at that point, and more so when she moved her lips down onto the rim of my belly button. I couldn’t help but part my lips and breathe in deep at the feeling.

It felt so good on my poor stomach, and I never wanted it to stop, either. I never wanted it to stop even when she tugged my shorts down a little bit for some more skin.

I relaxed every muscle in my body. It felt so good and so wonderful, and I wanted her to go in even deeper.

Portia tugged my shorts down so as to expose me to her. I never realized the pain in my hips until she started kissing me there.

Her lips around my shaft, and I gasped from the sensation. She moved in deep on me. I closed my eyes and I let my mouth stand agape. My mouth stood agape even when she brought her lips back to the tip of my dick. She then moved in deep again, and I shuddered from the feeling.

The scar tissue within. The aches and pains. The warm, cozy feeling in my stomach for once.

She moved her head back and she began on my thighs. I could feel my dick rising from the tender feeling of her kisses on me. I was going to come, and I was going to come harder than I had ever come before in my life.

Her lips on my thighs and I could feel my back arching.

It ached, but it simultaneously felt so good, and it gave me such a rush of blood straight to the head.

I finally gasped, and I let out a soft groan as she brought her lips to the inside of my knees.

“There he is,” she remarked, but she kept going with the kisses down my legs. She knew my hunger at that point. She persisted all the way down my legs to my ankles and my feet.

It wasn’t until she started moving back up my legs when the feeling returned again. I was going to come a second time, and I knew I was going to do it even harder that time around.

She reached my dick, and she put her lips around the head again. I was glad that I was feeling better that time because I would have puked my guts out once again.

Portia suckled on me slow, deep, and hard once again. She did it as if she was sucking on a lollipop.

My body shuddered and shook as she did it so slowly and so gracefully. It was driving me absolutely crazy at that point. I gasped for air. My chest heaved. My back arched so much, but I could feel her hand on my belly to keep me pinned down on the couch cushions.

I knew I was going to come hard when she ever so lightly grazed the edges of her teeth against my shaft.

I let out a low moan straight from the pit of my own nauseated, mended stomach. My chest rose and fell so quickly, as if I had been running a marathon that whole entire time.

Then she brought her mouth back up onto my belly again. She held onto my dick, which I realized was firm and full as a fat ripe cucumber at that point. Her lips caressed over the skin between my erection and my lower belly. I almost couldn’t take it, especially when she brought her lips to the edges of my hipbones.

I finally let out something of a groan that sounded like Otis Redding, a sound I never believed I would ever make before, especially not when a girl was going down on me the way that Portia did.

She finally lifted her mouth from my skin. At that point, I opened my eyes. I let my chest heave up and down, especially when she inched up along my body. She ran her fingers through my hair, and she brought her lips down onto my own once again, that time to seal the deal. And all the while, my stomach never let loose again. I showed her a smile and a hooding to my eyes.

“That’s more like it,” I whispered to her, and she gently stroked either side of my face.

“Best cure for a tummyache ever,” she remarked, and she kissed my forehead again.

[tsukuharuko]

The Coffee Bean

She found the cafe one day on her way back from school, on her first year in Tokyo.

The train had a malfunction, so she had to step down a few stops earlier. It was a quiet neighborhood, far from the tall buildings of the city centre; most houses around had small gardens, and there were some shops scattered around, like a bookshop and a small artisan jewellery shop. It was September but it was starting to get cooler, and she regretted wearing her short-sleeves uniform.

Then she turned the coner, and the scent of coffee reached her nose before Haruko could turn her head. It was a small cafe, with plants decorating the large windows and white walls reflecting the sunlight. The aroma coming from inside was warm and comforting, so she decided to take a peek.

The inside was even prettier: a neutral decor, white walls with bricks exposed, light wood on the floor, round wood table with comfortable chairs. There were plants even in there, small vases on the tables and on the windowshill, and thin fairylights running over the glass. The counter was just opposite the glass door, a sign above spelling 'The Coffee Bean'.

The only thing strinking with such a pretty, light place, was the man at the counter. Haruko had expected at cute girl serving the coffee, or maybe an old couple. This guy, instead, looked like he should belong to a powerhouse gym: he was huge, bald, with thin mustaches shaped over his squared jaw, and so buff the sleeves of his dark t-shirt rolled up his shoulders, slipping from the thick bicepts. The typical guy one wouldn't risk pissing off.

Haruko gulped, hesitating on the threshold, and when the man noticed her, she almost let out a squeak. He narrowed his eyes at her and spoke with a deep, slightly raspy voice.

"Do you need anything?"

"I-- Uh..." Haruko hesitated. She was so terrified that even coming up with an excuse seemed a terrible choice. "C-coffee. Please," she added in a stammer.

The man didn't say anything. He nodded, turner around, and started preparing the filter. Haruko dragged her feet inside, glancing around.

Despite the owner's scary appearance, the place had a nice atmosphere. There was a woman sitting in a corner with a book, a university students with their laptop, a couple of girls eating a slice of cake and chatting. The light filtering in through the leaves outside gave the place a golden light that seemed to uplift her mood in a beat.

She was still so mesmerized by the place that, when the man announced her the coffee was ready, she glanced back at him with her eyes still shining with marvel.

"This is a very nice place," she said.

The answered with a short hum and a nod.

"Did you decorate it yourself?"

"Well, yes," the owner blinked. "Obviously."

Haruko beamed. No one with such nice tastes could be mean or scary! Suddenly, she felt a renewed wave of appreciation for that large, daunting man.

She let her eyes wander around once more, considering whether to order a muffin along with te coffee as well, whenshe spotted something written in chalk on the menu of the day.

"Are you looking for a waitress?!" She exclaimed.

The man quirked a brow, followed her gaze to the blackboard and nodded again.

"I'd like to take the place, then," Haruko replied promptly.

The owner knitted his eyebrows together as he stared down at her. "Do you have any experience?"

"Well... No," Haruko admitted, embarrassed. "But I do need some money. Plus, it would be so nice to work in such a cute place like this one! I fell in love with it the moment I saw it!"

The heartfelt admission stole the man a light cough. He glanced at the menu, then at the customers, then back at her.

"What's your name?" He asked.

"Tsukushima Haruko," she replied promptly.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Are you a student?"

Haruko nodded.

The man's frown deepened slightly. "Won't your parents be upset you'll spend so many hours here instead of studying?"

"I can study in the quiet moments," Haruko insisted. "Plus, they are always busy working themselves. I thought it would be a good idea to earn some money on my own, since we recently moved here and everything is a lot more expensive than back home."

The man drew in a long sigh. He drummed his fingers on the counter, considering Haruko with a long look.

"Come back with one of your parents," he offered. "If they agree, the place is yours."

Haruko gasped, elated. "Really?!"

The owner nodded again. Haruko let out a squeal of joy, so loud the customers turned around to stare at her with a baffled expression.

"Thank you!" She said, clasping her hands together. "It'll be so great!"

The man nodded again. "Remember to drink your coffee before it gets cold."

Haruko obeyed; her hands ran at the cup and she brought it to her lips, drinking a long sip. Right after, she grimaced and chocked on a verse of disgust.

"It's bitter!"

"Of course it's bitter, it's coffee," the owner commented, giving her another confused look.

Haruko pursed her lips, reaching for the sugar. The whole enthusiasm over her new job perspective had made her forget about the drink she ordered in a rush of panic when she had walked in.

Somehow, the owner seemed to have guessed the proble, because, for the first time, he dedicated her an amused grin.

"Try to look more enthusiastic about coffee when you serve our customers," he suggested.

Haruko nodded, mortified. She poured three bags of sugar in her cup and drank the coffee in a single gulp, too embarrassed to peel her eyes away from the cup.

[phaerlax]

Aster/Karu nantaimori (body sushi) drabble 🦇🐺

“Erm, there, Lord Aster. The model, he’s– his– um… We weren’t sure what to—”

“Yes, yes, I see,” Aster chirps as he enters the scene, assessing the situation. “It’ll be handled. Give us the room for a minute, will you, Finley?”

“O-of course, Your Lordship. Come, girls, we’ll– attend to the musicians.”

The staff seems relieved to shuffle out, fleeing from the scandalous eye-catching sight upon the table; Aster, however, giddily saunters up to it. 

“Well well. Excited about your role after all, aren’t you, puppy?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀...

More adorable indignant growls are the immediate response.

Karu—the buffet’s centerpiece—rests on his back, his naked body serving as a magnificent plate for strips of fish and fruit. Some of the colorful morsels are arranged quite artistically, accentuating the yokai’s scars, the dimples of his chiseled muscles… He looks even more delectable than normal.

Alas, the caterers were prevented from finishing the arrangement, though not by any action of Karu’s– not exactly. He couldn’t really do much, since Aster had the foresight to paralyze his limbs with a special poison to prevent instinctual outbursts. At most, he can curl his fingers and growl (because a cute bone-shaped gag doesn’t let him speak either).

Nothing stopped the boy from popping a raging boner, though. Karu’s dick stands small but proud despite his situation, making it impossible to keep his lewdest bits concealed under a lotus flower as planned.

“Welp, into a cage it is, then! One of the smaller models should fit you comfortably, hehe~” Aster trails a nail up Karu’s twitching length, sizing it up—then grips it with slender fingers. “But first, let’s undo this… eh? Still growly? Don’t want me to touch? Sure~ We’ll use some ice instead—”

Watching the vampire theatrically reach for an ice-filled champagne bucket, Karu’s eyes widen; his defiant snarls instantly shift to a pitiful whimper. He struggles to wiggle his hips, making his hard dick sway as if to welcome Aster’s touch back—clearly, he’d rather be milked than chilled into softness…

“Smart puppy! Alright, here~ Time is short, though…” Aster grins, smug, as Karu’s body quickly goes taut from a few tugs on his throbbing stiffy. “But that’s not a problem for you, is it?”

Karu glares at him, but little tears of embarrassment soon bead in the corner of his angry eyes as he moans through the gag—with a pair of chopsticks, Aster had teasingly pinched one of his nipples (after swiftly eating the sweet slice of strawberry that covered the little nub).

To his dismay, it truly doesn’t take much longer than the proverbial minute Aster had asked of the young butler. One minute he’s whimpering helplessly from the sensations; the next, he’s breathing raggedly with eyes shut as he tries to pretend he’s anywhere other than here… getting his softening cock padded dry with a fancy napkin… waiting for his cock cage to arrive… and all the guests who’d see him…

“Oh? Wow, you got another one in you…? Hehe~”

[timetraveltasting]

HOT DR PEPPER (1968)

It's been a spooky and scary week or so in many ways, and what better way to comfort myself than trying out this Halloween-branded Hot Dr Pepper for my next Tasting History , or rather, Drinking History, concoction. This alcohol-free drink is exactly what it sounds like: Dr Pepper pop warmed up. Dr Pepper, currently the second highest-selling carbonated soft drink in the United States, was created in the 1880s by pharmacist Charles Alderton in Waco, Texas, and first served around 1885. It was first nationally marketed in the United States in 1904, and went on to become a favourite soda with broad and structured marketing campaigns by the 1950s. In the 1960s, the company noticed that Dr Pepper sales dipped in the winter months. So, they launched a marketing campaign, with Dick Clark as the spokesman, to popularize hot Dr Pepper in order to boost winter sales. There were printed ads, there were TV commercials, restaurants began featuring the drink on menus, and you could buy special hot Dr Pepper mugs. However, the drink never quite caught on, and those who drink it today tend to favour it as a way to soothe symptoms of the common cold. I decided to try this recipe because Dr Pepper is one of my favourite pops, and I also like a warm drink in the colder months. See Max’s video on how to make it here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

This is most definitely the easiest 'recipe' I have made yet. I just bought one can of Dr Pepper (I got the Halloween-branded can, which has no flavour difference, but a fun design!) and a lemon.

I poured the can into a pot and heated it on the stove on medium heat until it reached 85 degrees Celsius (180 Fahrenheit), using my brand new cooking thermometer. I then poured it into my favourite mug (shaped like a curling stone), sliced the lemon, and added a slice to the mug. It smelled good, and looked kind of like a hot, sweet black tea.

My experience tasting it:

After waiting for it to cool down a little and for the lemon to hopefully impart some of its flavour into the hot Dr Pepper, I took a sip. Shockingly, it tasted of... Dr Pepper! Surprise, surprise. The only differences I could detect were the hot temperature and the flatness. There were simply no bubbles left in this formerly-fizzy drink. My tastebuds kept searching for a hint of lemon, but not much could be found - perhaps it blended too well with the 23 spices Dr Pepper claims to contain. Regardless, I did like the drink, but only because I already like Dr Pepper. I suppose the heat of the drink was comforting, but I would probably prefer to make tea, hot chocolate, or mulled wine if that's the mood I was in. Of course, Max did warn me of all of this - he had a near identical reaction to hot Dr Pepper - but I decided to make it because it is one of my favourite pops, and why not? While I did think it tasted good, it didn't taste good enough for me to make it again. I could imagine, however, that this recipe could be improved upon by adding a fruit juice or two, or a few more spices on top of the 23 apparently already in the Dr Pepper recipe. If you end up making it, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Hot Dr Pepper original recipe (1968)

Sourced from Dick Clark's instructions in a Dr Pepper commercial (1968).

Just heat Dr Pepper in a saucepan till it steams. Then pour over a thin slice of lemon. That’s a hot idea! Yes, Dr Pepper is delicious cold or hot.

Modern Recipe

Based on Dick Clark's line in a Dr Pepper commercial (1968) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

1 can of Dr Pepper

1 lemon slice

Method:

Pour the Dr Pepper into a saucepan. Set it over medium heat until it reaches 180°F (85°C).

Place a lemon slice in a mug. Pour the hot Dr Pepper over it, then serve it forth.

[montimer]

Don quixote x writer!reader (platonic)

Sitting at your little towns entrance, with an annoyed face, your feathered pen un moving in your hand, pages empty. Surrounded by some of your finished book, trying to gain some motivation, reading through them every now and then. But nothing.

You could hear footsteps coming towards you in the sand. They sounded heavy, did one of the men come back from their hunting?

You looked up from the big rock you were sitting on. Putting the book you were writing- or more like trying to write in, down. Upon raising your head, your eyes lock in with a knight looking figure.

He was up right with his spear, riding his horse, he looked so proud so mighty. Exactly what you wanted your book to be about!

Hopefully he's not here to slay you to death.

The man stopped infront of you and yelled out.

"You there wise attired!" He pointed his spear at you, not close enough to slice you, but close.

"Welcome o' mighty knight, what might be the reason for this spear to be wanting to slash at my face" you pointed at it and he slowly raised his spear down on the ground.

"Those who celebrate the arrival of Don Quixote La Mancha must be worth to spear, worth of mercy!" He again raised his voice.

You tried to word with him but the mad man kept talking of some 'duty of knights' and praised a woman's name.

Now up close judging by the state his armour is in, looks like he put it himself together. Just what might he want?

"Are you hungry sir knight?"

His blabbering stopped for once and he began to stare you down. After an awkward second he spoke up in a more gentle voice.

"Must i say, i am quite in need of a shelter. I'll dine whatever you serve me...say what is your name?"

"Y/n, i am as you can see a writer, in trouble of trying to write a tale of a mighty knight. All tales have been written, all knight's have been spoken of, their names stay in a shape of an ink splatter. I suppose your tales have been written too?"

You picked up one of the finished book next to you, holding it out to him. He took it and looked through it, his face shown surprise.You hold back a giggle.

He gave out a long "ooh!" sound, slowly looking up from the book.

"So you want to write the adventures of the great La Mancha?, why this is just what i have been looking for. Don Quixote's name will live and people who will read about his honorable adventures will shed a tear upon hearing his name!" He began to yell once again.

He jumped down from his horse, now even closer. The man begin to rambler.

"I-I'll just bring your food to you sir"

He stopped but still excited he reply.

"Yes thank you, your name shall be praised. It shall stay in a shape of ink, for on and forever!" He copy the same word you used, he seemed like a happy child who just learned something.

You smiled at him weakly backing away, into your place to get him food, the sooner the better.

You had a hard time trying to pull his helmet off, he let you take the other parts of his armour but this one seemed a bit stuck. Strangely enough he didn't do anything about it, he thinks this is whats normal for him.

You asked him to take it off himself, he told you how once a knight arrives, maidens shall took his armour off, cuz that is how they praise his work.

You weren't a maid nor this man was a real knight but you hanged on to his every word.

After he ate you gave him cold water, since you had no beer. He didn't seem to mind it, he spoken of the thing like as if it was some special liquid made by the gods.

He must be mad. But the perfect men to be written a book of, he seemed bright about the idea too. Destiny he said.

He sit back up on his horse and made his way to the exit, half way he looked back in search of you.

You were once again sitting down by a rock, waving at him.

He quickly ran back towards you, asking you to come along and write his adventures encountering him. You really thought he was gonna come back to tell you about them, but to tell the truth, it sounded exciting. Plus you won't have to come up with another idea while he's away.

"Right right, let me go get a horse"

"Get one of the mightiest, the most fed one, for it shall serve its master with great health. Of course no animal could be matched with my great Rosinante but as good man as you shall get the best!" You suppose he was talking about the white horse he was sitting so proud on. You just nodded at him.

Getting a well fed horse and supplies, he waited for you patiently. Switching between looking at you and in the nowhere. Finally coming back to him ready to go.

Now both of you on a horse, made your ways to the exit. Trying your best to ignore the stares. Don took it in as people admiring him.

"Soon you shall read of the great adventures of Don Quixote de La Mancha! By the admirable writer sir y/n!"

People giggled and you just awkwardly smiled at the man.

Exiting your little town, you took another look at the so called knight of de la mancha. His tired/angry look was gone, he looked proud now. From his perspective he saw you looking and he smiled at you. For the first time, it felt nice.

"Worry not dear friend, i will protect you from whatever monster crosses our path, i will slay all knights who are unworthy and i shall too! Or may god strike me down if my word lies!" He began again.

You admired how..determined he is.

"And i shall write your adventures in a way that people will praise your name and will know who is the man of La Mancha."

"I expected nothing more" he smiled at you.

[kingmagnificoofrosas]

(Read in a mystical fancy voice)

The time has come my friend, for the ask all blogs that talk about their fav character/comfort character must be asked.

When Magnifico is sick, is he a good patient, a bad patient, or some other mystical third option?

*snorts a laugh* Oh! That is a good question 🤣 and I'll gladly answer!

Also this is like the 3 or 4 time someone brings up him being sick 🥺 poor baby

It depends what exactly he has! If it's a cold and he can handle the symptoms, he'll mix himself some medicine and won't say a word. If he can fix something himself, he does.

If it's a flu however, and he's really sick, there are only 2 options. Either he'll insist he's fine and be a stubborn donkey (bad patient) or he'll be too weak to fight. And when he's really in bad shape, he'll seek a lot of comfort. He'll be a good patient then.

Third option would be him dramatically complaining. You know, when you're too sick to be productive but not sick enough to be totally wiped out? That. He'll groan and whine and nagg, that he could study this and that, and he would need to do this and that but he cannot get up because if he does, he get's dizzy and this annoys him, yada yada. 🤣

He'll be like "I want steak! But I can't cause my throat hurts!"

Maid "How about a chicken soup then, your majesty?"

"I don't want boring chicken soup! Can I have desert?" 🥺

"A desert isn't a healing meal, your majesty."

"It is because I said so!"

And then he'll whine again that his head hurts. He'll pull the "pity me" card so hard that the maid will give up and bring the desert and when it's there he doesn't want it anymore because his illness made his appetite go away again.

Yes, being sick makes him become picky. Goodness, if he ends up with the chicken soup anyway, he'll start becoming dramatic over a parsley leaf swimming in the soup. He'll be like :

"Urgh, I hate parsley, why is it in there? And what is this sad slimy chunk? Chicken? What happened to it? What is this? Carrots? Why are they sliced? This is the saddest soup anyone has ever served me!"

For sure, he becomes adorable. If he's reaaally sick his whole composure and charisma will melt down and he's just this helpless boy.