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.”

“You're running away again,” Hiromi interjects, behind Nanami. “Isn’t she?”

“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.”

If there’s one thing you’ve learned in all your years of being a professional hack—or, in polite terms, a celebrity critic—it’s that you can never truly judge a book by its cover, cliche as that sounds. You have seen ritzy, diamond-studded joints with cockroaches in the kitchen and a severe fear of sodium; you have sat on flaking pleather, elbows resting on sticky varnish, and eaten the best meals of your life. Of course, the road runs two ways, in the most expectable directions—some restaurants earned their gold flakes and Michelin Stars, some places are holes-in-the-walls for good reason. 

Despite the fact that you have learned the art of uncertainty, of only judging when your tongue touches the spoon, you still feel uncharacteristically thrown off your feet when you walk into this place. It’s no Wynn Buffet, but instead humble in a wood cabin sort of way—dark tables gleaming softly in the dim light, but it looks reasonably clean and reasonably comfortable, strikes that homey balance that many places fail to do. 

The foyer you stand in is small—enough that even with only you and the camera crew, it already feels cramped. None of this should be a surprise to you, but it really is. You do not know a shred of information about the place you’re about to, if indirectly, decide the fate of via the tide of public opinion. Not your job to do anything other than eat the food and squawk out a few words. 

It’s the executives that plot out your path, that dictate where you visit and when, that slice your reaction into a thousand little pieces and serve it steaming onto the shitshow of national television. The only thing you truly own is your opinion, and sometimes, in the dark of night when you lay in bed and try to remember a time when you enjoyed food, you think that even that may be bought and sold as well. 

You push your way to the front—well, push is a dramatic word when the crew parts like the red sea before your presence—towards the Host’s stand. Young, handsome, who gives you a bright smile and extends a hand for you to shake. 

“Kyle. You’re the critic, right? Pleasure to meet you.”

“Yes,” you confirm, returning his grin stiffly, in that tenterhook-thread expression you’ve learned quite well to adapt. He grabs a menu off the stand, shoots a questioning glance towards the crew. You shake your head. “Don’t mind them.”

“Of course,” he replies, stepping back and gesturing for you to follow. A familiar enough dance that you don’t have to hesitate—he leads you to a corner table, under one of the few windows, currently half-draped over by a thick velvet curtain. You must resist the urge to tug it up. The short walk from the van to the restaurant was the first time you’ve seen the sun in weeks—otherwise, all you know is the metal rivets of the vehicle’s seams, the faint musk of cigarette smoke that even the cleaners can’t erase. 

Doesn’t smell like that here—something more pleasant, affably neutral, sandalwood and roses and charcoal, with a faint bitter tang beneath that all, something like gunpowder or unripe olives. 

Kyle leaves you there with a parting word and another smile, and is replaced in an instant by another man—your server, who introduces himself rather enthusiastically as Johnny. Sometimes, restaurants like to play up some level of camaraderie for your sake, make their servers so overly-friendly that it practically feels like you’re a lottery winner at a family reunion, but you get the sense that his verve is genuine. Though, you do wonder, idly, if their strategy is instead to send out their most attractive staff. This one’s not bad-looking either, and you catch onto his accent as he asks, “What kin I get you to drink?”

One cameraman zooms in on your face as you order a water, and another pans about the space. You’ll probably be given a script of narration to rattle off later, carefully-written to lean either favorable or critical, depending on your final review. Another team should be meeting with the owner right now, too, getting their side of the story—which will be similarly spliced. Stitch all that together, add a bit of music and choose a couple catchy clips, and the weekly TV sensation you have got. 

Your water, iced and condensed, is out in only a minute, but you’ve already decided upon an order, pushing the menu back and away. Helps that the thing’s no-frills—which, to be fair, it is British cuisine. Still, even for that, plain black font on off-white laminate, outlining only a smattering of dishes. 

“Cottage pie,” you list, “beef wellington, and yorkshire pudding.” And, at the end, a courtesy—you face Johnny, ask, “is there anything else you’d recommend?”

He stares at you for a long moment, unsmiling—quite the contrast from his earlier demeanor—before, suddenly, it is as if all life returns to him in an instant, snipping his face back into a grin as sharply as a rubber band. 

“Nay,” he says, “I think th’ chef’ll be happy wi’ this.”

Strange statement, but you glaze over it, already distracted by the next steps as he whisks the menu away. Run your hand over the table, make some banal statement about cleanliness, point to the sconces upon the wall and mutter something about the atmosphere that has been said a thousand times before, you’re sure. Ignore the looks from the other guests, some of whom are trying to angle themselves into the sight of the cameras and others trying to stay as far back as possible, and wait. 

When Johnny returns next, it is emptyhanded, with a strange, expectant look upon his face. You cock your head, curious—doesn’t seem like a bribe, as some are wont to try—though that possibility grows a bit, as he crouches, brings his face close to yours. 

“You’re wanted in the kitchen,” he whispers. Which is no use—the mic clipped to your shirt catches everything, of course. 

“Inspection isn’t until after the meal,” you point out, drawing back an equal amount, if only so his eyes are not transfixed upon yours. 

“Nay,” he says, “not that. Alone. Chef couldnae wait.” 

You frown, about to push back fully, what a viral scene this’ll make—and, somehow, it is that thought that stops you. The greasy, wriggly feeling that imparts upon you, the slack realization that your mind has been attuned to the channels of the media, the grindstone that has worn you down over ten-odd years in this business. You make eye contact with a camera behind Johnny’s back, and instinctively, something bucks in your chest—the desire to go off script, fuck all this noise. It’s not like they can’t edit it out in post. 

You smile at him. It feels a bit realer than usual. 

“Fine,” you say, rising from the booth, “lead the way.”

None of the technicians move to stop you. For good reason—here, at least, you’re the boss, swaddled in authority. It’s not like you have any personal animosity against them—most of them are barely more than interns, just as dependent upon the exec’s whims as you—but you cannot help but nurse a peal of satisfaction as you weave through them. Around the tables scattered about the room, following the broad stretch of Johnny’s back. 

“Ah,” he adds, just as you approach the back of the room, “turn that mic off, lass.” 

Again, a pang of hesitation—but you reach up, after a moment, to switch it off. Johnny’s eyes follow the motion, and it’s only when the small red light blinks off that he nods, swings open a door inset into the back wall. 

You take a step inside. He doesn’t follow—instead, the door swings shut, and the push of air kisses the back of your neck. Already, it’s hot, near balmy, but you take a moment to scan the place anyways. Far from any monolith of gleaming stainless steel and white tile, no high-tech machines to be found, but perfectly respectable. The sort of odd rust, bits of dark scorch, that come with all kitchens, but you see no rats, so that’s already a plus. You stand within a narrow hallway, and ahead, it widens into a full kitchen, no doubt a maze of tables and counters, the hum of massive fans. 

Slowly, you push forwards, making your way down the hall. More sounds reveal themselves to you as you do—the hum of a television, which clarifies, as you quicken your pace, to something…

You’ve almost connected the dots when you finally emerge, but it takes the gift of sight to fully realize. There, upon a boxy TV mounted upon the wall, is you. A clip from the show—you can’t remember which episode, cannot even remember the restaurant, some mediocre strip of dust and stucco—but all you can focus upon is your face, looking back at you. 

“You’re here,” someone says, cutting over the tinny blare of the television—you cut your gaze down, to a spot framed by the tables. There, a man sits wide-legged upon a stool, sprawled in a manner that communicates rapacious, communicates dominion. 

He’s massive, is the first thing you register, chest sheathed in a thin, stained wifebeater, leaving free the curve of his sweat-shining biceps. The second is his face—not his features, but rather the noted lack of them, all hidden under a black balaclava. Only his eyes are visible, chips of some light color that fix upon you securely as a bullet. 

The third thing you realize, of course, is the fact that his pants are drawn down to his ankles, hand fastened securely around the thick shaft of his cock. You take an instinctive step back, unable to look away despite yourself, and blessed with a full inability to speak. 

“C’mere,” he says, making no move to change his pose, “‘ve been waiting, dove. For a long time.”

“What is this?” You ask, eyes darting to the TV, to yourself slowly picking through a plate of food. You don’t make a habit of watching the episodes—no need to experience everything for a second time, is the logic. It’s only now that you manage to remember the true reason—the fact that there is something so strangely sad about the way you move, upon the screen, the downturn of your eyes and tautness of your smile, as if the LCD cannot quite capture the appearance of your soul. Oh, what joy it must be, to watch yourself gag upon food you do not have space to appreciate, to recall just how easy it is to make media-sponsored esurience seem lavish. 

“C’mere,” he repeats, using his free hand to pat his knee for good measure. Despite your best instincts, you do. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” you repeat. He shrugs loosely. You can imagine him so well as some ancient king, strangely enough. In repose upon his throne, Laodicean in manner. Legs opened wide, shirt riding up around the hard edges of his torso, just enough that you can see the trails of fine, light hair that sprout from the channels of his stomach. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” He waves a lazy hand towards the screen, “been watching you for a while, y’know. Always wanted you too come ‘ere.”

“Can’t say I’ll give you a good review,” you say. The words don’t come out as sharp as you intended—instead, there is an odd wilt to them, one that imparts an unintended double meaning. Not good, as in favorable, but good, as in quality. You don’t think you’ve been able to give one of those in a long time—not since the rasp of the rat race washed any possible passion from you, cleansed you as thoroughly as baptism erodes away the rougher edges of the soul. 

He laughs. The sort of sound that manages to drag you forward by the sternum, another slow, unwitting step.

“We’ll see, dove.”

His eyes drift past you, up to the screen—despite yourself, you turn, look back up, see yourself distorted by the misaligned pixels and low angle. You smile at the camera, make a quip as you push the plate away. The man groans, and your attention snaps back, to see him giving his cock one final pump, spurts of thick white liquid flowing out over his fingers and pooling in the hollow of his abdomen. Deftly, he scoops a glob of it onto his finger—as if the palm is not already coated—and, only now, looks at you. 

It does not take a genius to divine his intention. Something worse and a tad more demented, perhaps, for that must certainly be what possesses you as you slowly step forwards, kneeling slightly, meeting his hand as he raises it up. Open your mouth, meet his eyes, see the indistinct movement of his mouth beneath the mask. 

“Simon,” he says, as he slides his finger between your lips, Beneath the tang of salt, you taste cigarette smoke, run your tongue over the ridges of his skin, tease over the fine edge of his nail. Must resist the urge to bite down completely. Perhaps you don’t mean to, but you close your eyes, allow yourself to concentrate fully on this. 

The only meals you have had not surrounded by cameras have been shitty microwave dinners in the darkness of your trailer, slimy and flavorless—but with no fundamental difference, in the end, from any of the other slop you fake a reaction to. 

This, though, the sigh it draws out of you, the passion with which you lean forwards, taking another finger into your mouth, is real. You do not know how long you stand there, hand-in-mouth, mind suddenly blank, but when you draw back, it feels like a shock. 

“Good?” He asks. Slowly, you nod. Again, he smiles, or at least, you think he does—hard to tell with the cloth, but you’re sure you don’t imagine that twitch of what might be lips. “Good. Just the start, you know.”

Dumbfounded, you step back as he pushes himself to his feet. If you thought him massive before, it is nothing compared to now—dainty you are not, but he still manages to reduce you to a single frame of the human form, large enough that it seems he may stretch beyond the canvas entirely. 

“Simon?” You ask, more to break the silence as he steps over to the stove than anything. He nods. It occurs to you, as he begins to switch things on, turning to a massive fridge and grabbing a litany of ingredients, that you have never actually seen anything of the process of the food you eat. Never have you stood in the kitchen, watching it come to form, watch the art of creation, piece-by-piece. Genesis, clay and the hands of God. 

Soon, the air is thick with steam—that, and the waft of cooking food. You run your tongue over the ridges of your teeth, trying to catch the remembrance of flavor. 

“You’ve been watching me?” You say, trying your best to find a spot in the kitchen that will not eventually be rushed through. Ironically, that settles to be directly under the television. He grunts out an affirmation, though you’re admittedly distracted by the ripple of his muscles as he slides the thick blade of a knife through some chunk of sinewy meat upon the cutting board. 

“Since you were in the Friday night slot, dove. Sweet thing back then, hm?”

“And now?”

He shoots you a quick glance, eyes crinkled at the edges. “Sweet enough for me, still.”

You lean back against the wall. Not so sweet anymore, that means, which is true enough that you cannot find offense in it. That sort of thing comes with age, but the rest of your life doesn’t exactly help. A first-hand exposure to the machinations of modern media, to how many ways something can be repackaged and sold, does wonders for your worldview. Making a hobby into a job usually inevitably turns that hobby into a chore; but what does that mean when your job is eating itself?

The same thing, really. Midas, weighed down by the anchor of his own avarice. 

“I’ll be done soon,” he grunts, after a long moment, “Johnny’ll bring the food.”

You blink at him, unmoving, When a moment passes and still, you volunteer no response, he turns over his shoulder to stare at you, away from the sizzling pan before him. 

“Is that it?” You ask, pointedly. He looks almost taken aback for a moment, before spitting out a chuckle. 

“Nah. Eat first. You’ll know what t’do after, no? Smart 'un, aren’t you?”

Maybe you are, because you do. 

—

When you return to the table, you ignore the stares of the cameraheads, and instead shoot Kyle a smile from across the room—one he returns with a knowing glint in his eye. Johnny lugs over the food not a moment later, and when you set to eating, it is with none of the prim decorum you’ve cultivated for the sake of network television. Heaping spoonfuls and unseemly sounds—and, of course, the lack of any sort of commentary. 

It is both surprisingly simple and shockingly challenging to simply enjoy, to live as you have not for a decade and change. The crew give each other increasingly-anxious looks—until, at last, the chosen tribute steps forward, clears his throat and asks, “thoughts?”

In lieu of answering, you shove a Yorkshire pudding at him. After a hesitant moment, he takes it, and you receive no more hassling.

“I’m done,” you declare, when you push the final plate away. At the peanut gallery’s stares, you repeat, “I’m done. With everything. All of this. You can go home now.”

After another second, during which you’ve already quite reached your limit of fish-eyed stares, you stand, tearing the mic from your shirt and letting it land among the discarded napkins upon the table. 

This time, you do not need Johnny to guide you to the kitchen. Nor are you surprised when you walk in to see Simon standing there, leaning upon one of the broad tables. This time, the TV is off, screen black. 

“Good?” he asks, as you slowly navigate to his side. He brings a hand up, uses a large, rough finger to swipe at a spot upon your cheek, a splotch of food you must’ve missed.