#jericho x reader

With anyone else, it wouldn’t be such a tight fit behind the counter, but Jericho originally built this stand with only himself in mind - not you, a new hire of only a few months that he’d hired on for an extra set of hands to do prep work. 

And you’re fine with the tight quarters - Jericho’s a good guy, jovial and probably the best boss you’ve ever had with how he makes sure you get home every night. Nothing comes of it, until one night after closing up the stand and yanking the shutters closed, something very much comes of it. 

Jericho has to squeeze in a bit to move past you, but it’s a bit uncomfortable each time, no matter how often it happens. At first you think it’s normal, but then he’s moving back and forth unnecessarily and you’re starting to understand something painfully obvious and painfully hard. You’re not some shrinking wallflower, nor are you one to shy away from something casual, and that’s why when he tries it again, you brace your hands against the counter and shove your ass back into him until he’s trapped for a moment. 

“Hey, boss? Need something?” You shouldn’t tease him, not with his dick pressed against your ass so hard that you can feel his heartbeat, but you do it anyway and without shame.

The sounds that come from him are answer enough, but his massive hands grab your shoulders to brace you against the sharp thrust he makes against your ass. His groan is nearly deafening, and you wonder if the few people remaining out in the markets at this hour would be able to hear it. 

“That’s it, yeah, use me, boss-”

Jericho shushes you with a palm over your face, completely covering it until you can see nothing and make not a sound that isn’t forcefully muffled. All at once, you lose all control over the situation and you’ve been relegated to nothing more than a warm body for Jericho to get himself off against. 

And you’re more than willing to be that, just this once. 

As his dick grinds itself against your ass, wedging between your cheeks thanks to the stretching material of your pants, you jam your hand down the front to work on yourself with slippery fingers. Jericho catches that movement, and the laughter that comes from him shakes your entire body. 

He’s massive behind you as he manipulates your body so easily and without your input. There’s no possible way he’d be able to fit inside you, but as your hands rub against your arousal viciously you wonder if he'd let you try. He’s huge, and as terrifying as it is, you’re desperate for a challenge. 

You don’t last long, not while you work yourself up with thoughts of Jericho’s dick ruining you in ways that aren’t feasibly possible. His voice takes a tone you’re unfamiliar with, using the language that you barely understand until his warning comes true. Jericho nearly howls his release out, mercifully ruining his own clothes with it instead of yours despite the thick wetness from your own that’s seeped through your own pants. 

At least it’s the end of the night, and you’re not sure if that's a good omen or not when Jericho scoops you over his shoulder and sets about shutting all the lights and appliances off in the stall. When you squirm, trying to get comfortable while wedged between his neck and wooden epaulet, his hand comes down on your ass in a sharp warning that makes you fall limp. 

That night had been interesting. Jericho had been enraged, the whole stand shaking with the baritones of his voice as he all but demanded who did that to you, while simultaneously holding a frozen bag of mystery meat to the swelling on your cheekbone. The dichotomy had startled you at first - the anger mixed with the tenderness - and that’s when the first inklings of something silly had started to bloom. 

And then, like a wildfire, you were engulfed in too many feelings about this monolith of a man. Not one to beat around the bush, you tugged him down to you by the goatee and kissed him. It’s something you laugh at now, considering it was more of your lips pressing against his teeth, the gold one slick beneath your touch, but it got the message across rather nicely, you think. 

Considering you come home to him every night, sprawl across the bulk of his stomach as you sleep, wake up to the humming noises that come from his chest as he sleeps. It’s like a song, almost mournful in a way, and when you asked about why, Jericho gave you a shrug and a wider smile than usual. It’s just the way he is, you suppose. Vastayans are impossible to categorize with their unique characteristics.

Still, in the early morning hours, long before he’s due to wake and go downstairs to the food stand in front of your shared home, you let him cradle you as he sings. Whether it’s on purpose or not, you cherish it just the same, just as you covet every other part of Jericho. 

This evening, you’re not home quite yet. Instead, you’re coming back from the grocer, a paper bag clutched in one hand and a knife in the other. It’s a habit now, to protect yourself after what’d happened before. While it’d been the catalyst to bring you together, it wasn’t a particularly happy memory in itself. 

The bag, steadily soaking through thanks to its contents being on the slimier side, is clenched tighter in your hand. Just a bit further and then you can pass it off to Jericho for the dinner the two of you are supposed to be making together. He’d been exceptionally excited when the grocer sent word that a particular cut of meat he’d ordered had arrived, and all but pushed you out the door to go get it while he closed up the shop. 

If you’d known it was going to smell like this, you would’ve put your foot down. Maybe that’s why you feel safer tonight - no one’s going to approach you while you smell like rotting kelp and vaguely of dumpster sludge. Jericho always tells you to trust the process, but you’re not sure how he’s going to make a masterpiece out of something like this. 

Have faith, you chide yourself as your keys jingle, the door unlocking for you to come home. The wide door shuts behind you, echoing through the apartment in a way that tells of your arrival, but you shout into the home anyway, “I’m home, J!”

The rambling of his vocalizations comes from the kitchen, likely already preparing what he needs to turn this foul mass into something palatable. When you step over the threshold into the kitchen, he’s turned around and grinning, a cleaver in one hand and flowers in the other. They’re fresh, and you have to pull your lips between your teeth tightly to keep them from wobbling. 

That’s why he made you go get this. 

His greeting shakes the rafters above, so ecstatic that you’d think you were gone for weeks instead of less than an hour. Those flowers are thrust out toward you, and you toss the bag onto the counter in favor of taking them with both hands, a sort of reverence coming across your features as you take in their scent. 

Flowers aren’t common down here, and you spare a wonder on how he managed to get them. Then it dissipates as he grins down at you, obviously proud at the gift he’s given, and you all but throw yourself around him in an effort to show your gratitude. Only one hand is needed to hold you to him, and he secures you across your back with his palm as you dangle from his impossibly broad shoulders.

“You’re so sweet, J,” It’s mumbled into his chest, your head having rolled forward to press a kiss right at his sternum. The odd feeling of two heartbeats, one under each of your arms, nearly shakes your whole body as he holds you tighter before letting you slide down to the floor. As your heels hit the floor, so too do his lips hit the top of your head in a kiss of his own. 

For good measure, he shakes his head back and forth like he’s really gotta get that kiss smushed in there and mess your hair up at the same time. Laughter peals from you as you swat him halfheartedly, both of you knowing it’s got no real conviction behind it but he stands straight anyway to point his cleaver at the meat. 

Dinner time, you realize after putting the flowers away. Instead of helping like you expect, you’re instead relegated to supervising thanks to Jericho easily picking you up and placing your backside on the counter a respectable distance from where he’s about to work. Thankful for not having to handle it directly, you still ask about the meat, “What is it?”

Though it smells awful to you, Jericho nearly inhales it as he opens the bag and jams his nose in there. No kisses for him until he washes his face, you decide. It takes a moment for him to get himself back to rights before he explains while dumping it out onto a plastic cutting board. 

It’s unidentifiable. Really, it’s just a slimy purple mass that has no distinguishable features, but somehow Jericho knows exactly which pieces to shear off with that cleaver and which should be saved. Hammerjaw Eel, is what he calls it, and when you ask about the smell Jericho simply grins. 

No explanation comes, and that’s how you know it’d likely put you off the dish altogether. You don’t ask again. Instead, you pull your legs up to sit cross-legged and take charge of an easier part of prep - peeling potatoes into a garbage can just off the side of the counter. This is something you can do, a job you recognize and almost relish in its simplicity. Jericho can handle the rest, as easy as breathing even as he asks about your day and listens to you ramble about anything and everything. 

For someone so talkative, Jericho’s an exceedingly good listener. There’s a lot of information in that head of his, thanks to that skill, and sometimes you worry that it might get him in trouble. You’ve voiced that before, but he only waves you off with a massive hand and tells you that he’s too valuable to certain parties to be in any real danger. 

You hope that’s true, for your own sake at least. It’s concerning how quickly you’ve grown attached to him over the months, but you don’t shy away from it like you should. Instead you hop down to the sink, scrub the starchiness from your hands, and say, “I love you.”

The kiss that smacks against the side of your head nearly ricochets you away, but you brace yourself in time for him to grumble his own version of the endearment against your cheek. Then, he has the audacity to blow a raspberry against your face and it sends you into a fit of laughter and retaliation that doesn’t affect him like it does you. And it makes your face wet. It smells like that meat.

The rafters above are more than tall enough to accommodate the extra height when you use the counter to boost yourself to sit on his shoulders as he looms over the stove. The meat’s cooked low and slow, just enough to get the internal temperature up before he sears the outside of a surprisingly good looking steak-like cut. One of his arms crosses his chest, putting itself between the stove and your legs that hold you upright - a way to protect you from splatters, you realize.

The top of his head is smooth, giving you the perfect surface to bend down and prop your chin onto it to watch him work, “And the potatoes?”

Soon, he tells you. When the meat is resting, the potatoes will be handled. That’s fine; While you always hang around him while he cooked, you aren’t a fool enough to think he’d be anything less than determined to do everything himself in the kitchen. There’s a reason no one works at his stall with him, and it’s not just for lack of space - Jericho is simply particular about things, and prefers to do it himself. 

Standards, he calls them, but you think he’s just a little bossy when it comes to his kitchen. 

Eventually there’s too much going on for you to hover over him anymore, and you’re ushered off to the kitchen table to take your significantly smaller chair while waiting for him to finish up and plate the food. Enraptured, you watch him work his magic, blindly grabbing spices and tools as if he’s memorized their position to the exact centimeter. You’re certain that he has, considering his track record.

And then the mystery meat is placed in front of you.

It looks… surprisingly delicious. The smell is completely gone, and in its place is a cut of meat that’s a deep purple with a nice sear on it, and mashed potatoes that are heavily spiced. Your fingers itch to dig in, but you wait for Jericho to settle in with his own before you go for it - and it’s heavenly. It nearly melts on your tongue, and you flop back into your chair with an appreciative groan. 

It’s good, I know, is what Jericho boasts about, and you can’t even bring yourself to deny it as you go back in for a second and third bite, making feeble attempts to slow down and really enjoy every bite like he desperately wants you to. For someone that’s so over-the-top, you’re surprised at the reverence he seems to show his food when he’s making something he’s truly proud of. 

So you humor him as best you can, and indulge in the more subdued, sweeter smile Jericho gives when you look back at him. He hasn’t even touched his, seemingly content to watch you instead, and it makes your heart flutter at the attention. Jericho sits with his cheek on his hand, so much love in his eyes that your very bones warm under the attention. 

The night outside is quiet, the only sound being the occasional laughter that filters through the open window from the bar down the street. It cools the warmth of the kitchen considerably, enough that you’re suddenly struck with the urge to spend the rest of the evening sandwiched between the blankets and the man finally eating across from you. Like he’s truly categorizing every spice he’s used, his eyes close as he eats. 

Again, you’re lovestruck for this man. Trust the process, indeed; What an interesting process it’s been. 

---

It’s such an oversight that you’re not sure if it’s on purpose or not. Maybe it’s a stereotype, taught through childhood as the mark of a true chef. Jericho is a true chef though, and while perhaps his food doesn’t always look palatable to those who aren’t used to it, the flavor is where he really shines. 

Whether he wants it or not, this is for your own comfort, you decide. There’s no way he can continue on this way with such a large piece of chef-dom missing from his tool kit. Sure, he’s got the cutting board on his shoulder for his knives, and yes he has the apron, but what he’s really missing is the hat. 

What you don’t realize though, when you slowly make your way home to Jericho, is that the most-likely reason that he doesn’t have one is that they just aren’t made for a cranium that size. It’s something you’d have to have custom made, and while you did put the order in at the tailor, this will have to suffice for now. 

Jericho, like always, positively beams when you step into the food stall and sidle up to one of the stools in the very middle of the counter. It groans under his weight as he leans across to kiss you on the forehead a bit sloppily, a garbled greeting following soon after. You’re home early, that’s what he remarks, and you answer him by simply lifting the bag that holds the consolation prize.

“I got you something. Well, I’m getting you something, but I got this for you in the meantime.”

It’s snatched from your hands fast enough that the handles rip, but it’s in no way heavy enough to fall. Jericho’s hand strains the bag at the seams as he reaches inside, and you realize that it looks even smaller than you remembered as he plucks the hat from the bag. 

With a look of unbridled glee, it’s arranged very carefully on his head, and he gives you such a wide grin that you can see every sharp tooth in that mouth of his. The chef’s hat is comically small, barely big enough for a child’s head, much less a man as massive as Jericho. Yet he seems delighted as he turns his head this way and that for you to observe.

“It’s… a little small.”

It’s perfect, is his answer, loud enough that the condiment bottles on the countertop rattle with the force. It’s decidedly not perfect, but as you spend the rest of your evening keeping him company between customers, not once does he take it off. In fact, if it starts to slip he’ll stop everything he’s doing to rearrange it against the smooth skin of his head. 

The large one will suit him better, but you can’t deny the glow that surrounds him as he shows it off to the regulars that come by. Respectfully, they make no remarks on its size, only give him an enthusiastic thumbs-up around whatever the special order is for the day. It only serves to stoke his pride even more.