Kazuha: Full Course

g!p Nakamura Kazuha (Le Sserafim) x Female reader

Female reader is desperate for dinner but gets served a different kind of food by hot chef Kazuha. 

Includes: girlcock (duh), hot sex, overstimulation, food-based sex puns.

a/n: Fuccboi part-time cook Kazuha is living rent-free in my head, so why not get it out of my system with this fic? Special thanks to @erospandemos, @ducktoo and @defmaybe for beta reading. Love you all <3

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Breathing in the crisp early evening autumn air, you roam the back streets. Work was draining as usual, and you were looking for a restaurant to celebrate surviving the Monday blues. What you didn’t count on was your phone rapidly running out of battery and you ending up lost in a maze of sketchy alleyways and narrow one-way streets. 

Fuck.

You stalk through each alleyway, eyes poring over every doorway and signage underneath the waning sunlight to find a hint of a place that sold something resembling food. Instead you find nothing but auto repair shops, self-storage facilities, and DIY stores – not even the kind one might waltz in, but the kind that seems to serve other businesses exclusively. 

It doesn’t help that you had a particular restaurant in mind, but as your luck would have had it, your phone died before you could even memorise its location. So now you’re stuck in this unwelcoming part of town with no idea how to get out or even call for help. 

In every turn, men wearing overalls and hard hats stare back at you in visible confusion. Understandable, given that you’re a tiny little thing dressed in flats and a thrifted blazer and skirt combo. You’re out of place, and seemingly out of luck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You grit your teeth, tears welling up. The sun has almost completely sunk beneath the horizon at this point, and you can feel the accumulated sweat as you frantically scratch the nape of your neck in frustration. This was decidedly not how you envisioned your evening unfolding. At one point, the alleyways blur together (maybe because of the tears?). Just when you were about to give up, a bright red sign catches your eyes.

Right at the dead end of a particularly narrow alley was a restaurant. At least, you thought it’s a restaurant. The wooden door hanging at an odd angle, cracked Venetian window frames and the rust-brown brick walls scream Italian diner, and the bright red sign that drew your attention was adorned with two words in peeling yellow script. 

Penne…Arrabiata? 

Hell-motherfucking-yes. You’ve eaten your fair share of pasta to know that penne is a variation that’s tubular – not as large as a rigatoni, but with enough space in its hollow body to be a glorious vessel for whatever sauce it was cooked in. And arrabiata, well, that’s your favourite pasta sauce of all time. Spicy, salty, sweet, and tangy all in one. 

Best of all, there was light pouring through the windows. You rush eagerly into the restaurant, elbowing into the creaky wooden door as you’re pulled forward by a rumbling tummy and thoughts of delicious pasta.

Finally, some good fucking food.

The inside of the restaurant was just as dingy as the front. The dining area was a small room, lit by a pair of decidedly retro-looking stained glass pendant light fixtures hanging from the ceiling which cast a sickly yellow hue onto the crumbling plaster lining the walls. The furniture were all mismatched, with the tables and chairs (enough to seat six patrons at most) in varying shapes and colours. The reception, if you could even call it that, was simply a flat piece of four by four propped up with wooden pallets. 

What really piqued your attention though was the people – or the lack of them. Not a soul in sight. No customers or even wait staff. Very strange. Your eyes dart around the room as you silently plead for someone to hop out and yell “Surprise!”.

Things are looking very awkward for you. Is this restaurant really open for service? Not wanting to be clocked as a potential intruder, you start to make your way back to the entrance. Then it hit you. A wonderful aroma of basil, tomatoes, and garlic. 

Sniffing the air, you spin round and round to locate the source of the heavenly scent. You spot an unassuming grey door towards the back of the dining area, fitted with a circular pane of glass.

A faint voice in your head whispers, unbidden. You’re already inside, a little bit of snooping wouldn’t hurt, right?

You scamper slowly towards the grey door, the smell growing stronger and stronger with each step. With a soft creak, the door pushes in at your touch and you pad gingerly into what can only be called a kitchen. A long, narrow space, lined on either side with surfaces covered in stove tops and pots of various sizes. But still no sign of anyone.

Copious amounts of steam rushed out of one of the pots, and you peered over the rim to survey its contents. A light red sauce, softly bubbling away in the gentle heat of the stove. You breathe in deeply, sighing in pleasure at the amazing smell.

You cast your gaze back to where you walked in. Still no signs of life. You grab a ladle hanging by the wall and dip it into the sauce. Lifting the ladle to your mouth, you stick out your tongue to have a taste of –

“Who the hell are you?”

Shit! You let out a shrill yelp, almost dropping the ladle as you looked behind. 

A tall woman stares back at you. She’s dressed in a pair of sleek black pants and a grubby white shirt that’s unbuttoned far enough to reveal a silver chain. Her sleeves are rolled up, revealing toned forearms folded across her chest. An apron hung askew to the side of her slim waist, tucked into the band of her pants. A lit cigarette hung loosely from her middle and index fingers, the smoke curling slowly upwards. A chef?

But it was her eyes that drew your attention. She was staring a hole right through your skull, her hazel eyes shining through a pair of rimless glasses that sat low on the bridge of her defined nose. She was rocking a wolf cut, her dark brown hair framing her sharp features. Her anger and her looks makes for a rather alluring sight. A hot chef. Fucking meow.

You swallow nervously, your lips dry as you imagine the various ways this hottie can take you right there and –

“I asked a question.” The woman slowly saunters toward you, shoulders hunched forward, balled fists slightly raised. You leap back, two hands up with your palms open wide in the universal gesture of surrender.

“I-I was looking for a restaurant that’s open and I s-saw the lights were on from outside, s-so I went i-in and, uh, I just wanted to get some dinner…” 

You flinch, your voice trailing off as the chef (you suppressed the primal urge to call her Daddy) lifted the cigarette towards her mouth and took a long drag before blowing the smoke low and to the side. You notice a small silver stud adorning her left ear, and the way the tendons on her neck stand out on that pale neck. Something deep within your core stirs.

Fuck, she’s so fine.

“We’re closed today.” One step brings her closer to you.

“You’re hungry, huh?” The woman practically growls those last words, the deep rolling sound washing through your body. 

Another step, and she is a nose’s length away from you, her hazel eyes looking down at you from head to toe like a particularly juicy cut of meat. You can’t help but shiver at her proximity and the lingering acridness of smoke. 

She grunts softly, stubbing out the cigarette on the heel of her shoe and sliding the butt into a trash can, before cocking her head to one side and holding out a hand.

You gingerly offered your own hand. Is this actually happening?

“The ladle, dumbass. Hand it over.” You blush a deep red as you return the ladle (you were indeed holding it like a dumbass the whole time) to its rightful owner. The ridiculously attractive chef sighs, planting the ladle into the bubbling pot before shooing you out of the kitchen.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll whip up something to eat.” 

“Y-yes, Ma’am.” Yeah, you’re down fucking bad.

“Call me Kazuha.” The taller woman grins knowingly as she corrects you before disappearing back into the kitchen.

You settled down on one of the mismatched chairs in the cramped dining room, hands on your lap like a good little girl. You haven’t felt this way since fifth grade when your homeroom teacher scolded you for not finishing your homework…or since that time in twelfth grade when you had your first kiss in the locker room. You shake your head. Get a hold of yourself, damnit!

A couple of minutes later, Kazuha returns with a steaming hot plate of pasta balanced on one hand and a glass of red wine on the other. She sets them gently in front of you. 

“I only serve one dish.” She states flatly, gesturing to the sign at the entrance. Of course. Penne Arrabiata. The chef grabs a seat opposite you, elbows on the table as she rests her chin on her hands. 

“Eat it up.”

Your stomach rumbles. It smells amazing. The pasta rests on a bed of orangey-red sauce. A leaf of basil adorns the side of the wide plate and everything is topped with a thick carpet of freshly grated pecorino romano. Wisps of steam curl from the recently prepared dish in front of you. 

Fork in hand, you stab into two batons of penne, making sure to slather them in the sauce and some pecorino before sliding the tines between your lips. You let out an inadvertent moan. 

To call the pasta the best you’ve ever had was an understatement. The penne was springy but not too chewy – al dente. The arrabiata sauce was tangy, with bursts of salty flavour from the pockets of melted pecorino and a dim burn of savoury hot pepper and garlic to round off the sweetness of the tomatoes.