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Recipe for Love - Part 1 [TG]
🕑 Added 2025-06-23 08:45:59 +0000 UTCOliver has spent his life coasting; sweet talking his way into relationships so that he never had to do more than his fair share. But when he is karmically changed into a woman, things change. He gets a job at a local restaurant and finds himself not only finally learning how to cook and look after himself, but falling in love with the chef as well.
~
It’s funny how your perspective can change so quickly. When Oliver opened his eyes that morning, the first and most important thing on his mind was how to scrounge up a place to sleep tonight. The landlord had threatened to turn him out if he didn’t make the rent, and he definitely didn’t have it. But then he rolled over, ready to bitch and moan and found something else to worry about.
“What the fuck!?”
Somehow, in his sleep, he’d gone from an average-looking man in his thirties to an average-looking woman in her thirties. On paper, the addition of ‘wo’ didn't seem like much, in reality, it was a lot, specifically on his chest.
“This has to be a dream.” He muttered to himself.
Carefully, he stepped out of bed and wobbled, adjusting to his new centre of gravity. His breasts hung in pretty teardrop shapes on his chest, his boxer waistband was stretched thin over his now wide hips and ass and he seemed to have lost an inch in height. What had been easy to maintain, short-cropped hair when he went to bed last night was now luscious, warm auburn locks that brushed his mid-back. As he ran his fingers over his face, he could feel a multitude of smaller changes that had been made as well, from the shape and fullness of his lips to the smoothness of his cheeks.
A fist banged on the door and made him jump; then winced as his breasts slapped against his skin.
“Open up, you’d better have your rent or you’re out of here. Today!”
“Shit.”
Despite everything, Oliver had enough sense to grab a towel and wrap it around his newly full frame before opening the door, all the while trying to think of some smooth lie to tell that would buy him more time. He opened the door, ready to put on what he thought was a charming smile and watched as the anger dropped from his landlord's face.
Oliver’s landlord was older than he looked; a life without sunscreen and a pack a day had given him an extra ten years' worth of wrinkles. It made his anger all the more pronounced with every extra line on his face. Oliver was surprised to note that when he wasn’t glowering, the man could look quite handsome, distinguished even. He also realised he’d never had the chance to notice, since the landlord was almost always angry while he was around.
“Oh, you must be the latest victim.”
“Victim?”
“Yeah, hate to break it to you, lady, but the guy who lives here is a deadbeat. I’m betting you paid for dinner last night, right?”
Oliver’s hackles went up.
“I wanted to.” He lied, “He was charming.”
“I’m sure he was, trust me, that charm wears thin when you’re footing the bill for everything. Get our while you still can, and tell him to get his ass out of bed and pay his rent.”
“He’s not here…he’s at work.”
“Work? I didn't know he even had a job.”
“He’s between jobs, he does odd things here and there…”
Even as he said it, Oliver felt embarrassment creeping over him. Somehow, it sounded more pathetic when he said it in this new, feminine voice.
“Whatever you say, when he shows his face, tell him I’m changing the locks at five today if he hasn't paid.”
“Will do!”
Oliver slammed the door closed. Five o'clock. He had until five o’clock to sort the rent. Then, he had a week to sort out a new mode of making money. Oh, and he had to figure out why the hell he was a woman. He couldn’t leave that off the list.
“Hang on…maybe this could work to my advantage…”
Oliver dropped the towel and looked down at his new body. Decent curves, nice hair, smooth skin. He could work with this.
“All I need is one decent outfit and I’ll have charmed my way into a new apartment in no time!” He grinned, “It was time for an upgrade anyway.”
Putting together a decent outfit was hard, considering he really only had jeans that were too baggy for his new frame and a few shirts. He picked the best options, gathered the rest into a bag and headed down to the local thrift shop. By the end of the night, he’d have a new sugar daddy who’d buy him a whole new wardrobe in exchange for a smile and a soft hand on his leg. These old things wouldn’t matter.
~
Oliver, or Olive, as he had decided to introduce himself, stepped into the bar with a look of wonder on his face. Normally, he picked small dives where the beer was cheap and the patrons more or lss ignored each other but today he’d decided to try somewhere new. A place where the sign wasn’t missing a neon letter and the seats were plush and comfortable.
He’d spent the afternoon meticulously finding himself an outfit designed to grab attention: a short black skirt, a hot pink singlet with a plunging neckline and a pair of red heels, one of which he’d had to glue back on when it snapped. Thrift shop options weren’t exactly high quality, but they’d get the job done. Maybe they would even work in his favour; guys loved a downtrodden girl they could swoop in and save.
He sat himself down at the bar, ordered a water and waited. And waited. Media had told him a beautiful woman sitting alone at the bar was never alone for long. And yet, after an hour and three waters, he was starting to doubt.
Once or twice, Men jostled past him to get to the bar, but all that netted him was a polite smile. Maybe he needed to look more exotic. Oliver tried batting his now long eyelashes at the bartender, ordering a cosmopolitan. When he hesitated, expecting an offer of “It’s on the house,” the bartender raised an eyebrow. Oliver paid for the drink. He downed it, pressing his lips together at the taste. It was so sweet and sugary, it certainly didn’t taste like it was double the strength of a beer, or like it was worth double the cost.
“Okay, I can be proactive.” He whispered to himself, scanning the room and selecting his targets one by one.
Then with as much grace as he could muster, he slid into a booth uninvited and gave the men there his most charming smile. He laughed too loudly at a their jokes. He complimented a man’s shirt. He twirled a piece of his hair like he'd seen in movies. The man, distracted, thanked him, then returned to his date. Another said he was just out with the boys. A third simply looked confused.
His heels pinched. His feet throbbed.
By the end of the night, he sat alone with his water, the condensation bleeding through his napkin. He’d been here for hours, and no one had bought him dinner. No one had even asked his name. He was about to try again when the bartender appeared; a huge man with arms twice as thick as Oliver’s.
“Closing.”
“But it’s only nine.”
“Okay, we’re cloning for you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re scaring off my customers and drinking nothing but water.”
He crossed his meaty arms over his chest, and Oliver was suddenly very aware of how small he now was. Not that he’d ever won a bar fight as a man. Reluctantly, he slid off the stool and headed for the door. It was cold outside, or maybe it was just that he was now facing the worst possible solution to his problem.
He was going to have to get a job.
Not only that, but he was going to have to get a job without any experience, a resume or even an ID to match his new face. Perfect.
~
It’s amazing what a new point of view can do. The different things you notice, how your priorities shift once more. Like how after returning to his apartment and finding the locks changed and an eviction notice on the door, as promised, Oliver found himself without anything to his name but the clothes on his back and seven dollars in his bank account. Turns out, rocking up to shops asking for a job in a low-cut singlet, heels, and a mini skirt didn’t give the best impression.
After three days of sleeping in the local shelter, wearing the same clothes and sneaking into a gym just to shower, Oliver was finally ready to admit it. He was fucked. The first night, he’d hoped for one of those soap opera stories; one of the workers would take pity on him, the poor single woman, and take him home to a warm meal and a proper bed. Of course, that hadn’t happened.
His stomach growled as he passed down the thin alleyway in the tourist district; the area was full of great restaurants, if he was lucky, he could sneak into one of the kitchens and grab some leftovers.
A door opened, and Oliver watched as a man propped a crate up to let the cool night air flow into the overheated kitchen. Hot air escaped, along with the smell of tomato and garlic. It made his stomach growl even louder. He waited a moment, then crept closer and peered inside; his eyes immediately found treasure. A foil-covered tray of leftovers, half a roast chicken, some sautéed greens, and a hunk of focaccia, had been placed on a bench by the back door, forgotten or perhaps intended for one of the employees to take home.
The kitchen was half empty; the main grills and areas clean and empty; there was a single occupant, a man working a desert station at the other end of the kitchen. Oliver crept forward, heart pounding against his ribs, and slipped inside. He moved quick and silent, eyes locked on the tray. His fingers closed around it and then:
“Hey! Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?”
A thick-shouldered man, with dark eyes and sandy blonde hair in a sweat-stained apron, appeared behind him; knife in hand. Funnily enough, the fact that it was coated in whipped cream didn’t make it seem any less threatening. Oliver froze. The tray was in his hands like a deer in the headlights.
“I…look, I wasn’t trying to steal. Okay, I was, but I haven’t eaten in a day and a half.” His voice trembled, but his eyes were steady. “I didn't think anybody would miss it?”
As stated before, luck as a resource runs out eventually and while Oliver was close, he wasn’t out of it just yet. And as always, the universe chose the perfect moment to pour just a drop out and into his metaphorical cup. The chef, whose uniform had ‘Anthony’ stitched across the left lapel, let out a slow breath of frustration. He’d thrown drunks out of this kitchen before.
He’d fired line cooks for less. But something in Oliver’s voice pulled at his heartstrings. From his point of view, he saw a woman in raggard clothes, carrying nothing, resorting to stealing for her next meal. Somebody in desperate need of some sympathy. It was exactly the image Oliver had hoped to portray a few nights ago, before it was true.
“Jesus,” Anthony muttered, lowering the knife. “You’re not high, are you?”
“No.”
“You drunk?”
“I wish.”
Anthony sniffled a chuckle and looked around.
“You want to eat that?” Anthony asked, gesturing to the tray. “You wash dishes for the next three hours, it’s yours. Deal?”
Oliver blinked.
“Yeah. Yes. Deal.”
Never in his life had Oliver agreed to work so quickly. Anthony pointed him toward the sinks.
“Machine is broken. Scrub hard. Don’t break anything. And if the manager asks who you are, you’re my cousin.”
For the next three hours, Oliver worked harder than he had in years and for once, he didn’t complain. The manager, a wiry man named Devin, came in rubbing his temples just as Oliver was finishing the last few plates.
“Goddamn, is that thing broken again?” he asked, slapping the side of the dishwasher.
Anthony leaned casually against the prep table.
“I keep telling you we need a new one.”
“Yeah? You hire someone while I wasn’t looking?”
Anthony shrugged.
“My cousin needed work. Just in town for a bit. Thought I’d try her out. She’s good. Quiet. Fast.”
Oliver had always thought he was a good liar; he had nothing on Anthony. He almost believed the man himself. Devin stared at him and Oliver focused on the plate, not wanting to fuck up his one good bit of luck in days. Devin just grunted.
“Whatever. As long as I don’t have to get in there.”
He left without another word.
“Here.”
Anthony handed over the tray, and Oliver wolfed it down, only to stop when he saw Anthony holding back laughter.
“What?”
“Sorry, I know I shouldn’t…you’re probably starving, but I have never seen a woman scarf down food like that.”
“Oh shit, you’re right.”
He’d been so hungry he hadn't even thought of the opportunity he’d just messed up. He should have been dainty, all delicate and in need of saving, then maybe this guy would offer him more food on the regular.
“Relax, no judgment here, it’s nice to see somebody eating my food with such gusto.”
“Don’t the people who eat here do that?” Olive asked, between bites. \
“Yeah, but I don’t get to see it. Besides, most of the recipes are the head chefs, not mine.”
“Head chef?”
“You know, the guy in charge. I’m just the sous.”
“Soup?”
“Sous, man, you really haven’t worked in a restaurant before, have you? The way you cleaned those dishes, I figured you must be experienced.”
“I…used to wash the dishes at home. Instead of cooking.”
It was true. It was the one chore he consistently got done since most of his girlfriends followed the classic "I cook, you clean" rule. The food disappeared and Oliver resistsed the urge to lick the crumbs off it. Then thought about how that might look in his current body and blushed. Anthony got up and showed him the door.
“You’re on again tomorrow. Seven sharp. You late, you’re out.”
Oliver blinked. It wasn’t the free meal offer he’d been hoping for, but it was something.
“Thank you.”
Anthony didn’t smile, but he nodded once.
“Don’t make me regret it.”
~
Oliver had never been much of a restaurant guy. Why go out to pay for a meal one of his many partners was capable of making? Besides, going out to dinner required extra funds, women expected you to wine and dine them, and he wasn’t up for it. So he was surprised by just how hectic the kitchen at his new job got. He learned quickly, mostly because he had to. And because coasting on charity wasn’t getting him anywhere lately.
Even as a lowly dishwasher, he felt the heat of the dinner rush. Dishes needed specific plates and bowls, and god forbid they ran out of dipping bowls for olive oil or forks. The sheer amount of prep work that went into each dish was astounding: dicing, peeling, boiling, roasting, frying, not to mention plating it up to look as beautiful as possible. Not that he had much time to admire it while half covered in steam and suds.
Oliver was scrubbing a pan, cursing whoever decided to burn caramel, when he felt a hand slap against his ass. The force made both his cheeks jiggle back and forth, and he yelped in surprise. Turning to see one of the other lower chefs, a pale-skinned guy with cold eyes, grinning at her.
“Gotta be careful, bending over like that.” He teased, only for Anthony to loom over his shoulder and grab his wrist.
“Back to work.”
The chef scampered away, and Oliver swallowed.
“Thanks.”
“You too.”
He turned back to the sink and kept scrubbing. His ass was still tingling from the smack. He’d never noticed how sensitive the skin there was, or maybe it was just the fact that his cheeks were so much bigger now. Despite the hustle of the kitchen, he could hear Anthony and the other chef talking.
“Well she comes to work in a mini skirt with her tits practically falling out. What do you expect me to do?”
“I expect you to keep your hands on your tools. I’ll handle her outfits.”
Something about the way he said that made Oliver’s cheeks go red. The words echoed in his mind the entire shift until finally, it was knock off time and Anthony cornered him on the way out.
“You can’t wear that to work, it’s not safe and frankly…it’s inappropriate.”
“Sorry, I…don’t have anything else.”
Anthony stared for a moment and looked him up and down.
“Seriously?”
Oliver’s cheeks burned, and he felt the blush spreading over his entire body.
“...Where are you staying?”
“A shelter.”
“Shit.”
Anthony rubbed at the back of his neck, looked Oliver up and down once more and sighed.
“Fine, I’ll get you some work clothes, and you can crash on my couch. But you cause any trouble-”
Oliver brightened, this was exactly the sort of offer he was used to,. But never had he been so desperate before.
“I’m out. I know.”
“...Good.”
He could have been wrong, but Oliver swore he saw the stoic man's lips threaten to twitch into a smile at that.
