baby army

“I did, chef,” you say, stepping away from the steel table you were wiping down and into view of the steaming face of Min Yoongi. He strides towards you holding a container covered by saran wrap that he slams onto the counter, startling you.

“You didn’t label the stock? Are you fucking dumb?”

No, indeed you’re not. Before you left last night, you checked off the entire tasklist knowing damn well you didn’t mark the freshly wrapped ingredients. Because the first thing that Chef Min does when he comes into the restaurant after being gone for a few days is check inventory. And if anything is missing, out of place, or just plain not up to his standards, he flips his lid. No one makes these kinds of mistakes because no one wants to be yelled at and talked down to by the executive chef.

But you do.

You keep your head down as he steps right in front of you. Under his harsh glare that sears right through your skin, you tremble, but not from fear or intimidation.

“How long have you been working at my restaurant?”

You gulp, staring at your feet. His voice is so deep and low and angry and you’re getting chills and-

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Your head snaps up obediently, heat flushing from your cheeks to your ears from the insane darkness in his glare. He’s pissed. 

“Answer my question,” he growls. Your legs quake.

“I’ve been here for eight months.”

“Yeah, you’d think by now you know how I fucking run things around here.”

“I do, chef. I just made a mistake, I’m sorry.”

“You’re going to be.” How can a threat sound so good? “Tonight, you’ll stay late to check inventory and make sure everything in the pantry and walk-in is labeled and dated. And then you’re going to roll every single piece of silverware in this place. Is that clear?”

“Yes, chef.”

He turns around without another word.

The rest of the night goes by without a hitch. It’s busy as it always is and you run around like a hamster on acid like you always do, firing up orders and sending them out in expert time. Occasionally, Chef Min passes behind you, just hovering as you maneuver around your work station. You won’t fuck up on purpose now, lest you put your job at stake. But as the end of your shift looms closer, so does the notion that you may have already done that. Because now he’s watching your every move, just waiting for any tiny mistake. So you don’t make a single one and you don’t check to make sure he sees that.

The last table leaves around 11 and your colleagues slowly filter out after they finish up with their tasks. You’re absolutely exhausted by the time you complete your prep work and clean up your station, but now you have to label and date all of the stock. After you get a sharpie and a roll of tape and head into the pantry, Jimin, your work bestie, swings by with his apron over his shoulder.

“Hey, good luck tonight,” he says with a supportive smile.

You nod, sighing out some overstimulation. “I might need it.”

“I honestly don’t know how you’re not fired.” You pause. That’s not what you need to hear right now.

“Thanks, Jimin,” you respond dryly.

“I mean, Chef Min takes things so seriously, I’m just kind of surprised he’s kept you on.”

“I was late like one time and forgot about labeling last night," you defend, even though it's weak.

“Don’t forget that time you diced the onions instead of chopping them.”

Oh, yeah. That was a few months ago and Chef Min chewed you out for a good five minutes. You went home that night and dreamt that he took you right there on the counter.

“He must think you’re too talented that it’s not worth it to let you go. Just be careful you don’t take advantage of that.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. I’d hate to lose my work wife.”

“How does Ty feel about you calling me your work wife?” you tease, knowing his boyfriend is waiting outside to pick him up.

“He doesn’t know,” he says, blowing you a kiss and twirling around with a finger heart held in the air. You shake your head endearingly.

“Bye!” you call after him.

“Bye!”

Soon after, the alley door slams shut and the kitchen becomes eerily quiet now that you’re left completely alone. The faster you get this done, the faster you get out of here. Even though you shouldn’t, you hope you run into Chef Min.

It’s a known fact that he rarely fires people since he tactically chooses each member of his staff, doing thorough background and skill checks to ensure everyone is capable of carrying out his high expectations. Which is why the “mistakes” you make are small and generally insignificant, but knowing that Chef Min is a detail-oriented perfectionist, he’s bound to notice anything out of place. So that’s why you toe the line.

Halfway through, you’re startled by the clanking of metal and the sharp hiss and crackle of hot oil. Holding your breath, you poke your head out of the stock room, and Chef Min is standing in front of the counter, chopping up various vegetables and moving them into the pan. You watch for a moment, fascinated by this rare sight of him cooking. He uses the kitchen behind-the-scenes to experiment and test new items for the menu, but the way he cooks with such smooth expertise fills you with envy. You probably shouldn’t get caught just staring at him so you focus back on your work.

Your neck has several cricks in it when you finally move onto the silverware, and the ache in your feet has started to radiate up to your calves, but you can’t sit down until you’re done. That’s until you spot a ceramic–covered plate placed right next to the bin of clean and polished silverware, accompanied by a bottle of water. Did Chef Min… cook for you? You glance around the empty kitchen. There’s no sign that he was ever in here making a meal - no dishes in the sink or on the drying rack, and the counter and stove are as pristine as ever. Your mouth waters as you lift the cover and your senses are flooded with a deliciously savory smell. As you’re about to grab a fork, you notice a plastic one already waiting on a paper napkin. Your heart flutters at the gesture.

Because the floor is clean enough to lick, you plop down and force yourself not to inhale his food. The flavors melt on your tongue and you groan as every muscle in your body relaxes. The connoisseur in you wants to whip out your phone and jot down notes of the ingredients, but you don’t want to stop eating. The food disappears all too quickly and you’re sad as you stare down at your cleared plate. Oh well, time to finish up.

Luckily, you get through it in a breeze - rolling silverware is second nature to you now, you bet you could do this in your sleep. Knife and fork tucked together, rolled tightly and neatly in an ironed, cloth napkin, and secured in the black, crisp paper band etched with the logo of Chef Min’s two-Michelin star restaurant. 

By the time you finish, it’s nearing midnight and he hasn’t come back out of his office. Your bones are screaming for you to leave but you want to be assured that you’re not in the dog house with him. You’re definitely not stalling when you return to the stock room to recheck each container for its precisely placed and clearly written label. You catch movement in the doorway and almost jump out of your skin when it’s Chef Min who’s standing there, chef coat unbuttoned to reveal a white, untucked t-shirt underneath. He crosses his veiny, muscular forearms and you turn away before you can salivate.

“Are you almost done? I’d like to go home.” His tone is gruff and impatient, and you scramble to stand, quickly smoothing down your uniform.

“I’m finished. I was just making sure that I didn’t miss anything.”

“I’ll check the silverware.” He swivels on his heel and you don’t know if that’s an invitation to follow, so you slowly exit the stockroom and keep your distance as he stops by the station where you meticulously stacked all the rolls.

“Who helped you?” he asks, picking up a pair and inspecting the napkin. You swallow. You may make mistakes, but you never cheat.

“No one, chef.” He stares at the silverware for another moment, and you closely observe his erratic blinks and the small downturn on the corner of his mouth. You rolled every single one of those perfectly, and you know that there’s no problem. So the lack of expression on his face makes you queasy. Your spine straightens when he sets down the roll and sharply turns towards you.

“Come with me to my office.” Your hands grow clammy, a churning in your gut now that you anticipate you might’ve fucked up for the last time. He’s never talked to you in his office, so maybe he’s finally going to let you have it.

“Oh, let me wash my plate first.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he grumbles as he passes by without looking at you. So you dutifully trail after him, though you’re somewhat shocked that he’s giving you a pass.

He goes in first, and as you enter with your hands nervously clasped, he’s holding onto the edge of the door, eyes still narrowed in a frown.

“Sit,” he says sternly, and your stomach churns as you take tentative steps towards his desk to take a seat opposite his large desk chair. His office is small and keenly organized, nothing out of place or in disarray, as you would expect of Chef Min. The walls are littered with framed degrees, magazine covers and newspaper clippings of his accolades from when he was an up-and-coming culinary artiste and now as the owner of a critically acclaimed restaurant. Reasons why you’ve sought out working here. And now as you sit in his office, you start to regret ever putting your job and your reputation at risk simply because it… entices you when he yells. But you can't help it.

“I can’t figure you out,” his voice jolts you out of your rapidly spiraling thoughts and you sit up straight as he walks up behind you.

“What do you mean, chef?” you ask, keeping a neutral tone even though you’re close to tears. He rounds your chair and faces you, leaning on the corner of his desk, arms crossed as he peers down at you.

“I see the good work you do, how tenacious you are. You’re very thorough with prep, you follow my recipes down to a perfect detail, and when I’m not here, I never hear any complaints about you from my sous.”

You bow your head, pinching your thumb so you don’t squirm in the chair. In all the years you’ve worked at high-end restaurants, through all the toil and extreme pressure, not once have you received a compliment. Especially not from an executive chef. And you never dreamed of hearing one from Min Yoongi.

“So how come when I am here, you manage to slip up so many times? And in ways that I’ll definitely notice? You think I’m attracted to incompetence?”

The way he grits that last part has your attention snapping up, and you’re met with that glare again. “No, chef.”

“Then why do you keep fucking shit up around me?”

You falter, a tight knot of reckoning lodging in your throat making it impossible to look at him. What the fuck are you supposed to say? You’ve always been the type of person to think ahead, to prepare for the million ways each decision and choice you make could pan out. Yet here you are, being confronted by the man you go to sleep at night thinking of about why you make stupid little mistakes to piss him off? You’re suddenly at a loss when you know the exact reason and you’re pushed incredibly off kilter. So you say nothing.

“You know what I think?” You slowly turn your cheek, because the change in his tone, softer yet darker, commands you to look at him.

“That you like it.” You freeze, eyes widening like a deer in headlights. You’re screwed - so, so screwed.

“What?” you blurt on a half-bated breath. A small uptick grows on the corner of his mouth.

“When I yell at you.”

Your heart and mind races because - it’s taken him this long to catch on but he’s actually caught on??? 

“Hm, I hit the nail on the head, didn’t I? Why else would you make such dumb little mistakes? I know you're not actually dumb.” He tilts his head, very clearly smirking, seeming to find amusement in your shock.

“I’m sorry,” you whoosh, pulse skyrocketing.

He chuckles. “Don’t apologize now.”

What the fuck else are you supposed to say?? He then steals your breath and catapults your heart into a frenzy when he leans down, grabs the arms of your chair, and turns you towards him to get right in your face.

“So, what do you want? A punishment?” He asks this while gazing deep into your eyes, his own hooded and dark and devoid of irritation. You catch the flick down to your lips and your chest spasms.

“I want what you think I deserve,” you say, a tremor in your voice because that could mean anything.

“And just how should I go about doing that?”

“I’ll take anything.” He shakes his  head but remains in your face. 

“Tell me what you want or leave.” How can you say it out loud? Now that you’re faced with the opportunity, you’re cowering? Since when are you a fucking coward. This is what you wanted. Don’t give it up.

But you need a moment to breathe. Looking over your shoulder, you notice the door is still open and as you face him again, he’s already leaning away. Wordlessly, you stand and head for the door, and he just as quietly begins retreating to his side of the desk. You grab the knob and slowly push the door closed, turning the lock with a resounding click. 

You take a deep breath. Here goes everything.

“And if I want you to fuck me?” The silence that fills his office wraps a growing tangle of morbid anticipation in your gut. You tentatively look his way and your lungs inflate when he’s staring at you, amusement etched into the smile he rubs over with his beautiful, veiny hand.

“All you have to do is say so.” Oh, thank god. But what the fuck? That is certainly not the answer you expected and it shoots heat between your legs.

“I didn’t think you were interested, chef,” you say coolly.

He scoffs. “You think I would’ve put up with your bullshit for this long if I wasn’t interested?”

A sudden surge of confidence rolls back your shoulders. “Then all you had to do was say so.”

His eyebrow cocks, smirk falling. “Oh, getting smart with me now?”

“No, chef,” you say in a sweet voice as you fully turn around, coyly batting your lashes. His eyes narrow.

“Come here.” Breath shaking with excitement, you heed his command and once again walk towards his desk, but at a normal pace lest you seem too eager. He pushes his chair away from the edge and gestures for you to stand beside him. You stop at the corner, impatiently waiting for his next instruction. Your hands are shaking as you fight off a smile because it’s finally happening. You hope you’re not fucking dreaming.

“Closer.” He ushers you over to stand directly in front of him and you gasp when he lightly slaps your ass without warning, and the surprise of it makes you jolt forward.

“Bend over,” he orders in a deep grumble, and you await another smack as you lean forward, palms planting flat on his desk.

“What should I do with you?” he asks, probably rhetorically as he trails his fingers along the hem of your black chef’s coat. You arch your back, presenting yourself.

“Like I said, anything you want.” He says nothing and refrains from making another move. That knot in your throat returns because is he having regrets?

“Should I take off my pants?”

“If you want.”

“But do you want it?” you snap over your shoulder, at him just vacantly staring at your lower region, an unreadable stitch between his brows.

“Yes.” The knot dissipates. “But you should know that you can change your mind and I won’t hold it against you.”

His assurance makes you feel 1,000 times more confident. “Chef, the last thing I’m going to do is change my mind.”

He hums and further spreads his legs, clasping his hands in his lap as if waiting for you to carry on. Facing forward again, you thank god that he can’t see your stupid ass grin as you unbutton, unzip, and push down your uniform slacks, biting your lip as the cool air breathes across your bare ass. Fuck, you can’t wait to see what he’s going to do with you.

“Damn,” he mutters, and you wonder if he meant it out loud, but he still doesn’t touch you. Is he going to make you beg? You’re pathetic enough, you’ll do so gladly.

But then you hear his chair scoot back and a sharp slap rings out as his hand makes hard contact with your cheek, and you bite back a moan at the sting. He smoothes over the sting on your cheek that will definitely still be there tomorrow before landing another smack on the same spot, coaxing out another moan that you can’t hold back.

“Knew you’d like this,” he correctly observes.

“I-I do, chef,” you stutter, arousal soaking through your panties and dampening your inner thighs. He hums and cups a handful of your cheek, pushing you forward until your hips dig into the edge of his desk and you’re more parallel with the surface.

“Please touch me,” you beg in a desperate whisper, biting your lip when his thumb skims under your panties and stops just beside your hole.

“Holy shit, you’re soaked,” he mumbles in a register deeper than you’ve ever heard. “How long have you been this wet for me?”

“All night.”

He hums and slips two fingers between your folds, spreading your lips apart. You buck, struggling to keep it together.

“I bet it’s been longer.” Damn, he’s right. Before he stood inches away from you and looked and spoke down to you. When he just walked through the door in his ironed white chef’s coat and slacks, dark red hair perfectly styled off his forehead, side burns giving a peek into his undercut. He’s so hot it’s not fair. Out of nowhere, he gives your sensitive clit a firm tap and you briefly see stars, gasping as euphoric stimulation simmers up to your lower belly. He repeats it with added pressure and prolongment and you fall onto your elbows, breasts smushing into the wood, chafing your pert nipples.

“This is what you like, huh? Rough?”

You garble out a barely coherent “Uh-huh.”

“You’re such a filthy, naughty girl.” You have no fucking idea. Before you get a chance to realize you said that out loud, you hear a thud against the wall that you imagine comes from his chair, and then his hand lands on your mound… hard. Hard enough that it leaves a lasting sting, propelling a shockwave through your entire body. The only sound you emit is a gasp. That feels way too fucking good.

He does it again, and the weight of his palm slamming against your clit has your knees and ankles buckling.

“Oh-Oh fuck!” You moan, teeth digging into your bottom lip because if he fucking does that again, you just might-

For a third time, he grabs the inside of your thigh and tugs at your skin right before the smack. You cry out, the pain on your clit snapping apart the intense coil in your core and you see white as pleasure overwhelms your conscience.

You moan and twitch as your cunt pulses around nothing, and you squeeze your eyes and mouth shut because what the fuck you’ve never come this quick before and from next to nothing.

“Did you just come from me slapping your pussy?” He asks, astounded and for a split second you’re embarrassed. But then he chuckles.

“You’re so pathetic, it’s cute.”

You whimper, hoping he’s not going to stop there because you’re nowhere near gratified. Just as your tongue moves to ask if that’s it, he inserts a slender finger and it glides in smoothly.

“So fucking wet,” he hisses, and the wood smothers your groan as he adds another finger and slowly fucks them in and out, palm nudging your clit.

“Faster,” you plead, the warmth already pooling in your gut telling you it won’t take long to reach your peak again.

“Who are you to give me orders?” he snaps, and you cry out when he pulls his hand away, leaving you devastatingly empty.

“No, I’m sorry!” He just humphs, like he doesn’t believe you.

“You gonna stop being a pain in my ass?”

“Mm-mm,” you hum defiantly. Stupidly. He clicks his tongue.

“Not a good answer.” You open your mouth to retract but your lungs constrict as his digits plunge into you again, bottom of his hand slamming against the center of your ass, and vigorously dig and curl against your patch of pleasure.

You bite back screams when over and over and over again, he curves and fucks his fingers into you, coaxing you to the brink of release and then dismantling it just before you crash.

“Please!” You beg after your orgasm is snatched away for the fourth time. Tears spill onto the desk, smearing all down your cheek. “Please I can’t take it!”

“Then answer correctly. Are you going to stop fucking up in my restaurant?”

“Yes!” you wail, nails digging into the mahogany and you might have to pay for damages.

“Louder.”

“Yes!”

“Yes, what?” The growl in his voice gnaws at your spine.

“Yes, chef!”

“Good girl.”

He presses his free hand onto your lower back so you’re rendered immobile and slams his fingers into your cunt, right on your spot, and finally works you through your orgasm. You let out an elongated moan as a powerful wave stuns you and uncontrollable shakes swim up and down your legs. Your ears ring from how harshly you were clenching your teeth, but you still register his low and satisfied hum as you squeeze around his fingers. More tears fall when he slips out and leaves you to recover, plopping back in his chair and your cheeks flare with heat when you imagine him just staring and smirking at the mess he made.

As you start to breathe normally, the opening and closing of a drawer vibrates the desk beneath you. You melt like warmed butter when a soft napkin caresses the insides of your thighs to dry them.

You look over your shoulder when he starts pulling up your panties. “Wait, you’re not gonna-”

He shakes his head, shucking up your slacks and covering your ass. “When you start behaving, we’ll get around to that.”

Disappointment floods you, especially when you glance down to the tented evidence of his erection.

“What about you?”

His eyes flicker to you and he gives another subtle shake of his head. “Go home and sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Your bottom lip juts out in a pout but you won’t argue. At least there’s a tomorrow. You push yourself up and turn around to sit on the edge, now standing in between his widespread legs as you zip up your pants. You make a severe effort to not look at his crotch again. Fuck, you feel like you're being kicked to the curb.

“You cooked for me earlier,” you blurt. Stalling. Again.

He stills, then shrugs as he responds. “Can’t have you passing out on me. It’s a liability.” Like you didn’t scarf down food that you threw together on your break. Like he doesn’t know about that.

“I know I don’t have to tell you that it was really good.”

A grin filled with pride spreads onto his pretty, pink lips. Fuck, you want to know what they feel like against your own.

“Just one of the new recipes I’m trying out for the menu.”

“Well, if you need a taste tester, I’m your girl.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You simply stare at each other for a moment and your heart rate intensifies. This is the first time he’s looked at you without hostility and anger in his eyes. It fills you with a warmth that you’re not used to. And you greedily want more of it.

“I guess I’ll get going,” you crack the silence before it gets overheated. You sidestep him, ignoring the ache and pull to close the distance and kiss him. Tomorrow. You still have tomorrow.

“Drive safe,” he says as he follows you to the door. You swivel around to have the last word.

“Night, chef.”

He nods, holds his small smile and your gaze for a lingering second and then closes the door.

For once, you don’t spend the drive home wondering just what you can do next to piss him off.

You’ll show him just how good you can be.

.

.

.

part 2 ->

thanks so much for reading!! i know that was a bit wild but hope you enjoyed. i'm a little nervous about this bc it's been a while since i've written smut so let me know what you think!! (pls be nice im just a girl)