chef boyfriend! simon who is feared by his workers because of his temper.
chef boyfriend! simon who needs every single dish to look perfect, or it ain't leaving the fucking kitchen.
chef boyfriend! simon who is strict and straightforward in his kitchen in the restaurant, but when he's with you? the biggest softie. it's like he becomes a whole new person.
chef boyfriend! simon who can't cook small portions to save his life. he always cooks enough for like- 12 people. sometimes you invite his friends over, these man can eat the feast your boyfriend cooked in your shared home.
chef boyfriend! simon who shares (some of) his secret recipes with you, you know, the ones no one else is allowed to know or see.
chef boyfriend! simon who calls you his muse when he's experimenting with new dishes. how can he not be inspired when he has someone like you in his life?
chef boyfriend! simon who gently grabs your waist to move you out of the way when he's cooking.
chef boyfriend! simon who knows you love watching him cook at home, so he just sits you on the comfy seats next to the kitchen counter.
chef boyfriend! simon who lifts your chin with flour dusted fingers.
chef boyfriend! simon who hand feeds you a spoonful of something new, wanting to hear your honest opinion.
chef boyfriend! simon who snaps pictures of his pretty dishes and sends them to you.
chef boyfriend! simon who doesn't even know how good he looks when he's cooking at home. sleeves rolled up, apron tied low around his waist and his hair messy. fucking hot. sometimes you don't know what makes you drool more, the delicious food he makes or your delicious looking boyfriend.
chef boyfriend! simon who always brings food when he comes home from the restaurant. the ones for you always have a cute little note with a heart on it.
chef boyfriend! simon who doesn't let you near his kitchen. at least not when he's not around.
chef boyfriend! simon who is happy to teach you how to make certain dishes. he loves it.
chef boyfriend! simon who stands behind you when he's teaching you these recipes, arms around your waist or his bigger hands on your hands to help you cut something up.
chef boyfriend! simon who is the most patient man on the planet if you don't understand what you're doing wrong.
chef boyfriend! simon who doesn't have the heart to tell you he hasn't been teaching you the correct recipe. he just loves when you ask him to do it, because "you just does it better."
Apologies to Turtle Anon, I couldn't think of any more Jayce the turtle adventures, so here's a little Chef AU inspired by my friend @lunamonroeao3 new fic, Notes of Crimson, Hints of Midnight ❤️
𖦹 eren yeager, who cooks every meal with love as long as it graces your lips.
chef!eren who figured out your favorite meal from a mutual friend and spent the good chunk of four days trying to perfect it. when he gave the dish to you, he acted like it just took a couple of hours.
chef!eren who serves the food he makes for you perfectly. even if it's a casual dinner or reheating he'll plate it like a five star restaurant.
chef!eren who only lets you be in the kitchen while he's cooking, he can only trust you not to mess things up. the only issue with that is that you're so pretty it often distracts him.
chef!eren who loves to teach you how to cook the way he does. most of the time it does end up in a mess in the kitchen and a sloppy makeout session, but he is definitely not complaining.
chef!eren who dedicates his life to opening his own restaurant in your name. the most romantic gift and a place he can go every day to devote his love to you with something he is truly good at.
chef!eren who only lets you try new recipes. if his tastebuds aren't working properly, he'll ask you if it tastes good enough. because of your practice, you've actually become good at sensing what the recipe needs if anything.
chef!eren who packs your lunch every day with your favorite meals, including handwritten notes about how much he loves you and thinks about you when you're away.
wc : ~2/3k || pls like & follow :3 part one! || ac : @su2kuna on x
summary : you and sukuna have always had a bit of a frenemies bond. but no one really knows how much he cares for you. it all shows after a particularly bad customer experience and he steps up to protect you. and after that, he takes every step to care for you. PART TWO of this fic. Check it out before reading this! series master list
CW : nothing tbh. Pure fluff and cuteness heh. Per chance if people like this I’ll make a smutty part 3…
The next morning arrives all too quickly, sunlight slicing through your curtains like one of Sukuna’s perfectly sharpened knives. Your lips still remember the pressure of his, the heat of his palm against your jaw, the way his voice dropped when he said your name like it belonged to him. You touch your mouth absentmindedly while making your morning coffee, your heart fluttering in a way that feels dangerous for someone who has to face him again in less than four hours.
Mal kitchen doesn’t wait for personal revelations. The lunch shift starts with the usual controlled chaos, but something in the air feels different today. The like cooks move a fraction faster. The sous chef double checks every plate twice. And Sukuna… Sukuna is quieter than normal. Not kinder, exactly, but his storms seem to hover at the edges rather than crash through the center of the kitchen.
You catch his eyes on you more than once. Not the sharp, assessing glances he gives when someone messes up an order, but something heavier. Something that… lingers. When you drop off a ticket for the special (seared scallops with yuzu beurre blanc), his fingers brush yours as he takes the slip. The contact is brief, almost accidental, yet it sends electricity racing up your arm. He doesn’t pull away immediately. And neither do you.
“Table six wants the tasting menu,” you say, voice steadier than you feel. He nods once, eyes flicking to your lips for half a second before returning to the ticket. “Tell them it’ll be worth the wait.”
The day drags and races at the same time. Every time you enter the kitchen to pick up plates, the tension coils tighter. He barks at the new commis chef for over reducing a sauce, but when you pass by, his voice softens just enough for you to notice. The rest of the staff notice too. Whispers follow you like steam rising from the hot pans.
By the time the dinner rush hits, you’re both exhausted and wired. A large party takes up half the dining room, demanding modifications and extra attention. You handle it with the grace you’ve perfected, but when one guest complains loudly about the wait time for their risotto, Sukuna appears at the pass like a summoned demon.
He doesn’t raise his voice this time. He simply stares the man down until the complaints die in his throat, then turns that same intense gaze on you.
“You good?” He asks under his breath, low enough that only you can hear.
You nod. “I’ve got it.”
His jaw ticks, but he lets you handle it. Progress, maybe.
Closing time comes as a relief. The last customers trickle out, the lights dim, and the kitchen slowly empties until it’s just the two of you again, the clink of final silverware and the hum of the dishwasher the only sounds left.
You’re wiping down the last take when you feel him behind you. Not touching, but close enough that his body heat cuts through the cool night air drifting in from the propped open back door.
“Lock up with me,” he says. It’s not quite a question.
You turn, cloth still in hand. “Trying to make sure I don’t get harassed on the way to the walk in this time.
His mouth curves into that rare, dangerous half-smirking. “Something like that.”
His mouth curves into that rare, dangerous half smirk. “Something like that.”
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The walk home was quieter tonight. No dramatic coat draping, but when a chill wind picks up, he steps closer on the side walk, his arm brushing yours with every stride. You don’t pull away. Neither does he.
Halfway to your place, he finally speaks.
“Yesterday…” he trails off, unusual for someone who commands every word in his kitchen. “I meant what I said.”
You glance up at him. Streetlights cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the tattoos that crawl up his neck and the intense set of his eyes. “Which part? The part where you threatened on ban him forever, or the part where you admitted I make the restaurant tolerable for you?”
He huffs a shirt laugh. The sound low and rough. “Both.”
You reach your door once again. This time, you don’t fumble for your keys right away. Instead, you lean against the wood, looking up at him. The air between you feels charged, thicker than the kitchen during peak service.
“Sukuna,” you say softly, testing his name without the title for once. “What are we doing?”
He steps closer, one hand bracing against the doorframe beside your head. He don’t cage you in, but their unity makes your pulse race. “I don’t do half measures,” he says, voice dropping. “I want you. Not just stolen kisses on your doorstep. Not just protective bullshit when some asshole puts his hands on you. All of it.”
Your breath catches. “You’re my boss.”
“Technically the owner. And I don’t give a fuck about technicalities when it comes to this.” His free hand lifts, thumb tracing the line of your jaw the same way it did last night. “Tell me to back off and I will. But don’t lie and say you don’t feel it too.”
You don’t lie. Instead, you teach up, fingers curling into the front of his chef coat, still faintly smelling of smoke and spices from the grill. “I feel it. I’ve felt it for months. The yelling, the glares, the way you watch me when you think I’m not looking. It drives me crazy.”
His eyes darken. “Good.”
This time when you kiss him, there’s less restraint. He meets you halfway, mouth claiming your with the same intensity he brings to perfecting a dish. One hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him, while the other stays braced on the door. He tastes like the espresso he drinks during shifts and something darker, something entirely him. When his tongue traces your lower lip, you part for him without hesitation, a soft sound escaping you that makes his grip tighten. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard.
“… let me make you dinner.” He murmurs. “Please?” You don’t reply with words.
You fumble with the keys, heart still racing from the kiss. The moment the door clicks open, Sukuna follows you in without hesitation, closing it gently behind him. The hallway light stays off; only the faint orange glow from the streetlamp outside filters through the window, casting long shadows across the floor.
He doesn’t push. Instead, he stands there for a moment, eyes adjusting to the dimness, taking in the small space that is entirely yours. “Smells like you in here,” he says quietly, voice rough but not demanding. “Warm. Like vanilla and that stupid citrus hand soap you use at the restaurant.”
You laugh softly, the sound easing some of the tension in your chest. “It’s not stupid. It’s moisturising.”
He huffs, the closest thing to a chuckle you’ve ever heard from him. “Whatever you say.”
You flick on the living room lamp, bathing the room in soft light. Sukuna shrugs out of his chef coat and drapes it over the back of your couch like he’s done it a hundred times before. Underneath, he’s wearing a simple black t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders and the intricate tattoos that disappear beneath the sleeves. He looks strangely out of place in your cozy apartment—too tall, too intense, too much like a storm that decided to settle instead of rage.
“I’m hungry,” he announces, rolling his shoulders. “And you look like you’re about to fall over after that double shift. Sit.”
You take an eyebrow. “You’re bossing me around in my own house now?”
“Old habits.” His mouth twitches. “But this time it’s because I want to cook for you. Properly. Not the scraps we throw together at the end of service.”
You hesitate only for a second before sinking into the couch, watching as he makes himself at home in your own kitchen. He moves with the same precision he uses behind the line, opening cabinets, assessing your ingratiates, muttering under his breath about your alleged ‘sad excuse of a spice rack.’ Yet every motion feels careful. He’s not tearing through your space, he’s learning it.
Within twenty minutes, the apartment fills with rich, comforting aromas. Sukuna shops vegetables with frightening speed, the knife flashing under the overhead light. He sears chicken thighs until the skin is golden and crisp, then simmers them in a sauce he improvises from whatever he can find. Garlic, finger, a slash of soy, honey and chilli flakes. Rice steams in a pot on the back burner. It’s simple, but the way he played it, all neat, balanced, with a sprinkle of green onion and sesame seeds, makes it look like something from the restaurant’s tasting menu.
When he sets the bell down in front of you on the coffee table, steam curling upward, you can’t help but stare.
“You made this… just or me?”
He sits across from you on the floor, legs stretched out, his own bowl balanced on his knee. “Don’t make it weird. Eat it before it goes cold.”
You take the first bite and your eyes fluttered closed. The flavours bloom, savoury, slightly sweet, with just enough reheat to wake you up without overwhelming your mouth. “This is incredible,” you murmur. “Better the half the things we serve.”
Sukuna’s chest puffs with quiet pride, though he tries to hide it behind a shrug. “Of course it is. I made it.”
You eat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the clink of chopsticks and the distant hum of traffic outside. Eventually, you glance up at him. He’s watching you again, that intense gaze softened at the edges.
“Why did you really step in yesterday?” You ask quietly. “With that guy at table nine you could’ve just sent a manager like Uraume or something over.”
He sets his bowl down, elbows resting on his knees. For a long moment he doesn’t answer, staring at the steam still rising from his food. “Because it wasn’t just some commissioner being an asshole,” he says finally. “It was you. And the idea of anyone putting their hands on you, thinking they could…” his jaw tightens, the old fire flickering briefly in his eyes. “I don’t tolerate disrespect on my restaurant. Especially not toward the one person who makes the whole damn place worth running.”
Your heart squeezes. “You’ve never said anything like that before.”
“I’m saying it now.” He leans forward slightly, voice dropping. “You think I yell because I enjoy it? Half the time it’s the only way to keep standards from slipping. But with you.. it’s different. You never flinch. You never make excuses. You just do the work, better than anyone else on the floor. And somewhere along the way, watching you handle my chaos became the only part of the day I actually looked forward to.”
You set your bowl down aside, scooting closer on the couch so your knees almost touch his. “I thought you hated everyone equally.”
A faint smirk tugs at his lips. “I do. You’re the exception. The only one.”
The confession hangs in the air, warm and heavy. You reach out, brushing your fingers lightly over the back of his hand. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns his palm up, letting you trace the calluses earned from years of gripping knives and pans.
“I like this version of you,” you admit softly. “The one who cooks instead of shouts. The one who walks me home and gives me his coat.”
“Don’t get used to it too fast,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite. “I still run a tight kitchen.”
You smile. “I know. But maybe you don’t have to be angry with me anymore.”
He looks at you for a long time, something vulnerable flickering across his usually stern features. “I’m not angry with you. Never have been. Not really.”
After dinner, he insists on cleaning up, waving off your attempts to help. You end up curled up on the couch with a blanket while he moves around your kitchen with surprising familiarity. When he’s done, he joins you, stretching his long legs out and pulling you gently against his side. You hesitate only a moment before eating your head in his shoulder. His arm comes around you, heavy and warm.
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The night stretches on in quiet conversation. He tells you bits and pieces about how he built Mal Kitchen from nothing—late nights testing recipes, fights with suppliers, the first time he fired a sous chef for cutting corners. You share stories from your side of the floor: the ridiculous requests from customers, the nights you wanted to quit but stayed because something (someone. Him) kept pulling you back.
At one point he admits, voice low, “I almost told you months ago. After that night we closed together and you stayed late to help me prep the special for the next day. You were humming some stupid song while polishing glasses. I realised then that the kitchen felt… lighter when you were in it.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because I’m an asshole,” he says plainly. “And I didn’t want to ruin the one good thing I had going.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.”
He brushes a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering on your cheek the same careful way it had on your doorstep. “Good. Because I’m not planning on letting this go.”
You fall asleep like that—tucked against his chest, his steady heartbeat under your ear, one of his hands resting protectively on your back. Sukuna doesn’t sleep much; you wake once in the middle of the night to find him still awake, staring at the ceiling with a faint, almost peaceful expression. When he notices you stirring, he presses a soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “Go back to sleep. I’ve got you.”
Morning comes gently. Sunlight filters through the curtains, and the first thing you register is the smell of fresh coffee and something savory—eggs, maybe toast. Sukuna is already up, moving quietly in your kitchen again. He’s wearing the same black t-shirt from last night, hair slightly mussed, looking more human than you’ve ever seen the Head Chef.
“Breakfast,” he says when you pad into the kitchen, sliding a plate toward you. Simple scrambled eggs with herbs, perfectly seasoned, alongside buttered toast and coffee fixed exactly how you like it. “We’re opening together today. I want you there early.”
You blink, still sleepy. “Together?”
He nods, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “I’ll drive you. I walked back to the restaurant earlier and grabbed my car. No arguments. After last night, I’m not pretending anymore. Staff will figure it out eventually. Let them whisper.”
Your cheeks warm, but you smile. “Yes, Chef.”
His lips twitch. “Keep saying that and I might actually behave today.”
The drive to Mal Kitchen is quiet but comfortable. Sukuna’s hand rests on the gear shift, occasionally brushing yours. When you arrive, the restaurant is still dark and locked. He unlocks the back door and holds it open for you, a small gesture that feels significant.
Inside, the kitchen is cool and silent, stainless steel gleaming under the morning lights. You both move through the opening routine side by side. Turning on ovens, pulling out mise en place, checking inventory. There’s a new ease between you. He doesn’t bark orders; instead, he explains things quietly when you ask, even letting you help with the first batch of sauce reductions.
As the rest of the staff trickles in, the atmosphere shifts. Eyes widen when they see you and Sukuna already there, moving in sync. Whispers start almost immediately, but Sukuna shuts them down with a single sharp look.
“Focus on your stations,” he says, voice carrying its usual authority, though there’s no real venom today. “We have a full booking tonight. I expect perfection.”
To everyone else, he’s still Head Chef Sukuna. Demanding, sharp-tongued, relentless. But when he passes you in the narrow hallway, his hand brushes your lower back, lingering just a second longer than necessary. When you drop off the first tickets, his fingers graze yours as he takes them, eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity that makes your stomach flutter.
During the midday lull, he pulls you aside near the walk-in. “You good?” he asks, voice low so only you can hear.
“Better than good,” you reply honestly.
He nods once, satisfied. Then, almost shyly for him, he adds, “Tonight after close… my place. I’ll cook again. Something better than last night. And we can talk more. About whatever this is.”
You smile up at him, reaching out to fix the collar of his chef coat. “I’d like that. A lot.”
His hand covers yours for a brief moment, warm and steady. “Good.”
The dinner rush hits hard, but somehow the chaos feels lighter with him there. You move through the dining room with renewed energy, and every time you glance toward the pass, Sukuna is watching—not with criticism, but with something warmer. Protective. Proud.
By the time the last customer leaves and the staff filters out, the restaurant feels like it belongs to just the two of you again. Sukuna locks the front door, then turns to you with that rare half-smirk.
“Ready to go home?” He asks. “I- I mean my home. My apartment.”
You slip your hand into his without thinking, smiling light and easy. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”
He doesn’t let go as you walk out together into the cool night air. The city lights stretch ahead, but for the first time, the future feels less like a battlefield and more like a perfectly balanced dish. Complex, satisfying, and entirely worth the heat it took to create.
Synopsis: A routine run to the mall, after a long day at work, begins an odd relationship between you and the two fast-working chefs of Top Kaisen, who just happen to be your bosses.
mdni | Content: Sir Kink, Knife play, power imbalance, oral sex, vaginal fingering ring, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, mild subspace, mild impact play, face-fucking, A giant fucking HR violation ??
Pairing: chef! Hiromi x Chef! Nanami x rotisseur!reader)
a/n: Hiromi and Nanami are secret boyfriends in this...cause I do love me some yaoi
You begin to work at Top Kaisen about two years before Chef Nanami Kento begins to work, and then a year later, sous chef Hiromi Higuruma takes the kitchen by storm after an incident with something you never find out what it was.
At first, you thought he was going to fire you, because word around the street was that Chef Kento was such a pain in the ass that a good portion of the cooks who had worked for him, in whatever restaurant, would voluntarily leave. According to some people, he’d never fired them; he’d simply overworked them if he didn’t like them, and watched them leave before hiring someone else.
You stayed in his kitchen, though mostly because you work quietly, never hovering, which is why you’ve probably held the same position for more than three years. But you make good use of it. You enjoy it. Especially when you get to see Nanami work.
There’s always been something oddly satisfying about seeing him in that white jacket and those black pants, eyes hovering over the counter watching his cooks move at a rapid speed. Sometimes, when you’re feeling brave enough, you like to cook and watch him, though mostly from behind.
Top Kaisen is famous because of him. He placed them in the newspaper, and then, when Hiromi arrived, the idea of a Michelin restaurant started looming around. Though at first they clashed…, and they clashed hard, from a couple of punches, to low blow insults, and threats, but god, their food turned out fucking amazing.
Then they stopped. It was out of nowhere, like they just snapped out of that middle-school testosterone-filled rage. And they spun in the kitchen, moving around each other, never in each other’s way as if they were two peacocks dancing, not to fight but to impress.
As the rotisseur, it’s your job to manage the roasted and braised meats. So you interacted with them only through food. Through the quips of “bunt it more, needs more seasoning, this tastes like shit, do it again, and my fucking grandmother could do a better job, and guess what…she’s fucking dead.”
At a certain point, you were convinced Nanami hated you, and the way you braised your meat…yet he never outright mentioned it. In a way, you were just another cook in the myriad of cooks that were there to hand them a plate, have them taste it, and then get it delivered.
This one-sided dance changes after a methodical run to the mall. You have an obsession with knives. Not in the way you want to harm yourself, but rather, you enjoy admiring the slick silverness. How you move it when chopping onions, and the satisfying crack it gives when cutting through a carrot, and it hits a wooden chopping board.
So sometimes, after work, when it’s a particularly exhausting day, you walk to the mall. Into the sections of knives, and you stand there and just look. You don’t feel them behind you.
You’re mostly thinking about how it would feel to graze, the side just ever so gently across your skin. Or how cold it would feel if someone were to take it and just press it on your skin.
“I recommend the Material Trio set,” A voice rings behind you.
You turn, immediately taking a step back as Hiromi and Nanami stare you down, groceries perched in their hands. You take a deep breath, “Oh. Thank y–you...chef.”
“You’re….” Hiromi stops, eyes squinting, brushing his long fingers through his blonde hair, trying to remember your name. You don’t take it to heart. “Y/N…one of our cooks”
Our.
What a funny word. You nod, hands flexing, trying to look everywhere but at how Nanami is intensely looking at you, while Hiromi is somehow–bless his heart–trying to make conversation. “You’re one of the fast ones…I hear you were at Kaisen before Hiromi here.”
Nanami scoffs, “Watch it.”
“Yeah. Still the rotisseur,” You reply, ass hitting the low counter, clattering a few items, “I was there…about two years before–”
“Before I got there. Two years is a long time. Why aren’t you chef de partie?”
“Don’t want to be.” Your reply is quick, and they both tilt their head as if they’ve heard some idiotic joke, and can’t decipher the meaning. “Have a good night, chefs.”’
The next day, you fuck up twice. You arrive early in the morning and spend the entire morning and afternoon breaking down whole loins, chickens, and ducks into uniform portions. Then, searing and breading short ribs and lamb shanks, along with peeling and turning potatoes and other vegetables to accompany the roast.
You've gotten the routine down, you can do it in your sleep; the issue is somewhere along the conversation of yesterday. Hiromi and Nanami’s attention turns, and every time you look at them, their eyes meet yours.
Between peeling the potatoes, you’d turn, trying to catch a sly glimpse, and Nanami is there first, tiny blue eyes staring back. As you’re roasting the bone to start the base for the sauces, and you take a step back, somehow clashing into Hiromi, who’s on you, face pressed just an inch next to yours, staring at the bones in the pan.
“Good…very good.” He’d whisper, tickling the shell of your ear, before his warmth is gone, and you're left trying to catch your breath. It’s even worse during the meal, in which everyone lines up outside the chicken, and a specific meal cooked by Nanami and Hiromi is divided.
Usually, you’d sit away, but today, you use the bathroom, and when you come back, the only seat available is between Nanami and Hiromi. Right in between. You sit, and for the seconds that the meal is placed onto plates and passed around, you’re compressed, sandwiched, wedged, squeezed between the two, until their legs are knocking yours.
You can feel the whoosh of Nanami’s hand flying to grab the back of your seat, and the close heat of his clothed arm against your head. Hiromi though…Hiromi presses his chair just next to yours to the point you must tell him to give you space to get out. Everyone eats while your cheeks bloom a bright red, and the tip of your ears feels like a furnace.
For fifteen minutes, you’re compressed by them, pressed enough, you feel every single movement from their leg. Your appetite vanished, and you don’t say anything, not even when the cooks begin to move one by one, and you’re left with just them.
“Not going to ask to get out?” Rings Nanami next to you, face inching slowly toward you.
You laugh, “I thought we were bonding.”
A look of surprise flashes on Hiromi's face, “Ah, you make jokes. See, I told you,” He says, and looks behind you, eyes on Nanami, “Told you she’s funny, and not so…tight.”
“Uptight,” corrects Nanami. “The word is uptight.”
You press your lips into a thin line. They talk about you? “I must be doing something wrong to be the topic of discussion between two great chefs,” and you’re moving, scoothing the chair back before a hand presses it down.
“Wrong?” Chides Hiromi, “Not at all…if anything, we appreciate our rotisseur.”
You nod, throat bobbing still, softly scooting the chair, until the hand moves, and a loud squeak echoes in the restaurant. From the corner of your eyes, you can see Nanami press a hand to his face, trying to stifle a laugh. Assholes.
After that, that's when you fuck up. Twice. When the rush begins, and orders start flying into the kitchen, you’re so off your course, you jump when Hiromi yells, “Fire two ducks, one lamb.” You never jump.
A premature slide of an expensive rack of lamb out of the oven. Thirty seconds too early, and the red juice of the meat floods the cutting board. You pause, heart thumping, and it's taken from your hand and plated.
The second mistake is not even worth mentioning, because when both plates come back, Nanami’s hands are on your shoulder, and he's pulling you into the freezer. Now, one thing most people must know is that both of these fucks are quick to stop whatever messes up their dance.
“You sent a corpse to table four, and disgraced a duck confit in table nine.” He snarls, and that long, thick knife he carries around is suddenly pointed at you, inches away from your white jacket, and your back hits the cold rack. “You’re disrupting my kitchen and backing up orders. I’m sure you didn’t start working here to be a goddam nuisance, did you?”
And you can’t reply, because you’re still staring at the point of the knife, because it’s somehow no longer about the knife. You’re also staring at his large hands around the handle as he points it at your chest.
The freezer door opens again, and despite the coldness that should be running through your veins, you feel so hot and warm, breathing tightly. They both stare at you, anger laced in one’s face and amusement in the other. You don’t notice a tear has slipped through your cheek until Hiromi moves, inching towards you.
“I–I..Jesus, fuck.” Nanami sighs, watching as your bottom lip slightly trembles, and your big eyes stare at the knife, pupils dilated. “Fuck.”
Next to him, Hiromi walks to you, “Jesus, Nanami, you’re scaring the poor girl. Don’t cry…don’t cry,” he coos, and his hands are on your cheek, wiping away the tear.
You flinch, moving to the side as if you’ve been burnt, “I–I apologize, chefs,” you breathe out, a stand of saliva connecting your lips, “I…I’ll be better. I promise.”
A thin smile appears on Hiromi’s lips. “Good.”
“That’s our Rotisseur. To the kitchen, come on.” Nanami quips, and you’re back in the kitchen, eyes avoiding the other cooks. You never turn your head to look at them. You cook, base, braise, burn, give them a plate, and then, after approval, you turn back.
After you clean, and everyone is done and tired, you’re the last one out, quietly running away when you spot Nanami and Kento inside the small kitchen office.
You’re halfway out, hands pressed on the door handle, when your name is called. You take a second to turn, biting the inside of your cheek. “Yes, chef.”
They’re both staring at you, but Nanami is behind Hiromi, right hidden behind his body, while Hiromi’s arms are crossed,” I…we promise the knife was not intentional.”
You nod, opening the door, letting the cool hair of the city hit your face, “I know. I’m sorry, Chef.”
It happens a couple more times. Not you burning shit down, but them with a knife, coincidentally pointing it at you, while they look at you. And each time you freeze for a second, too focused on the knife before turning your attention.
It never goes beyond the knife, though. It almost feels like foreplay, because they do it with this smirk, while they’re barking orders, and sometimes…when the day is slow, Nanami would be behind you, knife next to you, inspecting the lambs inside your pan.
Too close for comfort, hovering over, until you can feel him lean down, “Excellent job. Our rotisseur does an excellent job.”
On Saturday, just a day before closing, the restaurant is packed. The afternoon is filled with prepping and yelling before mealtime. And again, you’re back to being squeezed in between Hiromi and Nanami.
And Nanami leans in, arms now resting behind your seat, and as he leans in closer to your side, speaking to one of the cooks about his technique, that's when you feel it. The press is small, not at all sharp.
A dull ache, until you’re slowly looking down, and your eyes widen, breathing going still as the sight of a butterfly knife being pressed into your white jacket. The handle is engulfed by Hiromi’s hand, and you’re focusing on breathing, taking slow, deep breaths through your nose.
This is the closest you’ve been to someone using a knife on you besides that time in the freezer. You become aware of everything, senses sharpening to feel the press of the point, and how Hiromi is so fucking close to you.
You stiffen, and of course, he feels it, because he’s quickly looking at you while your hands are gripping the fork, poking the tender roasted pork on your plate. A hand slides to your thigh, and the warmth has you feeling dizzy.
“Feel that knife…” Hiromi whispers, just close enough, only you hear, while everyone is having their own conversation, Nanami included. You're shaking, eyes comically wide, still trying to put up a front. “I gave it to him…so he can keep our rotisseur in check.”
A shudder runs through your body, and slick pours out of your cunt. “Sir…”
He laughs, small, condensing, “You know…it’s a heavy day today. If this throws you off your course, we might have to do something about it.”
And Nanami sinks it closer, until you feel the blunt point, hitting your skin, sending a sharp pain through your body, and you're so close to moaning that you’re practically vibrating in your seat. You keep trying, laughing along with some joke, Hakari has said, despite your legs being clenched together, sending a wave of electricity down your spine.
Your eyes flutter, and you look down, eyes trained on Nanami’s strong hand on your thigh, “Excuse m–me.”
You know there’s something wrong with you. There must be. Because within the seconds, Nanami pressed that stupid butterfly knife against you, you’ve soaked your panties enough that you could slide in two fingers. Your hot face rests against the cold tiles of the staff bathroom, and you’re so aroused, your knees are wobbling, and you feel sick.
It’s unsanitary, but you rest your knees on the clean floor, trying every breathing exercise you can remember until your heart is no longer beating so heavily against your ribcage. The door flies open, and you stare down, body jumping upright, before a body is outside your stall. Right in front of your stall.
“…open the door.”
Your shaky hands open the door, and Hiromi is staring at you, not smiling, simply looking, small eyes taking in your sweat-soaked face. He tilts his face, a hand coming up to your cheek, pressing it down.
And then he’s holding your cheeks, pressing you to the wall, until you're sliding down and he’s going down with you, knee right in between your legs, pressing. “You’re not going to fuck up today, right?”
You shake your head, a sharp gasp, almost a whine, sliding from your throat. Your spine is on fire, and you can hear the whoosh of your blood against your own ears. Hiromi hums, as a humiliated flush creeps from your neck to your cheeks, staining them red, “No, ch–chef.”
“Go on, repeat.” One of his hands slides down, while the other cups your chin, head still pushed to the wall. The sharp click of the butterfly knife coming out makes you buck your hips into his knee.
The sharp graze of the muscle against your cunt, makes you squirm, a small, sharp cry echoing in the bathroom. “I won’t–I won’t fuck up today…chef.”
“Wrong name…” Hiromi whispers, leaning in, lips brushing your cheeks, just slightly, while the dull point is pressed against your throat, just slightly.
You gasp, “Sir…sir.” and you shudder the name out, hands flying to grip his shoulders, nails digging into the white jacket, “I won’t fuck up today, today, sir.”
“I’m counting on it.”
In the blink of an eye, the knife is gone, and he’s walking away, while you’re lying there, cunt soaked, hair tussled, still pressed against the cold tile. You fix yourself by the time everyone is done eating, and you work better than any day. You perform better than you’ve ever performed, earning praise from Hakari and a smile from Hiromi and Nanami.
But your worst trait, besides being in a cutthroat industry with no desire to move forward or backwards, is that you’re a fucking coward. You’re the third to last one to leave, while Nanami and Hiromi are distracted by Hakari. You practically run out of the restaurant.
By midnight, you’re in your apartment, soaking in a bubble bath, when your neighbours begin. Someone new moved next to you, though you never paid attention, and they’ve been at it like rabbits for the past few days, bed thumping right in your ear. You haven't heard their voice because as soon as it starts, you put on your headphones.
But today…today is different. You change into silk shorts, ignoring your underwear, and a loose top. You knock, and knock, hands on your hips. The locks click, and you begin, “I’m your neighbour from the side, can you try to fuck a little q–”
“Our rotisseur,” Perks Nanami, robe hugging his body. You make the mistake of looking down, and you see a thick imprint before your eyes go up flying, meeting a blushing, naked Hiromi. Jesus, this is an HR nightmare.
Despite being a twenty-four-year-old person living alone, making your own money, you look away, “I–I didn’t know, we were–are neighbours. See you in the morning, chef.”
“That she is…” Nanami says, clicking his mouth, before pulling you into their apartment, and you're inside, letting everything swim by you, feeling Hiromi’s chest, as he pulls you backwards, falling into a couch–still on his lap.
“I didn’t run away,” You're quick to try and save your ass, watching Nanami scurry into the kitchen. “I had some stuff to do…”
Behind you, Hiromi laughs, “Our little rabbit is scared, Nanami. Don’t worry, we won’t hurt you.” And he licks the shell of your ear, groaning as he tastes your skin.
Your eyes flutter closed, legs falling open, while you feel Hiromi's cock, twitch against your ass. When you open, Nanami is sitting in a love seat, butterfly knife in hand—the same butterfly knife.
“You should’ve heard her when I pressed it against her neck,” He whines, hips slowly bucking into you, and his hands wrap around your waist, lifting you, until your cunt is pressed right against cock. “Sounded so beautiful.”
“So…is it the knife or is it us?” and you look up, as Nanami rises, inching towards you, until you’re leaning back, pressing Hiromi down. The silver point is flushed against your sternum, and you gasp at the coldness. “We won’t hurt you…or do anything else. Not until you ask.”
“It's both,” You whisper, and you wait for the knife to press just a little deeper, yet Nanami keeps it there, while you shake. “It’s both….please.”
Hiromi’s ragged breath hits your ears, and his hands slide to the front of your silk shorts, pressing, feeling, until he’s sliding a hand inside. “Touch where?”
And Nanami finally presses the knife just a smidge harder, dragging it down your flimsy top. You whimper, hips thrusting, “Anywhere…me fu–fuck my cunt, everywhere pleaseplease.”
The sharp end drags down your skin, while heat simmers in the pit of your stomach, and when he presses down, around the dark area of your hardened peaks, your eyes flutter close, and a loud, high-pitched moan curls from your throat.
A sharp slap to the inside of your thighs has you hiccuping, with a tight gasp. “Eyes open.”
You can’t tell you says it, but it doesn’t matter because your brain is sliding down, turning fuzzy and soft around the edges until you begin to focus only on pleasure. Hiromi’s hand dips down, finger twirling around your clit, while his other hand squeezes your chest, index finger rubbing circles around your peaks.
The pressure of the knife is gone, a quick snap in the air. “Sir,” You whine, “Sir….touch–”
Hiromi’s hands disappear, and you’re lifted onto Nanami while Hiromi trails behind, “Don’t worry, rabbit…I’ll be gentle, Nanami, on the other hand…”
He throws you on the bed, lips latching onto yours, licking your mouth, tongue sliding next to yours, while he backs you down. Nanami kisses like pure filth, sucking and licking every crevice of your mouth until you’re drooling on each other.
Hands slide to your chest, pulling up your top, then your silk bottoms. Your skin feels like it’s overheating, and watching, Hiromi slowly fucks into his first, accumulating precum and sliding it up and down his shaft makes everything even worse–better.
“You’re gonna cry for Sir, ain’t you, honey?” Nanami purrs, lips peppering kisses down your neck, until he’s at your sternum, and you’re nodding, eyes sliding between him, on your stomach, and Hiromi spitting on the red tip of his slick cock.
Nanami kisses your inner thighs, pulling soft ragged breaths out of you, until his fingers are pressing apart your thighs, eyes trained on your swollen clit peeking out from a messy bush. His fingers fly to your wet folds apart, licking a long, flat stripe from your hole to your clit.
A gasp echoes, and Nanami is on your pussy, giving you teasing licks, as you watch Hiromi with lidded eyes. A dribble of spit slides past your lips, and you open your mouth, eyes still latched onto him. “Please…”
Leaned back on your elbows, Nanami’s lips finally clasp around your clit, while the bed dips, and you open your mouth, immediately swirling your mouth around Hiromi’s tip, tasting the salt of his slick. He whines, fingers lasing into your hair, not pulling just there.
You moan against Hiromi’s shaft, sinking in while Nanami’s tongue laps and circles around your swollen clit. Your thighs shake, skin prickling with each suck of Nanami’s tongue, mind buzzing while pleasure seeps into your skin.
Hiromi bucks into your mouth, and your eyes water, “So eager to have me fuck your mouth.” He groans. “Should’ve fucked that pretty mouth weeks ago.”
You let out a needy moan as he uses your mouth, spit gurgling around the sharp, and he pulls away, praying your mouth open and slapping the tip of his cock on your tongue. “Say thank you.”
“Thank–thank you, thank you,” you breathe, pushing your face into his pelvis, nose hitting thick curls. Hiromi’s cock twitches, and pushing inside again, while you ride Nanami’s face, hips bucking widely, slick pouring out of your hole, covering his chin.
Your insides twitch, and as your mouth is making spit rings on Hiromi’s cock, Nanami slides in two fingers, your pussy eating them right up. Your stomach flexes, and he curls them just enough that your thighs fall wider, and you're pushing your mouth into Hiromi’s cock, nose diving into her pelvis.
Hiromi pulls you off his cock, hot tears soaking down your cheeks, and they fall uncontrollably while high-pitched “ah, ah, ah”s are falling out of your lips, eyes almost crossed. “Fuck–” Hiromi whimpers, “She’s gone stupid from your tongue, Kento.”
And he curls his fingers AGAIN, until your back is lifted off the bed, and you're searching for Hiromi’s cock, cunt clenching against nothing. Your pussy convulses, and your cumming with a high-pitched mewl, hips jerking into Nanami’s mouth.
Over you, Hiromi fists his cock, watching you shake, balls tightening as he spills on your chest, some landing on your lips.”Sir…” You slur, mind too hazy to care for anything besides the fact that your pussy is empty. “...inside.”
“Hiromi–”
“Please–please, you got to taste her.” He pouts, “Just the tip.”
You nod fingers scooping Hiromi’s cum into your mouth, “Just–just the tip, sir.”
Nanami rolls his eyes, “Don’t influence her. Keep up the attitude, and I won’t let you cum again.”
Through hazy eyes, you watch them switch, Hiromi sliding to your thighs, cock twitching as he presses the tip against your wet slits, bumping into your clit, making your hips jerk on him. He slides in, in one push, bottoming out with a choked moan, “Go on, rabbit,” He moans, a hazy smile pinated on his face, “Show him your tongue.”
You whine and moan, while Hiromi thrusts inside you, hips lapping against your ass, while Nanami’s fingers tangle in your hair, keeping you from his cock. He ghosts the tips over your tongue, and your mouth falls open, spit dribbling down your chin. You have gone stupid.
You push down into Hiromi’s cock, cunt clenching as he drags in and out of your walls, fingers sliding to pinch your swollen clit. Heat bubbles in your spine, and Nanami is simply firsting his own cock over your face, bottom lip etched in his teeth.
Hiromi leans down, mouth against your ear, “You feel so so fucking good,” He groans, voice ragged and guttural. “Taking both of us…beg for his cock and he’ll–he’ll fuck your face.”
You nod, head turning to press a filthy kiss on Hiromi’s mouth, tongue lapping at his, then turning to Nanami. Red, lidded eyes, looking at him like a poor puppy, “Please–please,” You try your best, brain still mush, as your cunt pulses around Hiromi’s cock. “Fuck….fuck my face, please, sir. Fuck my face.”
And he’s plunging the tip in your mouth, fingers holding your chin, fucking only the tip inside, as you moan around his cock, vibration making him twitch. Hiromi pinches your clit again, and you clench down, pushing into Nanami, until he gives his in, and your nose is nuzzled into his trimmed blonde hairs, cum sliding down your throat while his cock twitches inside you.
Your back arches, eyes rolling into the back of your skull, twitching, as Hiromi fucks you harder, and for a second, you can’t breathe. The fuzzy sensation of not hearing anything pushes you over the edge, thighs trembling, as you’re suddenly breathing, and spit is pouring down your chin mixed in with cum.
Your head lands on the bed, pussy dripping onto the sheets, while Hiromi cums inside you, bucking while he rides out his orgasm. You feel nasty, for the fucking of your life, but rather for how wet and slimy your skin feels. You feel a wet rag being doused around your open, and your eyes flutter to see Nanami, wiping you down.
His cheeks are a dusted pink, travelling down his chest, and he’s no longer naked. Your face is cleaned, and you don’t move an inch before the bed dips again and a fluffy, thick blanket is pulled over your body.
“We told Hakari, you won’t make it tomorrow…” Murmurs Hiromi behind you, “We should take the day off.”
You sigh, nodding, still fuzzy, “Am I being fired?”
A coff echoes, “No. Of course not. This is not–we do not do this with just anyone. You–we like you.”
“Lovely. I’m keeping my job.” You say with a slow nod, “I like you guys too. Can’t believe–I’m getting two boyfriends.”
“Who also…happen to be boyfriends...”
“Even better.”
I am sorry my tiny gremlins, I got hyperfixated on a cooking movie I watched, and began thinking about it, so y'all must suffer while I plan my other fics...
Isn't there like some rule not to fuck the line cook...or chef or some like that in the food industry...anyways, happy reading !!! ( ˶˘ ³˘)♡
synopsis:
in which case y/n meets the infamous racecar driver oscar piastri as she works in her family-owned pastry shop, and she pretends not to know him. little does he know, she's idolized him for the longest time.
oscarpiastri: did you just stutter over a comment 💀
yourusername: i can explain!! 😁
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To be frank, it's honestly quite difficult to explain the series of events that happened about twelve hours earlier.
6:58 AM ~ l'orchidée bakery shop
It was right before opening. Maman had entrusted me with opening shop and making sure it was running smoothly, and knowing that the fate of our family bakery was in my hands today was especially important to me.
It was 6:58 AM, and since business was typically slow in the first half hour of shop opening, employees showed up half an hour after opening. So there it was me all by myself, until 7:30 AM.
I showed up at the bakery much earlier than normal, at around 3 AM, prepping for the day. The first task was to turn on the ovens, letting them reach the perfect baking temperature.
While the ovens heated up, I took out the baguette and croissant doughs that had been proofing overnight. The doughs were soft and slightly cool to the touch, with a subtle yeasty aroma that promised delicious results. I placed the doughs on the floured countertop, feeling their smooth texture as I gave them one last gentle knead, coaxing out any remaining air bubbles.
Shaping the doughs into their final forms was almost meditative. The baguette dough stretched and folded under my hands, forming into long, slender loaves with tapered ends. The croissant dough was rolled and folded into layers, ready to be cut and shaped into crescents. With each turn and fold, I could feel the anticipation of the final baked product growing.
Next, I mixed batters for cakes, muffins, and other pastries, carefully measuring each ingredient to ensure consistency and quality. The rhythmic motions of stirring and mixing were comforting, grounding me in the early morning quiet of the bakery.
With the ovens now hot, I slid in the first trays of bread and pastries. The smell of baking bread began to fill the bakery, a comforting scent that promised a successful day.
On and on I went prepping, while simultaneously listening to music. One thing about L'Orchidée Bakery, is that our surround sound system that covers every square foot of the little coffee shop, works its magic everyday. It is very difficult to hear many outside noises at that.
So imagine my suprise when I'm singing "Slut!" by Taylor Swift on full volume and I turn around, to only find myself face to face (well, behind a sheet of glass) with none other than Oscar Piastri.
"But if I'm all dressed up,
they might as well be looking at us,
and if they call me a SLU AHH!-"
I screamed slut, as I spun around and ended up making obnoxiously close eye contact with a boy in a black hoodie and unruly brown hair.
The broom in my hand that I was using to sweep the floor crashed to the floor, a one, big, sweeping motion. Scaring myself, and the boy, we both aggressively lurched back.
This is when I got to take a closer look, and I had just realized that Oscar Piastri had just scared the shit out of both of us.
And I was even more embarrassed to see that poor little Oscar was just trying to look at the bakery's menu, only to get a terrible birds eye view of my horrid singing and dancing.
He started to chuckle, his hand brushing against the faint stubble of hair that was growing across his chin. Sheepishly knocking on one side of the glass that separated us, I gestured for him to come in.
A customer is a customer! (even if he does happen to be the Formula 1 driver I absolutely idolize, and on any given normal day, I would be too shy to even make eye contact with him)
Running to the front entrance of the shop, I reach in my pocket to pull out the plethora of keys that dangle from my measly keychain. Fumbling with a golden key with the letters LB engraved on the key's front, I unlock the door.
"Hi, hello! Welcome to L'orchidée Bakery, so sorry for the little jumpscare you got there," I timidly trailed off.
"You mean the singing, dancing, or both," he joked back. Immediately, my discomfort shifted, as the environment had turned playful. Smiling, I responded.
"Hahaha, you think your funny," I rolled my eyes, as we made our way to the register.
"What can I say, I might just be a stand-up-comedian in disguise," he joked, arms crossed, and his eyes crinkled into a vibrant eye smile.
"Well, are you?" I asked, pretending to genuinely not know his occupation.
"Are what?" He nervously chuckled.
"Are you actually a stand-up-comedian?" I asked.
"Wait, are you serious?" His eyes bulged out, not able to hide his surprise, he fumbled with his phone.
"A hundred percent," I replied, playing the game. Trying to make it believable, I put up a mask of utter confusion. "What's your job?"
"Oh, um, I drive?" He lowly said, he voice trailing off, confused.
"You think you drive of you know you drive?" I barked out a laugh, finding it funny that he ended the sentence in a questioning tone.
"Oh yes, I definitely drive," He nodded his head vigorously.
"So like, Uber, Lift, valet services?" I asked.
"Oh yeah, something like that, yup," Oscar replied. It took everything in me to not burst out laughing from his god-awful acting. This boy couldn't lie for shit, his eyebrows and eyes immediately betrayed him.
Pretending to believe him, I continued our conversation.
"So...do you liked driving around everywhere?" I asked. If this boy kept on lying, I just knew the conversation would get so funny.
"Yeah, it's pretty fun, you know? Getting to meet different people, seeing new places," he said, trying to keep up the charade.
"Interesting! Must be quite an adventure. Any memorable rides?" I prodded, enjoying the playful banter.
"Oh, definitely. Had a guy once who insisted on singing Taylor Swift songs at the top of his lungs," he quipped, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Holding a laugh in, I'm not sure whether he was referring to me, Lando, or Daniel.
"Really? What a coincidence," I said, smirking. "Sounds like my kind of passenger."
We both laughed, the initial awkwardness completely dissolved. It was surreal, chatting casually with Oscar Piastri, as if he were just another customer and not the famous Formula 1 driver I admired.
"So, what can I get for you today?" I asked, ready to actually do my job.
"Surprise me," he said, leaning on the counter. "I'm in the mood for something new."
"Coming right up," I said, turning to grab a fresh-baked strawberry-chocolate croissant and a steaming cup of coffee. As I handed it to him, I couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph. Today was already shaping up to be unforgettable.
Looking around, there didn't seem to be anyone approaching the bakery, so as he sat down at the breakfast bar and asked whether I wanted to sit next to him, I immediately took his offer. (I mean seriously, who would not take the offer?)
"So, what brings you to this little bakery?" I asked, curious.
"Well, I heard a lot of good things about this place. Plus, I'm always on the lookout for a good pastry," he replied. "Figured I'd check it out myself."
"Glad you did," I said warmly. "We do our best to keep the reputation up. And hey, if you ever need more Taylor Swift serenades, you know where to find me."
"Good to know," he said with a laugh. "I'll definitely keep that in mind."
The playful banter made me forget, if only for a moment, that I was talking to a celebrity. It was just a normal conversation, easy and light-hearted.
"So, where do you usually drive?" I asked, pretending to be completely unaware of his true profession.
"Oh, you know, here and there," he said, trying to be vague. "Mostly around the city, sometimes longer trips."
"Must be fun, getting to see different places and meet different people," I said, keeping up the act.
"Yeah, it's interesting for sure," he agreed. "And sometimes you get to witness some pretty crazy stuff."
"I bet," I replied. "Like what?"
"Well, there was this one time I drove a bunch of guys to a music festival. They were already half-drunk and started a karaoke session in the backseat. It was wild," he said with a laugh.
"Sounds like a blast," I said, laughing along. This definitely felt like a recounting of a true story, probably along the lines of something that Yuki or Lando would do.
We continued the conversation, laughing and chatting, flirting here and there for the next half hour until my coworkers arrived. When they did, it gave Oscar and I quite a fright, as we both were mid-conversation when the front door swung open.
My coworker gave us morning blessings, and a blush blossomed across Oscar's cheeks, shy, that he got caught. Crumbling up his paper cup and paper wrap that held what used-to-be a croissant, we both knew it was time for him to leave.
"Wait," I said laughing, "We just had a whole conversation and I still don't know your name," I said, still playing into the role.
"Oscar," he said, genuine, and for a second I felt bad for lying to him. But then again, not really, he played into the banter as well.
"Will I see you here again, Oscar?" I asked.
"You might just have to wait and see," he winked. As I held the door open for him as he left, his hand brushed against mine, and goosebumps rippled across my arm. I felt a swirl of butterflies in my stomach when he smiled and wished me a heartfelt goodbye. Oh, brother.
This is not going to end well.
Snapping me awake from my daydream, my coworker whisper shouted. "You do know that was just Formula One driver Oscar Piastri, right girl? You definitely know who he is."
"Oh of course," I laughed, speaking at a normal volume. "But he doesn't know that I know that," I replied.
"Oh good God, this might end horribly, or become an extremely funny story that one tells at family dinner," my coworker said.
"Do you think the next time he comes he will sign my Oscar Piastri poster hanging in the janitorial closet?" I jokingly asked.
"Y/N!!!" my coworker scolded.
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oscarpiastri
liked by yourbff1, user1 and 303,199 others
oscarpiastri: special treat, special day
view comments:
user1: i hate this cryptic ass caption-
user1: OSCAR WHAT DOES IT MEAN
user2: alright we get it oscar, you had some good food and your big backedness made you have a good day
user3: wait... this pastry shop looks so good i might check it out
user4: oscar giving a bakery a free shoutout, absolutely unheard of
user5: the bakery is called L'Orchidée Bakery, and they are based in monaco! hope this helps 🧁💗
liked by oscarpiastri
user6: wait imagine if oscar's sneaky link worked there, that would be hella funny
user7: ainnoway that man pulls 🧍🏻
user8: honestly, you never know 😭
landonorris: we get it, you would not stop yapping about your amazing strawberry chocolate croissant this morning
landonorris: and how amazing, stunning, and beautiful that one girl was-
logansargeant: you forgot to mention that he was practically drooling everytime he spoke of her
landonorris: and he didn't even get her name 😝🫵🏻
logansargeant: what an absolute LOSER 💀
oscarpiastri: DELETE THIS.
oscarpiastri: DELETE THIS NOW.
oscarpiastri: i am not a loser. i very much win in life.
oscarpiastri: PLEASE DELETE THIS.
this comment thread has been deleted
user9: SKSKKSKSREJAJA did you guys see the deleted comment thread omg
user10: that is not real omg, oscar rizzing finally??!
user7: @/user6 i'm so sorry you were so right 😭😭
user6: i just know he pulls hella bitches
user6: you guys are just unfamiliar with his game (awkward white boy rizz)
yourusername
liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff1 and 101 others
yourusername: la dolce vita (he bought me books and flowers, and baked for me)
view comments
yourbff1: yada yada yada, no need to rub it in you bagged your longtime bae
user1: WAIT THATS HER NEW BOYFIE??
yourbff2: what in the soft launch, CALL ME NOW-
yourbff2: PLEASE ANSWER THE PHONE
oscarpiastri: no can do cuz 🥳😝📢
oscarpiastri: i fear she's cuddling with her man right now
yourbff2: YOU STOLE MY GIRL, you GIRL STEALER 🫵🏿
yourbff1: out of context that sounds so, so wrong 💀
user2: babe, your new boyfie is oscar mf piastri. 🧍🏻♀️
liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri: so sad that you lied to me when we first met
oscarpiastri: heart❤️ been broke💔🤕 so many times⏰ i don’t know❌🤷♀️ what to believe 🍃🙏 yeah👍 mama🤰say it’s my👧😣fault🥺😢 my fault😭😞 i wear my heart💝 on my sleeve👕
yourusername: SO SO SO SORRY BABE XX
user3: she's just a girl, oscar 🙄
oscarpiastri: i hope the date was amazing, you cutie patootie
yourusername: of course it was, my hubby bubby
oscarpiastri: ugh, my teddy bear honey bee is so cute in this
