#(woops)

appears out of nowhere

drops this

YES, CHEF. Chef!sukuna x waitress!Reader

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.

TAGLIST : @strawberrykidneystone @attackonnat @qsidrea @choyuxx @ouch-thats-harsh @sukunasl-ttywh0re @emoedgylord @localfandomjumper @cosmiclyawesome @jupitereleven @localfandomjumper

A/N : never had a tag list before this is fire as hell. Part three anyone…

for @kakairu-rocks Kakairu Valentine's Week 2026 Day 1: Online Dating !!

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