#culinary detective

[burningspy]

Sometimes I even surprise myself with my investigative skills!

Can I add "Culinary Detective" to my resume?

It took a lot of hard work to figure out this secret recipe. I just really hope no one comes after me, accusing me of some kind of corporate espionage.

[shaynetopps]

spencer and arasha on culinary crimes makes me so happy

[zimtphilosoph]

or Read On Archive of Our Own (AO3)

Earl Grey and Sweet Vermouth

Vermouth caught the apple in mid-air on her way up to the kitchen's peninsula. “You're throwing apples at me now? I guess the shotgun would clash with the apron quite a bit.”

Meandering over, it became apparent the woman fell almost two inches shy in height to the man in the apron.

Glancing up to the nearing actress, Okiya caught the overt smugness in a mildly amused smirk, which brought an infuriating dimple to the woman's cheek.

“Isn't it theatre custom to throw edibles in follow-up to an ill performance.” Okiya stated.

“Ah, so the music didn't suit your taste, Rye. I see.” Vermouth's fingertips strayed along the edge of the countertop as if still following the grand piano's dulcet sway. Before the actress settled on a bar stool vis-à-vis, one leg absently crossed over the other, a mellow hum still under her breath.

Okiya observed the woman's unusual light-hearted demeanour. This was Sweet Vermouth, not the aloof and callous one he'd been acquainted with. The infuriating woman, who didn't shy away from standing atiptoe with his koibito-san. This time, however, Gin had taken a hollow point closer to heart. Almost succeeding in killing Vermouth in the process.

“No. It did, actually. But it wasn't the first time I heard you play.”

“Not the first?” For the better it might've been, she'd opted to sit abreast the peninsula beforehand. The thought of what Rye might've witnessed on that solemn evening she'd played Chopin's Nocturne only further stoked her unease.

“Eat up. I initially throw the apple for you to actually take a bite, seeing as you're hypoglycaemic. If the migraine is the to go by. You squint your eyes markedly as the light invades, and your movements are more deliberate. I can assure you, it's neither poisoned nor rotten.”

Vermouth glowered and gave a disparaging scoff at the not quite late FBI agent but took a crunching bite of out of the fruit nonetheless.

“I might've to reconsider.” Okiya's gaze strayed over to the kitchen door and the adjacent parlour. “On the Rotten Apple front, that is.” The sly bastard, he must've ascertained whether matriarch was well out of earshot. Yukiko's late castigation ostensibly still fresh on his mind, then concluded. “A tamanegi suits you just as well.”

Vermouth, who still manducated on the honeycrisp fruit, choked awkwardly on the latest bite she'd taken.

That woman's stroke of ill luck enriched Okiya's cup of Earl Grey considerably.

“It seems words can kill you just as easily, woman. If I'd known before, it would've saved me a round of bullets.”

But contrary to his words, Okiya opted to place another cup of Earl Grey in front of Vermouth, who scowled and in a bid to quell her late conundrum deigned and took a sip, endeavouring to preserve a soupçon of dignity.

A tad more forceful than strictly necessary, the actress clinked the cup back onto its plate. “I abhor you.”

“The feeling is mutual, I can assure you.”

“So a tamanegi. Do tell. To be bested by a woman. Surely it must've made you cry, Rye?” Vermouth crooned in low contralto and cocked her head, idly resting her chin in her palm.

Okiya scoffed. “I've known your worldview to be severely compromised, but that's twisting the truth rather grotesquely. I scarred you quite well in New York, Silverhair. Whilst our shootout at the harbour parted with you fleeing with tantei-bouya. And on a final note, I could've ended you on the rooftops of the Mōri Tantei Jimusho.”

“I know. Lucky me, that you abhor our dear Gin even more. I actually felt your bullets passing.”

“I remember you meandering down from the rooftops at your own leisure. It's fortunate that my finger is not itching to put a bullet between your eyes.”

“Ah yes, I see the moral high ground yawning.” The bitterness behind her words seemed almost astringent.

“Yawning indeed. But Gin, you're not. You've got the devil's luck. You almost died at his hand this time.”

“My my, the almost part, I see. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint, Rye. The kitten told me you and him had a little spat after Angel and I fell. Is he... dead?”

There's a strange depth to the actress's voice. One that gave Okiya pause.

“No. Although he shall be licking his wounds. He played a lone hand this time. I don't suppose That person would connive even his third in command such an agenda.”

[romances-not-tragedies]

Also Sadi Ratan will not survive a Marco Pierre White Cooking Challenge pass it on

[chaotic-toasters]

Immature

Leah Williamson x Teen!Gunner!R

“Oi! What’re you doin’ up there? Get down!”

You glanced down at your vice captain distastefully. “Why?”

“It’s dangerous!” Leah cried, standing at the base of the tree just outside the Arsenal training facility. “You could fall and break your arm or something!”

“So?”

“Uh—what d’you mean ‘so’?! You’re okay with getting a broken arm?”

You shrugged, gazing at the training pitches from your spot in the tall oak tree. “I can still play with a broken arm, eh?”

Leah’s mouth was agape. “No, you can’t!”

“Yes, I can!” you protested, climbing higher. “Katie scored a hat trick on international duty with a torn bicep! I’ll be fine.”

“Fucking Katie… you’re benched if you climb any higher!” Leah yelled.

You frowned. “Why?”

Leah scowled. “Because! You’re gonna get hurt!”

“Why?”

“Because! Those branches could break!”

“Why?”

“Because you’re heavy!”

“Why?”

“Becau—because! Get down from there!”

You stuck out your tongue, starting your descent. “Fine! You’re no fun.”

“Yes, I am! Just because I care about your well-being doesn’t make me boring!” the defender glared, taking a drink from her water bottle.

“Yeah, right! Steph cares about my well-being, but she’s loads more fun than you!”

Leah spit out her water, chasing after you as you sprinted into the building. “You take that back!”

-

“Who on the Arsenal squad is the best trash-talker?”

You glanced at the camera, then back at the BBC interviewer as you pondered the question. “Other than me? Maybe… maybe Caitlin.”

“Interesting,” he nodded thoughtfully. “And who would you say is the worst trash-talker?”

“Oh, easy. Leah Williamson.”

Kyra laughed as she walked past. “Oi, Lord Farquaad! Your kid just said you’re the worst trash-talker on the team!”

The England captain gasped indignantly, momentarily turning away from her media day activity set up nearby. “I’m great at trash-talking, what are you on about?”

You scoffed. “Oh, please. Your trash-talking skills are as bad as your bike riding skills.”

“OI!”

-

“Kyra,” you whispered, poking the Aussie that looked just as bored as you did at the seemingly unnecessary meeting. “Psst.”

She glanced over to make sure Jonas wasn’t paying attention, then looked over at you, lowering her voice. “Yeah?”

“When we get out of here… the sprinklers are on, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

The two of you went silent as Jonas glanced over, pretending to pay attention. “—have a better squad than them. If we go by the book, they will not be able to score…”

You smirked conspiratorially, voice even lower than before to avoid detection from some of your older teammates. “I’m gonna push Leah into them.”

Kyra grinned. “I’ll tell the admin.”

-

“Admin’s recording,” Kyra whispered to you as she jogged past, going to bug Steph. “Good luck.”

You grinned, waving to the camera discreetly before walking up to Leah. “Hi, cappy.”

She gave you a suspicious look, but kept walking. “What d’you want?”You shrugged as the two of you stepped onto the training pitch. “Just wanted to ask you what I should make for dinner.”

Leah raised her eyebrows, but nodded anyway. “Pasta’s always goo—OOF!”

“SURPRISE ATTACK!” You screeched, tackling her right into the nearest sprinkler’s line of fire.

“Get off me, you cheeky devil!” Leah protested, laughing. “I don’t wanna get wet! It’s cold out here!”

You snickered, wrestling her to the ground. “Womp womp!”

Nearby, Steph was shaking her head in amusement. “I swear, Y/N is like Leah’s Kyr—OI!”

Kyra gleefully shoved Steph into another sprinkler set up a few feet away, cackling like a witch. “SURPRISE ATTACK!”

“HEY!” Steph cried, chasing after her. “You’re such a pest! Get back here!”

You laughed at the two aussies, then gave Leah a rough noogie with one hand and the camera a thumbs up with the other. “Love you, cappy!”

Leah stuck out her tongue, giving you a slight push. “You and Kyra are so bad.”

“Not nearly as bad as your culinary taste.”

“OI!”

[writers-potion]

Describing Food in Writing

I love food. And drinks.

When I think of the HP series, I recall the feasts. Treacle tarts and puddings. Butterbeer. Food trolley on the train and chocolate frogs in the Gryffindor common room.

Foods helps readers engage with the story, so it's good to know how to describe them.

Just one Adjective

There's really no need to go overboard with how a particular food tastes. If it's something that your readers are already familiar with, just add in a small detail.

Are the breakfast eggs yellow or white, clumpy or fluffy? Salty or bland? Grainy or silky?

Just one adjective/detail is enough.

Think of the Character

Take note of each character's palate while you describe. Especially if you're writing in 1st person POV.

Someone in your cast may be a culinary artist and another content with spray cheese.

Food descriptions can reveal a lot about character's personality and lifestyle.

Watch Food Shows

Master Chef. The Great British Baking Show. Aesthetic character baking channel on YouTube.

Food shows usually have a section where they assess/review the food made, which might be helpful.

Recently, I've noticed that 1-minute food reviewers on YT Shorts are pretty good at graphic yet succinct taste descriptions!

Ratatouille

I'm not kidding!

If you ever want to get into the mind of someone who is passionate about food, or need inspiration yourself - check this movie out.

Just watching Remy's passion and the magic of the culinary arts will boost your writer soul with inspiration (or something like it, anyway).

Experience Restaurants

The best research of all is probably experience, so the next time you eat a meal, challenge your palate.

Think about how it looks, tastes, and feels in you mouth.

If possible, try dishes your characters would eat and discern what they would detect. What elements of the disk would your character like?

Some Food Adjectives

Tangy Creamy Crispy Tender Juicy Exquisite Luscious Gourmet Wholesome Delectable Risk Zesty Succulent

Crunchy Greasy Gooey Tart Smoky Savory Marinated Meaty Moist Battered Dainty Homestyle Fudgy

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

[dailyadventureprompts]

Monsterhunt: Savogorg, Demon of Deliciousness

Demons reflect the most destructive impulses of the living and while most default to primal feelings like fear, pain, and despair... the feeling this saccharine salamander embodies could best be described as "the irresistible urge to stick your finger in a freshly frosted cake".

Driven by an indulgent need to taste all the finest things without ever worrying about hunger Savogorg crashes feasts, burgles pantries, and pinches pies from windowsills heedless of the chaos it causes in the process.

It takes an act of supreme immoderation to summon the demon of deliciousness, an inability to be satisfied that goes so far beyond hedonism that it wounds the soul. A ruler who beggars the realm with their elaborate feasts, An epicurean restaurateur who seeks ever more exotic experiences for her exclusive clientele, the taverncook who insists that this time he'll finally be able to make his grandmother's recipe as good as he remembers it. Those that suffer this affliction find themselves beset by bouts of reckless appetite, and with every mouthful the demon's stake upon them grows until it is finally able to manifest in the world.

Adventure Hooks:

Everyone knew it was a bad omen when the earl's secondborn shot the white stag. Legends of earning lordship be damned, it was plain as day the creature was beloved by the forest goddess. Butchery and trophytaking was bad enough, but to serve the flesh to your spoiled friends only to spit it out as "gamey"... now that truelove was worthy of some divine wrath. Now the noble lad wanders the wood in a state of ragged confusion, delirious from hunger and mushrooms and fermented berries, sometimes asking passersby for help, sometimes attempting to bite them. Folk susspect he's become a werewolf, and the earl is offering a rich reward to those who can bring his boy back and break the curse, while his firstborn is willing to pay extra to ensure that doesn't happen. She's become convinced her brother desires her inheritance, and what could it hurt if he stayed mad?

A prestigious culinary competition has been thrown into chaos after a series of disastrous incidents and atleast one contestant going missing. This is an excuse to riff off your favourite baking shows while the party plays detective trying to find who's eating the supplies... and the staff.

There's no such thing as forbidden snacks when you're a hunger demon. Having slithered into an elven temple dedicated to the god of earth and wine, Savogorg has laid it's greedy fingers on a sacred artifact in the form of a heavily laden bunch of grapes each sculpted from a precious gemstone and swallowed it whole. Ignorant of the demon's existnace the elves are incensed at this trespass, and begin hunting and questioning would be thieves. Tracking the demon might be easier than expected, as the holy artifact has given it divine indigestion, and the amphibious fiend keeps burping up minor mirracles as it moves about the city looking for a place to sleep off its tumymache.

Challenges & Complications:

Despite it's bulk, the demon's squishy body allows it to pass through any opening the size of a fist, allowing it to slip into unexpected places through drains, chimneys, and cracked doors, leaving behind only a sugary slime. This also allows it to unexpected escapes should it be cornered by the party. Experementation may reveal that extensive cold damage may cause the demon's body to semi-solidfy, preventing this ability.

As a demon of appetite, Savogorg is sustained by the act of eating, and will freely regain hitpoints anytime it focuses on chowing down rather than fighting the party, or if it's swallowed one of them whole. Poison can be useful here, souring its stomach and preventing it from actively eating anything more.

Artsource

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

The Key to His Heart

It is often said that the key to a man’s heart, goes through his stomach. Well, that doesn’t apply to the man who owns my heart, and vice versa. By all means, we do indulge in culinary treats. 

In our younger days, it was heaps of take-away; Indian, Chinese, Indonesian. Never Italian, though. Angelo would’ve been devastated if we sought out Italian food somewhere else.

And there were of course the sweets, to satisfy the madman I lived with. 

(Still lives with, to be clear.) 

Ginger nuts, jammy dodgers, scones, Mrs. Hudson’s home baked cakes and biscuits, tiramisu, chocolate mousse, and sticky toffee pudding.

But I’m rambling. My madman, the great Sherlock Holmes, still doesn’t eat the amount of food I would like him to. He still claims that it slows him down. Not that he has places to be nowadays. If you don’t count his beloved beehives that is.

I seem unable to keep my thoughts collected on one topic today. The thing I was going to tell you about, was how I, John Hamish Watson, was given the key to the detective’s heart.

Everyone thought we were a couple from the day I moved into Baker Street. Quite a lot of them took it as a personal insult, when we, well, mostly I, objected to the assumption.

“Not gay!” I shouted out to anyone who cared to listen.

Few did, but the one that mattered the most, always listened. It still hurts to think about. 

Sherlock is interested in all kinds of things, but the thing that has stuck with him since childhood, is the fascination for bees. I was stunned when he told me about it quite early in our acquaintanceship. Living in London assured that we didn’t come across them very often, unless we walked the parks. We mostly ran through the parks, always chasing the bad guys. That was a relief, because I was terrified of the tiny creatures. 

“How is that possible? You invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock protested when I told him.

“Well, childhood trauma isn’t that easily forgotten, Sherlock,” I stated.

When I was eight years old, I was stung by dozens of bees. I had been fighting with Harry, and she pushed me against our uncle’s two beehives. The push was hard, and both hives fell to the ground. I can still recall the angry buzzing and the bees’ fierce attack. It was summer, and I was only wearing a pair of shorts… 

Enough about my childhood horrors. 

It took me too long to realise that I loved Sherlock. Even when he came back from the dead, I acted like I hadn’t grieved him like a lover.

Keep calm and carry on.

Sherlock’s sudden illness, which forced him to stay in bed for almost a fortnight, made us both come out of our shells. His high fever made him hallucinate, and he was quite talkative throughout. He pledged his love for me numerous times a day, mostly in his sleep, so I didn’t put much into the declarations. I worked it out in the end and did some pledging myself.

He wasn’t entirely convinced at first. The not gay statement still lingered in his mind, and he was reluctant to do more than occasionally holding my hand and hug me. So, I decided to convince him. I just had to get Harry on board. She was surprisingly amenable to my suggestion to buy her share of our uncle’s cottage, which we both had inherited some years previous. 

Sherlock didn’t know about it. I had almost forgotten about it myself by that time. 

The cottage was called “In the Meadows”, and the name fit perfectly. It was surrounded by them on three sides, and said meadows needed some taming. Nobody had lived there for at least three years. An old neighbour had kept an eye on it, though, so it wasn’t in total decay. It needed some loving hands, which I hoped Sherlock and I could provide.

I took him down to Sussex one sunny Saturday in May. The neighbour had assured me that beehives were in place, and the gear needed to tend to them.

“Happy belated birthday, Sherlock,” I said when we stood outside the house.

“What do you mean, John?” he asked, too stunned to deduce and observe properly.

“It’s for you. Or us, really,” I told him.

I was so anxious for his reaction.

The blinking came first. I had anticipated that. What came as a total surprise was the kiss once he had spotted the hives.

He turned to face me, cradled my face, and pressed his lips softly against mine. I almost stopped breathing but finally got my arms to work and circled them around his waist.

“My John. You…how…but you’re terrified of…” Sherlock stuttered after he broke the kiss.

“Well, I’ll just have to trust you to protect me for once, then,” I murmured, still dazed from the tender kiss.

“Do you really love me that much, John?” Sherlock inquired.

“More than anything,” I told him, which lead to further kisses.

If you wondered; yes, we’re both retired, and our address isn’t 221B Baker Street anymore, but “In the Meadows”, Sussex.

-------------------------------------------------------

This is also my entry to the Sherlock Challenge of July, prompt: key.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @sherlockchallenge @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno

@helloliriels @raina-at @meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler

@topsyturvy-turtely @jolieblack @peanitbear @phoenix27884 @bs2sjh

@brandiwein1982 @meandhisjohn @a-victorian-girl @221beloved @ninasnakie

@shy-bi-inlovewithregandmoony @lhrinchelsea @missdeliadilisblog

(Tell me if you want to be tagged or untagged)

[meet-me-in-the-pouringrain]

culinary crimes missed a trick not having Detective Wheresmycoffee with Sarah Christ

[pikatsum]

Lights, Camera, Chaos | 1 | Todoroki Shouto / Reader

Summary: You and Shouto are forced to make your first televised appearance as a couple. What starts as an embarrassing invasion of privacy completely upends itself once you realize just how cutthroat the world of reality TV can get.

Tags & Warnings: Reader uses she/her pronouns, Quirkless Reader, Pro-Hero Shouto.

Part of the Pretty Boy Summer collab! [cross-posted on ao3]

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Being the partner of a pro-hero was the kind of thing that should really come with an instruction manual. And emblazoned on uncoated paper stock beneath chapter one, the golden rule that nine of ten couples managed to break: keep it on the down-low.

Those who didn’t faced the consequences— particularly civilians.

Their faces were ultimately the ones that got splashed across the front page of every gossip-rag in Japan. They became public pariahs, their names repeated ad nauseam on the news, whispered with glee in hair salons and social clubs. In the story of their life, everything became forfeit to the public— their friends, their profession, their dating history, their homes. All of it.

Now, for nearly three months, you’d been one of them. At the end of the day, that was the noodles’ fault, really.

The summer after culinary school, you’d scored your first full-time role, working as the head chef in a small noodle shop just a few blocks from your college campus, at the edge of the city. The owner, Okuda-san, had been in business for years, but the dreams of grandeur that had brought him to central Mustafau as a young man had long since been struck by reality. Though the quality of his meals had never diminished, he’d vastly scaled back his operations over the last ten years— gone was the opulent restaurant in the center of downtown with its sleek metallic architecture and warm ambient lighting. Gone too was his wife, or so you suspected, based on the mutterings you could pick up from the front office, when business ran slow.

The day you met Shouto, the rain had been coming down in sheets, blurring the windows and filling the reception area with a soothing white-noise as you oversaw reservation bookings, dinner preparations and engaged in a small bit of gossip-gathering on the side. It was that same rain that had led you to warn him about the biodegradable styrofoam that his takeout was packed in, and offer the restaurant’s tiny enclave seating to avoid having his meal ruined by the deluge. You’d shared polite conversation— mostly offering tips for balancing buckwheat dough to make proper soba noodles.

Over time, the street in front of Okuda-san’s little shop had become a well-worn patrol path for Shouto’s agency. Conversations turned to texts, and invitations out with his friends. After an unhealthy amount of pining, you’d finally steeled your nerves enough to ask him on a date— an awkward but effective kickstart to almost two years of the best relationship you’d ever had.

There truly was no protocol for having such an intimate piece of yourself revealed to the public, to millions of your partner’s diehard fans. There weren’t words to describe the moment you first laid eyes on the incriminating photo that had started all of this: the two of you, sharing a kiss on the way up to your apartment. Your longing, exacerbated by Shouto’s tedious travel schedule had faced off against your building’s perpetually-slow elevator doors and came up short.

One grainy picture, posted to one account incited a slew of Internet detectives, stealing your anonymity in a matter of hours.

At the very least, you’d been blissfully unaware at first— overlooking the increasing stares from the diners at Okuda-san’s, and glossing over the fact that the cab driver knew your name on the way home. You’d remained blissfully ignorant up until arriving home to find Shouto on the doorstep, still in his costume. He’d quickly shepherded you up to your apartment and barricaded the door. In full pro-hero mode, he’d guided you through the essentials to pack in a duffel bag, and then quickly brought you back to his, to wait out the full extent of the madness.

The worst of it was concentrated in that first two weeks. You’d been unable to turn on the TV without hearing the diminutive nickname the media had chosen for you— “Noodle Legs”— coupled with the same clip of Shouto guiding you up the steps into his high-rise building, over and over. Unfortunately, your legs had been wobbling, as the full magnitude of what was happening had finally begun to set in. In those first days, you’d sequestered yourself in the guest room with the blinds drawn, the drone of the TV only semi-effective against the catastrophizing taking place in your mind.

The public had judged your relationship with Shouto and you clearly had not met expectations. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Even a decade on from the war that had rewritten the operations of superhuman society, competent wasn’t a word that paired well with Quirkless.

As the media storm raged, you had never seen Shouto so upset. In the first few days, his schedule was particularly erratic, his whereabouts always announced by text and sticky notes left on your door, or the bathroom mirror in tight, neat script. Often, he was out amidst the public, speaking to media outlets on his own, trying to stem the influx of public opinion about you that had become the nation’s topic de jour. As you slowly began to emerge from your cocoon of solitude, you saw just how oppositely this ordeal was affecting him.

When he was home, Shouto paced, relentlessly. He completed a book of Sudoku puzzles as you absently cooked enough udon to feed a small army— or at least four of his pro-hero friends. Each night, he scarcely settle in on the couch next to you before noticing a stray sock or a flickering lightbulb, some small thing to put right. Nothing was enough, anymore, and even as you asked him to come to bed— his bed— he only ever seemed to sleep on the couch, if at all.

After nearly a week, his mania and your melancholy finally collided, spectacularly. You could still remember the whisper of the paper against the hardwood, as it slid under the bedroom door, late that night. Nearly two pages offered a handwritten letter apologizing for the upheaval of your entire life, and his absence in the aftermath. The third carefully recorded the plan he’d been building to mitigate the fallout, mentioning the friends he’d enlisted to help him and proposed ideas for a manufactured scandal, enough to take the limelight off you. That moment of shade, he argued, would allow you to distance yourself.

“I promise to help you establish a future that will make you happy.” the letter concluded, “And I understand, if that future no longer includes me.”

It was carefully-worded, largely self removed and so quintessentially Shouto that it nearly broke you all over again. Not much about your future was determined that night, apart from one, indelible truth: you didn’t want a future without Shouto in it. If that meant you’d have to face the public— the cameras and opinions and bigotry— so be it.

You’d casually perused enough gossip magazines to know the general strategies that hero & civilian relationships used, publicly. Some couples went on luxurious (sponsored) vacations, their devotion shamelessly showcased through glossy magazine spreads and corny ‘What’s in Our Suitcase?’ Q&As. Others used their moment in the limelight to launch one partner’s passion project — a private art studio, a taproom, a crossfit gym— often trendy, always overcrowded and never necessary public infrastructure.

The rest wrote memoirs. So. Many. Memoirs. You’d just finished “Catching the Copycat. — How I Fell in Love with Phantom Thief” earlier that month, and it wasn’t half bad. Amidst the unending slew of public attention and the realization that you were going to have to market yourself somehow, the idea of writing a novel was contenting. At the very least, your partner’s versatile Quirk meant there was no end to the pithy puns you could come up with for a title.

And then, Shouto’s PR team put out a press release announcing that the two of you would be starring in the next episode of Split Shift— the Hero Network’s one and only reality television program.

‘Think you’ve got what it takes to be a hero? Think again!” announced its pithy tagline, in the promotional packet,’ Each week, Split Shift lets its viewers experience a day in the life of the nation’s top defenders, exposing their personal sides, through the eyes of their inner circle!.’

The two of you had tried to fight it. Oh, how you had tried, your combined efforts quickly spawning endless hours of email chains. But Shouto’s public relations team was relentless— apparently, the clamor of the public for more details, photos, evidence of your leaked relationship was stronger than any villain in the known universe. And without it, they warned, Shouto’s rank in the heroics charts was severely at risk.

“I’m sure you’re aware,” Omori Mika, Shouto’s head of PR, explained, fingers flying across her keyboard as a window of metrics popped up, “a significant portion of Shouto’s fanbase finds him anywhere from “considerably” to “highly” attractive. Early this year, he dethroned Best Jeanist to win Quirk’d Magazines’ “Hottest Hero Alive.”

“Oh, yes— well deserved.” you nodded, sparing a glance to your own well-loved copy, resting on the coffee table. The cover-shot had really captured his intensity, the haunting contrast of his heterochromatic gaze in low lighting.

From the other side of the couch, Shouto cleared his throat, and you found yourself impishly delighted by the fact that he refused to meet your eyes.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because that faction in particular wants to know — why her?” Mika made a brief gesture towards you as she expounded, “Why, out of every person in the nation— the world, even— why is she the one you chose?”

Shouto blinked, glancing between you and the laptop.

“Do they want a list? I’d have to ask Midoriya for—“

“—evidence is the name of the game, Shouto.” Mika broke in, “Photos, maybe, but what people really want is footage.”

“Footage that we have to get by being publicly humiliated, got it.” you sighed.

A notch appeared between Mika’s perfectly- plucked eyebrows.

“I know you’re both unhappy about the booking, but the Hero Network is the best platform to showcase Shouto’s capabilities. The nature of the show won’t just remind people why they trust him— it’ll show that he’s chosen a capable and resourceful partner, as well.”

You flushed and averted your gaze. Capable and resourceful were just about the last things that you were feeling, at the moment.

“And honestly, Split Shift is tame in comparison to some of the shows that have been asking for you.” Mika began to flip through her color-coded planner, “Let’s see… Quirktastrophe, Save my Love Life… oh, you’re lucky we didn’t put you on Zero to Hero, I hear that host is a real piece of work, off-camera…”

“Message received.” Shouto intoned, cutting off the diatribe. You moved your legs enough to allow him to scoot over, leaning forward to minimize the chat window and zoom in on a contractual document, written in a font size in the single-digits. He met your eyes

You took a deep breath and sealed your fates with a nod.

“Where do we sign?”

The devil worked hard, but apparently the scheduling team for Split Shift worked harder. Less than a week later, the two of you were arriving at the studio at the crack of dawn, for what promised to be a grueling day of filming. The process began two blocks before the filming lot, a two-man crew driving out to meet in an adjacent parking lot. You and Shouto were each asked to step out of the car in order to have a microphone pack strapped and secured beneath your clothing. They also hooked a small portable camera to the dashboard, to “capture your authentic reactions to arriving on-set.”

In a mutual act of defiance, you and Shouto remained dead-silent for the remaining two blocks. It was a welcome respite, especially given that it seemed those silences would be few and far between for the rest of the day.

Two steps out of the car and you were being accosted by a human gale-force. She arrived in a cloud of cherry-scented perfume, and wasted no time in handing over the two smoothies she was carrying. The badge pinned smartly to her dark blazer read “Noujuu Yōko”.

You’d just barely opened your mouth to offer a ‘thank you’, but the woman barely spared a glance before she turned and circled a finger in the air to follow.

“You’re seven minutes late.”

“Your crew was delayed and there were a number of road closures en route.” Shouto fell in line, his cooler hand lacing with your free one, “We weren’t—“

“—I sent a reminder email at 2:45 AM with these details. Your coordinator should have shared them.”

You watched as a notch appeared in your partner’s brow, a subtle display of his annoyance. Before he could retort, you broke in with a small laugh that felt as awkward and forced as it sounded.

“Sorry about that.” you said, “This is all… very new.”

You didn’t receive a response, nor at this point were you particularly expecting one. Avoiding the wires criss-crossing the asphalt while keeping up with her brisk pace was taking enough effort, anyways. Unfortunately, an experimental sip of the smoothie in your hand revealed that it tasted like chalk.

“Don’t feel the need to apologize.” Shouto murmured, as you slowed your pace. This close, notes of mint and jasmine stood out in his cologne as he leaned over to murmur to you, “She’s just high-strung. They can film and record as they like, now— I’ve already seen a camera following us, from the right. They’re looking for reactions.”

“So, no public meltdowns— got it.” you smiled weakly, a chill going up your spine at the prospect of indirectly being ‘on-air’.

Yōko led the way back to the first of the sound stages as she explained that Split Shift was filmed in a “psychologically-backed” sequence. The core of that process was candid footage, occasionally guided by interviews.

“You’ll be interviewing throughout the day, both separately and together.” she explained, at the door, “At midday, we’ll have a thirty-minute lunch, and a touch-up with hair and makeup. The afternoon will then be dedicated to wrapping up the heroics case.”

“The… what?” you asked, glancing at Shouto, “Is there something you’re supposed to look into?”

“Not that I am aware of.” Shouto said, “Although I assume, based on the increasing number of cameras that have tracked us here, that this is meant to be some kind of dramatic twist.”

It took you a moment to begin to spot them— angled around corners, hidden in the shrubbery and eaves of the soundstage. There was even a drone flying overhead, high up enough to muffle the whine of its motors. Apprehension bloomed in your chest, counting at least fifteen cameras, knowing there were likely more.

The tone Shouto adopted was pure apathy— but you knew it as a defense mechanism, to hide the anger he hated to show.

“Is there a particular direction you’d like us to face, to express our shock?” he said.

Yōko’s chartreuse eyes narrowed in a silent declaration of war.

“This way will be fine.”

In the next instant, a loud metallic screech made you jump. Whirling around, you realized that the garage door of the warehouse was opening, and although you couldn’t see much through the gloom, the sun’s rays did catch off another two camera lenses, at least.

“We’ve made a few changes on set.” Yōko had to raise her voice to speak over the shuffle of the film crew as they filled in the space, the descending screech of the drone, “Audiences used to prefer viewing the world of heroes at street-level, through the eyes of those they loved most. Now, they want to experience it, for themselves.”

You weren’t looking at her, though, or any of the multitudes of cameras. Instead, your gaze was focused on the mannequin angled in the center of the sound stage, and dressed in a disconcerting blend of lycra and tactical gear— specifically an all-too-familiar vest and utility belt.

Yōko’s voice rang out behind you, sending a chill up your spine as the full scope of what you had gotten yourself into began to click into place.

“So, [Last Name] [First Name]. Are you ready to become a hero?”

[vc55bughead]

I love this lineup for culinary crimes- Poor Ang and Court are used to this insanity and then Liv is embracing the role of the sexy secretary that takes her job way to seriously in like a 50's detective show lmao

[shaynetopps]

we got another culinary crimes ep!!

[undercover-bro]

I like to think that the Shayne of the Culinary Crimes universe is a semi-retired actor finally writing that book he used to talk about/househusband (and full-time Cat Dad). His detective spouse works long hours when on the case and he makes her homemade, nutricious lunches and brings dinner by the precinct when she's going to be there late. Him being vitrolic friends with her rookie, Trevor, just comes from them competively trading recipes and Shayne being annoyed that Trevor's banana bread is always slightly better than his.

[cece693]

Monster in the Making (Will Graham x Male! Lecter)

Hey :) I know I haven't uploaded much, but life has gotten in the way. So, to jump back into writing, I've decided to write something about my favorite murder husband, Will. What was meant to be something short turned into (possibly) my longest post yet.

Summary: The Lecter siblings were obsessed with Will Graham but for entirely different reasons. While Hannibal wanted to deconstruct the puzzle that was the detective, M/N wanted Will to be his.

tags: jealousy, possessiveness, m/n being a little shit, Will indulges him, why can't they just talk it out like normal adults, oh yeah 'cause one's a murderer in the making and the other is related to Hannibal :)

M/N Lecter was a mirror image of his elder brother, Hannibal: with sophisticated tastes and an appetite for human meat, it was their façades that set them apart. While both inherited a charisma unlike any other, it was M/N Lecter whose mask never slipped off. Unlike Hannibal who instilled an unconscious fear in people with his dominating and blunt persona, M/N preferred to play the role of the unsuspecting innocent.

He derived pleasure from allowing others to spin their own webs of deceit, all the while believing they had any significance in his life. Whether they be lovers, friends, or colleagues, no one was immune to his subtle influence. His manipulations were veiled behind gentle words and tender gestures, a feigned desire to enrich their lives until they found themselves isolated and reliant solely on M/N. This artful deception ensnared all whom M/N cast his gaze upon, until the arrival of Will Graham.

A detective with a peculiar gift that Hannibal simply dubbed ‘pure empathy’, Will immediately knew something was wrong with the Lecter siblings. His dark, almost onyx eyes perceived the monsters both Hannibal and M/N were, yet (he hated himself for saying this) there was a complexity to their darkness that intrigued him. So, despite the warning bells ringing in his mind, Will couldn’t help but be drawn to the siblings. Hannibal wanted to bring out Will’s own dark side, seeing a capable partner in the man who cloaked himself with a ruse of normality. But for M/N, he simply desired the man.

He couldn’t explain what about Will attracted him, but for the first time, M/N felt drawn to another being. He wanted to own the detective—his mind, heart, body. It was a puzzling revelation that M/N could even feel these things for another being. 

"I assume you're pleased with my surprise," Hannibal whispered to M/N as the familiar sight of the detective's car pulled into their driveway. The siblings had decided to host another dinner party, though with M/N's hectic schedule, the majority of the preparations fell upon Hannibal. This entailed cooking, setting the table, and sending out invitations—invitations M/N was not permitted to see.

M/N should have anticipated that Hannibal was scheming something, but he never imagined this. Developing feelings for the detective was one thing, but inviting Will into their home—a place that would undoubtedly unsettle the detective—angered him.

M/N couldn't pinpoint when his desire to possess Will shifted into protectiveness, but it was too late now. Hannibal had retreated to the kitchen, likely to evade M/N's impending wrath, leaving him alone to greet their newest guest. Slipping into character, M/N forced a smile as the detective's figure hesitated at the open door. "Mr. Graham." M/N greeted, his voice warm and friendly. "It's good to see you. Please, come in."

Will's gaze flickered from M/N to the grand interior of the Lecter residence, taking in the opulent furnishings and the faint aroma of culinary mastery wafting from the kitchen. Despite his reservations, there was a reluctant curiosity in his expression. "Thank you." Will replied, his tone guarded yet polite as he crossed the threshold. "I must admit, I didn't expect an invitation." And why would the Lecters invite him? Will was hardly good company, always managing to unsettle people with his personality.

Catching the subtle self-deprecation in Will’s words, M/N frowned. “Why wouldn’t we invite you, Mr. Graham? I find your company quite pleasant.” 

Internally, M/N couldn't help but smirk at the reaction of his detective—the rosy hue that enveloped the tips of Will's ears, and the subtle shift in his demeanor as he lowered his head, avoiding M/N's gaze. M/N couldn't quite discern if Will was simply oblivious to his flirting or intentionally ignoring it, but either way, it stirred something inside him to see the effect he had on the guarded detective. 

Not wanting to further embarrass the man, M/N turned on his heel and began guiding Will further into the house, towards the dining room where the rest of their guests were gathered. Some were engaged in lively conversations, their voices mingling in the air, while others took in the opulent surroundings, their eyes roaming over the intricate decorations and paintings adorning the walls.

M/N felt a surge of pride at the sight of the meticulously arranged table, adorned with fine china and gleaming silverware. The aroma of Hannibal's culinary creations wafted through the air, tantalizing the senses and adding to the air of anticipation that hung over the room.

"Please, make yourself comfortable." M/N told Will with a reassuring smile. “Dinner will be served shortly." Leaving the detective was the last thing M/N wanted to do, but he knew he had to fulfill his duties as a co-host and mingle with their other guests. With a lingering glance at Will, M/N reluctantly excused himself, promising to return shortly. 

Watching M/N walk away, Will was taken aback by the unexpected pang of disappointment that washed over him. He knew M/N couldn’t stay by his side all night long, but a part of Will hoped he would. He and M/N had been playing a game as of late; one Will had been initially taken aback by but had quickly returned. Flirting—subtle, yet charged with an unspoken tension that seemed to crackle between them whenever they were together. 

M/N had a way of getting under his skin, of teasing out the darker, more dangerous parts of himself that Will hadn’t known he even possessed. In M/N's presence, Will felt alive in a way he hadn't in years, his senses heightened and his inhibitions loosened. M/N Lecter had become his downfall—hell, M/N was all Will thought about these days.

As he watched M/N mingle effortlessly with the other guests, a wave of conflicting emotions washed over him. Will knew he should stay away, that getting too close to M/N Lecter would only lead to trouble. And yet, the allure of the forbidden was too strong to ignore, drawing him inexorably closer to the flame.

As the evening wore on, Will found himself retreating into the shadows, avoiding interactions with the other guests. The lively chatter and laughter only served to amplify his own sense of isolation. He didn’t belong here; all he wanted was to return home and snuggle against the warm fur of his dogs. But just as Will debated the possibility of slipping away unnoticed, a sudden burst of laughter echoed from behind him, pulling him from his thoughts. 

As if summoned, Will’s gaze landed on M/N, who stood across the room, his charming smile directed towards a striking woman. She was elegant and poised, with cascading waves of chestnut hair that framed her delicate features. Her blue eyes sparkled with laughter and interest as she leaned closer to M/N, her hand resting upon his arm as they continued conversing.

The attraction between them was evident—the way the woman pressed herself against M/N, with the man doing nothing to stop such indecent action. Will couldn't tear his eyes away, a knot of jealousy tightening in his chest at the sight of M/N's easy rapport with the woman.

It was irrational, Will knew. He had no claim over M/N; no right to feel possessive or jealous. And yet, as he watched them, Will couldn't shake the resentment and betrayal that coiled within him, a bitter reminder of his insecurities and desires. For a brief moment, Will entertained the dangerous thought of intervening, of inserting himself into their conversation and reclaiming M/N's attention for himself. But he quickly dismissed the idea, knowing it would only make him appear foolish and desperate. 

But that’s exactly what M/N wanted. He craved to unravel the layers of Will Graham's complex psyche, delve into the darker corners of his mind, and explore the depths of his desires. M/N wanted to see this other, darker side of Will, to witness the raw passion and intensity that lay beneath his stoic exterior. So when their eyes met across the room, M/N couldn’t help but smirk as he turned back to the woman on his side.

Helen was beautiful, in a conventional sort of way, but something was lacking in her presence that failed to capture his interest. Her conversation was dull and predictable, devoid of the spark and intrigue that he craved. So even as his whole body wrenched when her hands settled on his forearm, M/N forced himself to maintain the facade of polite interest.

He couldn't help but contrast her with Will Graham, whose mere presence ignited a fire within him that he struggled to contain. Will was enigmatic and complex, a puzzle waiting to be solved, while Helen was little more than a passing distraction—a shallow attempt at filling the void that only Will could satisfy. And as he stole another glance across the room, M/N couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation. Jealousy and anger were swimming in the detective’s eyes; he only needed one final push so they could both indulge in what they desired.

The tension between them crackled like electricity, a palpable force that hung heavy in the air. Will's gaze bore into M/N's, filled with a mix of longing and frustration that mirrored his own. It was as if they were locked in a silent battle of wills, each daring the other to make the first move. But M/N was done playing games. He wanted Will, and he wanted him now. With a sly grin, he leaned in closer to Helen, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as he murmured something in her ear. The effect was immediate. As Will stormed towards them, his eyes ablaze with fury, M/N felt a surge of satisfaction. 

"Can we talk privately?” The detective hissed, not even sparing a glance at the woman. 

“Of course.” M/N's response was measured and composed, his outward demeanor belying the inner excitement that churned beneath the surface. Sensing an opportunity to push the boundaries further, he delicately extricated himself from Helen's grasp and softly pressed his lips to her cheek.

“Please excuse us, darling.” He murmured, his voice like velvet, eliciting a blush from the woman and a frustrated huff from Will. Gesturing for the detective to follow, this exchange wasn’t missed by Hannibal, who smoothly redirected the attention of the other guests, allowing M/N and Will to slip away unnoticed. 

The journey to M/N’s office was painful; in the sense that Will’s dark emotions only fueled M/N’s desire for the detective. With every step he took, M/N could feel Will’s presence like a blazing fire at his back, the heat of his breath sending shivers down his spine. Personal space seemed non-existent between them; with Will’s front nearly pressing against M/N’s back as they moved in lockstep. It took all of M/N's self-control to resist the urge to turn around and claim what he had long desired.

As they finally entered M/N's office, the weight of the locked door didn't escape Will's notice, but his focus was consumed by the fury pulsating through his veins. M/N's calm demeanor only served to stoke the flames of his anger further. 

"What is it that you wished to speak of, Mr. Graham?" M/N's voice remained cool and collected, a stark contrast to the seething rage burning in Will's gaze. Allowing himself to be cornered against his desk, M/N maintained unwavering eye contact with the detective. Yet, despite the intensity of the situation, the corners of his lips turned upwards ever so slightly, mischief glimmering in his eyes.

Will's jaw clenched as he struggled to find the words, his chest heaving with pent-up emotion. "I want to know what you were doing with that woman," he finally managed to spit out, his voice low and charged with accusation.

M/N arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "And why does that matter to you?" he countered, his tone teasing yet tinged with a hint of challenge. His eyes held a gleam of amusement as he awaited Will's response; he might be pinned to his desk, but M/N still held the power. He was the one dictating what their encounter would result. Will’s expression softened, his features momentarily reflecting his more reserved nature. But then, to M/N’s surprise, a smirk ghosted across his face. "You're mine." 

"Is that so?" M/N mused, "And what exactly does that entail, Detective Graham?" 

Spurred by an unspoken desire, the detective's patience wore thin. Surging forward, Will captured M/N in a searing kiss, his hands finding a place on the other's hips to draw him closer. The kiss was electric, a fusion of pent-up longing and unspoken passion. At that moment, words became unnecessary as they surrendered to the heat of their mutual desire, lost in the intoxicating embrace of each other's lips.

M/N gripped Will’s curls, finding pleasure in hearing the sweet, husky moans the detective emitted. However, the need for air soon became undeniable, and with a deep, reluctant sigh, M/N drew away from the kiss. His chest heaved with the effort to regain his breath as he gazed into the detective's eyes once more. But instead of finding regret, as he had anticipated, M/N was surprised to see a glimmer of giddiness dancing in the depths of Will's gaze. Perhaps now it would be easier for the Lecter siblings to sway Will Graham into joining their murder family

[hipsternumbertwo]

Professional Detective Solves Culinary Crimes

[itsmeyourmentalillness]

Happy birthday to our favorite FNAF expert/NERF sniper/culinary crimes detective/funeral director (but not that kind)/all-around gremlin, Courtney Miller! 🎉💛