chef
rating: mature
content: tattooed!Michael, chef!Michael, anger, snide remarks, a late night visit, tasting, sexual situations, oral sex, dirty talk, multiple positions, longing, spontaneity, bodily fluids, and hooking up with a co-worker.
A/N: this came out of nowhere. thinking about the show 'the bear' and michael at the same time with @cashtnarry created this--a tense, angsty au that ends in sex. just trying to inspire as much michael thirst as possible. ;-)
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*
Fast. It was a way to describe the air in the kitchen. Screaming orders, pushing food down the line, chopping, dicing, stirring, sliding. It could make you dizzy from the high in the air, sneaking in your nostrils like a drug derived from braising and spices. You watched the kitchen staff work like a machine from your corner, washed in half of the warm light from the dining room and the fluorescence behind the curtain.
You moved forward as your vision lingered on the center of the stove. Dinner service was a complicated dance—orchestrated by Michael. He seemed focused in the chaos of dropped pans and second degree burns on his tattooed fingers. There was a solace in his expression, barking orders out of habit. You had never seen a crack in his demeanor, no changes in how he acted for a second. He ran the restaurant like it was the only thing he could ever do, taking charge of every plate and person that went out the door. You were mesmerized by how he handled—nearly able to forget how much of an asshole he was. Seeing the remnants of a hickey on his neck seemingly made another appear. They would form in clusters or have different shades and shapes, implying that he saw a horde of different people at all times.
He never said anything about it. It was simply the aura he gave off—the pure power—sexual in the wake of his anger.
Yelling, swearing, judging. He was brutal with how he treated staff, even getting after you for seating too many people in one section. Responses varied from ignoring him to spending time formulating the perfect comeback—only for him to spit venom in return
He was so…reactive. It made you wonder what he could be like in a different context—turned down—focused on something other than the quality of his food. Your mind circled around the thought of him being gentle. Expressing his feelings. Trying to get someone to like him. It didn’t come naturally. His aggression was trademark to his character. It gave him an edge, put a purpose on the intensity of his gaze.
He would be good looking if he had kind energy to spare.
Blonde hair, a spattering of black ink all over his skin, green eyes. It was like you noticed him for the first time all over again—letting your apprehension disappear as you watched him cook. You suddenly wanted to peel back the layer of armor that he had set, eager to explore the things you couldn’t see.
“What the fuck are you looking at?”
Michael looked at you, annoyed.
“Sorry, I wanted to check on the order for table 6?”
You lied. It was easier than pretending like you weren’t gawking.
“It’ll be done when it’s done. Out.”
Swiveling out of the kitchen had never been easier than in that moment. You covered your face with a menu before walking back to your post.
*
“Goodnight.”
The restaurant cleared an hour before you started silverware. It was a long night. Tips didn’t do the burn in your calves justice, and you were ready to go to bed. Most nights, it was just you and Michael finishing up. Your job was to finish tidying the dining room and Michael did the bulk of the kitchen prep for the next shift. Both of you rented apartments above the restaurant, so it made things easy. Seeing Michael after leaving was rare. Hearing him with someone else was common, even from across the hall. Never prying, you usually ignored him until the following afternoon in the restaurant.
You settled into your bed after a blur of a shower and a snack. Hearing nothing but the sound of streetlights flickering to the beat of the city outside soothed you—letting you know the day was over.
And then: a startling knock ruined it all.
Shuffling from the hallway, you sleepily opened the door before you checked who it was.
“You look like shit.”
Michael exhaled his phrase while he stood with a plate, fork, and a glass of wine.
“What the fuck do you want?”
You had very little patience for Michael’s insults, especially at 2 am. You crossed your arms before leaning on the doorframe.
“Try this. I think I just got it right.”
Michael held out a plate with a beautiful looking piece of chicken, mixed with vegetables and an annoyingly perfect sauce. You didn’t want to touch it because it looked too nice—and—he made it.
“I was sleeping.”
Michael rolled his eyes.
“Fuck your sleep. Just for a minute. I’m coming in.”
He pushed past you with you saying a word, placing the dishes on the table with a polite clatter. He walked around the edge of your small table with ease. He looked like he belonged there, gesturing for you to sit down with an impatient look on his face.
“It’s gonna get cold.”
Sighing, you approached the table, sat down, and took a bite.
It was a paradise of flavor, each part mixing together to create the perfect texture, smell, and taste at the same time. You sat with your mouth full, chewing the same bite for an unbearable amount of time. Thinking of giving Michael the satisfaction of knowing that his food is perfect made you sick.
So you didn’t.
“This is a little…much for me.”
It wasn’t a good lie. Your tastebuds were tingling, screaming for more as Michael leaned over, snatching the fork out of your hand and taking a bite.
“Are you out of your fucking mind? I know this is good.”
He smelled and tasted each element, wondering if it was the wine under his breath as he looked at the dish. You bit your lip to hide the smirk that appeared on your face. Michael questioning himself quickly turned to looking at you, straining not to laugh.
“You’re bullshitting me.”
You let yourself chuckle.
“It’s amazing. I’m just giving you a hard time because you’re a jackass.”
Michael furrowed his brows at your response.
“I’m not that bad.”
Your eyes widened.
“You made a new server cry today, you yelled at me twice, and the kitchen has gotten so quiet lately because everyone is terrified of fucking up. Because of you.”
Michael’s face hardened. You saw him slip, just for a second. A waver of self-consciousness, a look of someone keeping up appearances for the sake of something that seemed more complicated than cooking.
He cracked.
And it continued when he started talking.
“I’m hard on myself and those around me because it gets results. I’m not interested in touchy feely unless it’s after hours.”
You could see the intensity in his face. His eyes were on yours, his fingers gripping the fork he brought.
“I’m not a bad person, you know. I’m not afraid of trying to do what’s right, that’s all.”
You nodded, sensing it wasn’t the time to joke.
“I understand. I’m sorry I said anything.”
You looked at the table after replying, wondering how you could avoid him at all costs while working the next day.
“You’re really cute, you know that?”
Michael confessed in a blurt, covering his mouth after he said it. It seemed imagined—until he kept going.
“Remember back in grade school when everyone would tell you that someone’s mean to you if they like you? That shit isn’t true…unless it’s me.”
Michael moved closer. He slid his chair towards you in small spurts, scraping across tile.
“Why else would I be here, when I know it’s just you…and I.”
You were trying to find anything to say.
Anything.
Yet, the next thing that crossed your lips was Michael’s tongue. He was needy, pressing his palms into your cheeks as he kissed you hard. The desperation in his touch made you warm. It made you feel like he needed you like he needed water, drinking in your kiss as if it sustained him. You leaned towards him enough angle your chair off the floor. He tasted so good that you didn’t care—barely noticing when Michael’s hands gripped your backside.
“Come here.”
He pulled you in his lap, holding you closer for unexpected kisses and fingering the waist of your shorts. His hands pried their way under your clothes—searching your skin for sensitive areas. His fingers danced up your torso with ease, pinching one of your nipples erect. His lips were in rotation from your face, neck, and chest. He slid off your shirt after you moaned into his mouth, encouraging him to do more.
“I really want to fuck you.”
You held your breath.
“What’s stopping you?”
It felt good to be reckless. To forget about the future while he was with you, pulling you into your unmade bed in lust. You were unsure how you got Michael on top of you.
But you knew you didn’t want it to stop.
You whimpered in adoration of his touch. The experiment you assumed he had was showing, thriving in the heat of the moment. He pulled off the rest of your clothes in a daze, leaving him fully clothed in opposite of your naked body. It was exciting to expose yourself to him—to give in to the thoughts you had about him that you didn’t want to admit.
“What am I going to do with you?”
Michael’s fingers lingered between your thighs. He wasn’t explicitly touching anything, grazing and teasing while he decided.
“Please.”
You were stunned by how quickly you were overtaken with desire. Watching him lean over you—touching you—giving you time to focus on how most of the tattoos on his chest showed through his white t-shirt. He leaned over the skin under your belly button, kissing it gently while whispering into your skin.
“I’m going to make you scream.”
His mouth found your nipples again, ghosting his lips over the skin while slowly crawling one hand between your legs. He started by prodding his finger into your opening, making you gasp while he spit before moving his hand. It was abrupt but hot, forcing you to focus on the sensation of him moving in and out painfully slow. You moaned into the air when he pushed deeper, adding a finger while you writhed in place.
Your arousal drove you to pull at his shirt while he worked. Seeing more of him would drive you to a place that made you even more desperate. You curved into his fingers once more before he pulled them from you, licking everything off before placing them in your mouth. You locked eyes with him while you sucked, watching him groan under his breath as you took both fingers in your mouth.
“Horny little slut,”
You could feel yourself aching with desire, despite his degradation.
“Bend over.”
Michael centered your hips in the middle of the bed. You were slightly shaken on all fours, waiting for him to do something. You could smell your own arousal mixed with his cologne. Hearing him take off his clothes had you writhing in place. Seeing anything at that point would have brought you to the edge. You wanted to give in to him—to feel him in any capacity that you could. Michael’s hands were on your backside before you could realize what was happening, his tongue hot and wet on your hole. He drew patterns on the skin there, going in and out just enough to drive you wild. He pressed his thumb in the indent between your cheeks, pushing his face into your warmth.
“Fuck me.”
You barely got it out before Michael lifted his head from your opening.
“What was that?”
You ignored him.
“Fuck me, please.”
Michael held your hips while he responded.
“Promise me you’ll be good.”
You nodded as soon as he said it, breathing hard in a state of constant arousal.
“Say it.”
Your skin erupted in goosebumps at the force in his voice.
“I’ll be good.”
Michael moved the moment you answered him. The grip of his left hand tightened as you heard his right jerking his shaft, nearly making you shake in anticipation.
He entered you with a quiet power, thrusting fully and deeply. You relished the feeling of having him inside you—wishing you could see his face. As if he heard your thought, Michael turned you over. He was still inside, bucking his hips up as he grazed a spot of pleasure. He was holding your waist, quickening his pace with a sensual energy.
You admired him in all of his glory—tattooed and glistening with sweat. He was beautiful and intimidating at the same time, locking his eyes on yours as he thrusted deeper inside of you. You could feel the curl of your peak at the back of your legs. It lingered there until it traveled to the pit of your stomach, your nails digging into Michael’s arms while you tempered it. He was going to keep his promise of getting you all the way there—knocking your headboard against the wall.
“Fucking come for me.”
You squeezed your eyes shut to concentrate on the pleasure you felt. Raw, hot, searing. Michael had gotten you to a place that seemed to only exist in romance novels. The heady, dizzy kind of arousal. You started to see waves in your peripheral vision and you had to give in. You cried out in ecstasy when you came—your body locking up in admiration of Michael’s shaft. He pushed himself as deep as he could inside of you before emptying his load, giving a satisfied sigh when he flopped beside you on your bed.
You were convinced that you were going to wake up to a dream that ended with the sex toy in your bedside drawer. Instead, you found Michael, almost starry eyed, admiring you from the side.
“I have to do that again.”