ortolan
Short piece with professional chef!sukuna and younger kitchen porter reader. Title taken from the very brutal and illegal French delicacy of the same name, which one must hide their face to eat.
word count: 1.7k
*no curses au, age gap (chefkuna is in his 30s and reader is in their early 20s), employer-employee power imbalance, petnames ("kid", "brat"), Sukuna is intense, reader smokes right off the bat and is…a lil grim and unexpectedly Freudian?? Idk what happened here, suggestive themes ahead.
An angry red flake falls off the tip of your cigarette. It sways and loses some of its brightness on its way to the ground, succumbing to a puddle next to your feet. There's a couple more puffs left before you inevitably reach the filter, maybe double that amount if you're frugal with it. A few stolen breaths to catch until dinner rush.
You hate this fucking job.
You also know that by the time you clock out and return to your apartment, you’ll collapse on your bed with the prospect of a new shift working your nerves into a frenzy. Talk about an abusive relationship. Effectively stockholm syndromed by cutting boards and sous vides—and your boss.
Sukuna seems to have that effect on people.
Behind you, the back door creaks open. Heavy footsteps stamp down the stairs, coming to a stop by your makeshift ashtray. For a few precious seconds you’re content with counting the flour spots staining his black clogs (expensive brand, sleek, better than yours). He smells like his food; spicy, complex and a little smoky. The perks of working 14 hour shifts at a restaurant with high end cuisine and an even higher tax bracket among its customers, is that you’re afforded the luxury of smelling like a human being. No deep frier mystery oil notes clinging onto skin and clothes for you and especially him. You stifle a rather unsavoury thought about his cologne and inhale bitter smoke.
"You'll fry your lungs with that shit, kid."
Despite the distance, he sounds closer than you’d like, closer than you can handle having him. You don’t mean to shiver. Or for him to notice.
"That's the plan."
Every word coming out of your mouth makes you more conscious of your worldliness. Primarily your lack thereof. Speaking to your boss never ceases to make you seem like a peevish child in comparison. The little nickname he insists on using just for you doesn’t help either.
Sukuna doesn’t reply and your stomach churns.
"You don't smoke...why are you out here." You continue, painfully aware of your appearance.
"Don’t get it twisted. I should be the one asking you that. I can think of ten different things you should be doing before traffic picks up instead of getting cozy by the trash.”
The buildup sweat from the kitchen stovetops is slowly settling over your skin. Seated on one of the plastic crates left by your local produce supplier, you feel like a proper rat. What a picture to paint for the man singlehandedly responsible for funding your life.
Getting back to work is the lesser of the two evils you’re presented with. Still, one more smoke before shift's end sounds like a dream. You slip a stick out of the tobacco case tucked inside your apron pocket, taking his silence as permission to light it between your lips.
You smile.
"What's your vice, boss?"
Sukuna clicks his tongue. "Wouldn't you like to know."
He doesn't seem too offended. After working under him for nearly a year you've come to find that Sukuna is a man who is hard to surprise and equally as tricky to offend. Good at hiding it too, when he wants to. Which is why you ask again, be it a bad idea or not.
"Everybody has one. I've never met a professional chef without a few loose screws, so what is it?" Maybe you could've phrased that last better. You're too tired to care.
He mulls over your question without really giving into it. He’s awfully compliant today. Normally he would've chewed your ear off at the second cigarette.
Something’s off.
"I trust you include yourself in that crowd you speak of."
“Not really. I’m not a professional.”
(Ash stings your fingertips, but you refuse to let go.)
"You've got potential." He says, low and succinct.
You choke on your spit, laughing in earnest, "Sure.” Potential for cutting vegetables and cleaning after other people’s messes, maybe.
"I mean it, kid."
Sukuna leans against the railing, arms folding over his chest. One long glance out of the corner of your eye grants you with an intimate view of his tattoos. All these months you've been catching glimpses of the full design, unable to tell where it ends beneath the black fabric. Not a single hair is out of place. His uniform is rolled up just above his elbows, exposing tanned skin with tiny burn marks littered over hard muscle, no doubt from his early training years. He wears them like medals of honour.
The first thing you did after landing a position in his kitchen was googling his name. Ryomen Sukuna is fifteen years older than you and begrudgingly, the only thing standing between you and quitting as soon as tomorrow.
You’re no stranger to unwanted urges, the occasional intrusive thought. It’s human, you are human and therefore unjustly robbed of any sovereignty over your unconscious and its whims. You don’t think much of it. Even when you take your rare bathroom breaks outside peak hours, only to find that you’ve soaked through your underwear just from glances and strict instructions thrown your way. What does that say about you as a person? You don’t intend to figure it out today.
It's a classic case of treating the symptoms and not the source of your disease. Pretending he doesn’t exist outside of the physical place you both work at won’t get you very far. It won’t take long for the tide to turn over. Sukuna doesn’t play with his food. Only with the people tasked with preparing it.
You tug at a stray piece of lint on your chest, playing with the cotton ball over the flame of your lighter.
"If boss says it."
"Don't call me that." he all but sneers at you over your shoulder. His voice is grating when he wants it to be. You don’t flinch, not even when you turn around to catch the stare he’s drilling into your slouched back. On a second thought you don’t think he’s taken his eyes off of it since he he stepped out to join you. His stare is violence. He makes you want to crawl out of your own skin for comfort.
Working within a kitchen hierarchy is much like having a father; you get used to raised voices and empty threats whether you like it or not. With Sukuna creeping around the counters, you also learn to not talk back if you know what’s best for you. You consider yourself lucky to have never stood on the receiving end of anything more severe than a scolding. Then again, you’re not important enough in the grand scheme of it all, and you make a point to take advantage of that as often as you can.
"Are you not?" you sneer back.
"I'm quitting," Sukuna bares his teeth at you, "Expected to be gone by next week."
You bet he’s enjoying the look on your face. Surprised stupid.
"Pick your jaw up off the ground, s'not a good look on you."
You collect your thoughts and try to convince him that this doesn’t change everything for you. "Can I have your knives? The fancy Japanese ones you keep inside the office safe."
"You better keep your mouth shut and listen to what I have to say before I change my mind you brat." His voice commands you to look at him, "I'm not retiring. I'm opening my own joint and I want you to join me."
You feel nauseous.
"Why."
You've never been one to count your blessings, mainly because it's not worth doing so when you can do it on only one hand. Everyone says your early 20s are hell, the trenches of adulthood. No second-hand warnings and half assed attempts at lukewarm life lessons could've prepared you for the slump you hit after graduating college. Money is tight as it's always been, only now you've got twice the amount of problems and half the support.
The job advertisement was a beacon of good luck amidst a sea of bad decisions.
You had to fight tooth and nail to get through the first week (hell week, objectively the worst time in any hospitality job) without any power or warm water in your apartment after missing the payment deadline. Sukuna noticed—not like it was hard to, given that you looked like shit fresh into your employment—and slid you an early paycheck tucked inside an envelope on lunch break. A week's worth of dailies in an employment contract that only guarantees monthly wages.
You could cry.
(You did. In front of him.)
(He looked so distraught he almost snatched it back.)
"You're good, honest. Smart yet a little stupid, but even that's necessary to get by in the business. Like I said you have potential and I want you in my kitchen when you see it through."
"I think," you start.
Sukuna gives you a sly smile, mumbling a barely audible “Is that so” with his eyes narrowed down to slits.
"—You're only doing this out of spite. Stealing Gojo's staff is dirty work."
"Started that sentence on the wrong foot. You think I’d sabotage my own shit just to get back at that fraud? Most of the guys he's got back there working for him don't even know how to grill chicken without fucking up."
Yes. Yes, you do believe he’d do that, but opt to keep the thought to yourself. You’re sure Sukuna would kill the guy if he were guaranteed to get away with it. Gojo is an angel investor in name and nothing else.
"I'll give you a week, no more no less. Sit on it, let it marinade in that little head of yours and have your answer ready by morning shift." He pushes off the railing to take his leave. Halfway up the steps he backtracks to reach you, snatches the cigarette out of your fingers and takes a long drag, draining the leftover tobacco inside the poorly rolled paper. After he's done, he licks his lips and kisses his front teeth to taste your saliva, humming in satisfaction.
Kicking away the crate, you get up on baby fawn legs, half numb from being folded over yourself for so long. They tremble, a blink and you’ll miss it movement. Sukuna’s limp hand twitches by his side.
He’s about to leave for good when you speak again, moving towards him.
"You never answered my question.”
What's your vice?
Sukuna stumps your cigarette on the brick wall next to your head. His words are low, barely audible over the commotion slipping through the open door.
"Be good and I might just show you in practice."