Chapter Text
The sun was shining unusually bright as your car rattled through what seemed like miles of farmland. The listing photos hadn't done justice to how massive the legendary Satoru Gojo's ranch was. It had taken you forever to get here, and now the sun was already setting right behind his ranch house, burning the whole horizon in a bleeding orange.
Well, he did say I could show up whenever I wanted today. Maybe that's a good sign. Maybe he already wants me.
You'd been trying to scrape together enough to move back home when his ad flashed on your TV, right as you were reading yet another rejection email.
Live-in ranch hand. No experience required. Exceptional compensation. Must be comfortable with long-term, live-in commitment.
Exceptional compensation rang throughout your head the entire drive. You hadn't had exceptional anything in a long time. Not since you stopped living with your stepdad, and especially not since your hours were cut at the diner. His lecture still rang in your head from your last phone call.
“Come back and accept his proposal. You're clearly not cut out to make your own choices. I wouldn't be surprised if you've already started whoring yourself out to make rent.”
No, you couldn't go back. If you did, you'd never be independent again. Instead, you'd be stuck as some upper-middle manager's wife while he banged his secretary. Then, twenty years from now, he's divorcing you for his intern, but you couldn't let that happen so you kill him to get the insurance, and she catches you in the act so now you have to kill her and—
Damn, you really needed to stop watching true crime documentaries.
As your car bumped up the rocky driveway, your eyes shifted to your cracked flip phone. The texts you’d sent your “friends” last night were still left on read. You gripped the steering wheel harder as you thought about Mei Mei, who had simply left you on sent. Ever since you told them you weren't in contact with your POS stepdad anymore, they started ignoring you.
If I get this job, I'll only have to work for at least two years instead of five. Maybe if I sell some old clothes and call them vintage, cut back on a few expenses, and start visiting different food banks...
You were lost in thought, calculating how you were going to survive off rotisserie chicken, when the porch light clicked on. As you shut off your engine and opened your door, the front door slammed open and Satoru Gojo stepped out.
Despite the fading sun, he wore a pair of dark sunglasses. The videos online really hadn't prepared you for the suffocating gravity of him in person. He was tall — impossibly tall. His broad shoulders filled the doorframe before he sauntered down the steps.
"Hey! Welcome to the ranch!"
His voice was a rich, vibrating baritone that soothed your anxiety. You had to crane your neck just to meet his face when he reached you. He made you feel incredibly small, but instead of feeling intimidated it was unnaturally pleasant.
"You came right on time. I just finished making dinner. There's extra if you're hungry."
The dying sun lit up behind him like a halo, gilding the white tips of his hair gold, but your eyes were transfixed on his body. The top half of his red flannel was unbuttoned, pushed back to reveal a tight, sweat-dampened white tank top underneath. The thin cotton hugged the thick slabs of pectoral muscles and the hard lines of his abdomen. You could see the faint sheen of sweat clinging to the hollow of his throat, tracing down into the shadow of his exposed collar bone.
He noticed you were zoned out and waved a hand in front of your face.
"Hey. Still with me?”
Your cheeks burned with embarrassment as you rapidly nodded.
“Knew you'd eventually come.” He murmured. "Sorry about the directions. The hybrids are exotic, so I like to keep the location a secret. I can trust you, right?" He leaned down so you were face-to-face when he asked and you could smell the intoxicating scent of dark chocolate on his breath mixed with the whatever expensive cologne he was wearing.
It should've felt degrading, but the image of him slaving over a hot stove with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows exposing his thick forearms, overode your self respect.
"Yeah! Of course, Mr. Gojo or Gojo-san? On your ads, they call you Mr. Gojo." You stammered, feeling the heat radiate off his muscular body.
"Great. But call me Satoru." His jaw tightened imperceptibly. "Mr. Gojo makes me feel old."
He stepped around the side of your car. "Now-"
He peered into the side window, frowned, and moved to the back. Then, without asking, he opened your driver's door and popped your trunk. Without asking he began rummaging around, and grunted in confusion when it didn't have whatever he was looking for.
"Where are your bags?" he asked, shutting the trunk.
"My bags? You mean, like a work bag?" You asked anxiously.
Shit. I already showed up late, and now I'm underprepared. He didn't say anything about this over the phone, did he?
Your mind scrambled back towards the phone interview a few days prior, but his voice cut through your thoughts.
"I've got some spare clothes." Satoru said smoothly, casually leaning against your car, drawing your eyes down to the way his worn denim jeans hugged his thighs. "They won't fit you great, but you said on the phone you could tailor. That wasn't just a getting-to-know-you thing, right? I can't be the only one here who's any good with a needle."
“Isn't this the final interview?” You asked, confused.
You hadn't packed any clothes and the only thing you'd brought was a folder with your references in it. Though, you hope he didn't look at them. Two of those references were just your friends.
Satoru tilted his head. Even behind the dark lenses, you could feel the heavy weight of his stare.
"The interview.” He said slowly. Now sounding just as confused as you did. “We did the interview. On the phone. You got the job. Why else would I give you the directions? I don't hand those out to people I'm still thinking about."
"I… I thought today was just to meet in person." Your folder suddenly felt incredibly stupid in your hands. "I figured if it went well I'd go home, pack, and-"
"Go home?" He let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "No, no. It went beautifully last week. You're here now, so let's get you inside."
You looked back down the dark, rocky driveway, biting your lip anxiously. The directions had taken you over an hour, and you weren't sure you could retrace them in the pitch black.
"It's a long way back." Satoru murmured gently. "And you're already here. Stay tonight. I made some pasta using squid ink. You'll love it.”
As the sun finally set and darkness swallowed the road behind you, you nodded, following him into the warmth of his house.
꒷꒦˘꒷꒦꒷꒦˘꒷˘꒷꒦˘꒷˘꒦꒷˘꒷˘꒷˘꒦꒷꒦˘꒷
◦ ｡ ﾟ ° ∘ ﾟ ｡ ◦ ﾟ ｡ ♡ ∘ ° ﾟ ◦ ｡
You weren't sure what you’d expected from a man who ran a ranch for exotic hybrids, but the inside of his house was immaculate. The hardwood floors were polished to a mirror shine, doubling the warm, amber glow of the house lights. A candle burned steadily on a side table, filling the living room with the comforting scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls. You tried not to let it get to your head that he had likely lit it just for you.
Your apartment was the exact opposite. You winced thinking about the clutter that piled up because you were always too tired to deal with it.
"Like the house, huh? A friend gave me some ideas, but I thought up most of it. I'm trying out this style called maximalism. Looks great, right?” Satoru said, tossing a smirk over his shoulder as he led the way.
You'd been in plenty of houses that were flagrantly over decorated to show off their wealth, but Satoru's home felt homey instead. The framed photos lining the hall definitely helped. There were multiple shots of him and another tall man with long, dark hair. In one, the two of them wore matching school uniforms, leaning into each other and smiling brightly at the camera.
It made you think of your own years at school. How you didn't have a photo like that hanging in your apartment.
In a newer picture, the two of them sat together at the edge of a lake, except his friend's lower body had become a writhing mass of deep purple tentacles. Strangely, he looked happier in that one. Hybrids were considered 3rd class citizens in most places. Turning into one was usually a lamentatious time.
"Very close friend of mine. He's a late-bloomer hybrid." Satoru noted, catching your gaze. His pleasant expression shifted, and a brief flash of irritation tightened his jaw. "We have another one here who has a…unique personality. Don't let him push you around tomorrow. As long as I'm here, he'll behave”
You nodded, a little nervous at the warning. His large hand came to rest between your shoulder blades to softly urge you forward towards the kitchen. The smell of cooking grew stronger as you got closer and what greeted you had your mouth watering.
Hefty rolls of fan tuan sat on a plate, the sticky purple rice pairing with blackened-orange, char-grilled carrots. Beside it sat a heavy pot of pitch-black spaghetti the inky strands making the plump cherry tomatoes mixed into it pop like jewels. Sitting at the end of the table were two thick slices of dark chocolate cake.
"This looks incredible. You're sure it's okay if I have some?" You asked, a little too eagerly.
Satoru chuckled, throwing a heavy arm over your shoulders. Despite the savory aromas filling the kitchen, all you could smell was his expensive amber cologne.
"It'll be the best thing you've tasted all month." His voice rumbled right next to your ear as he pulled out a chair and steered you into it. "All year, actually.”
He pushed your chair in once you sat down, then settled into the one beside you closer than was strictly normal. A week ago it might have felt awkward, but you found his eccentricities almost endearing. You reached out and spooned a modest portion onto your plate. Satoru took the serving spoon from you and piled on more.
“No need to be stingy. Have as much as you want.”
He grabbed a rice roll, dipping it into a pool of chili sauce. Eagerly, you twirled the black pasta around your fork and took a bite. The flavor had a mild fishy taste, accompanied by a faint, metallic undertone that paired perfectly with the cherry tomatoes. Before you had even finished chewing, your fork was twisting up another bite.
“Satoru, this is amazing! I've never had anything like this before, but is there a lot of spice in this? I feel kinda warm.”
“Nothing you can't handle.” Satoru purred. “I used a special, spiced squid ink from a local source. It has a bit of a kick to it though. Are you feeling alright?” A look of worry crossed his face.
"Yes!" You replied hastily, not wanting him to feel offended that the pasta was too spicy.
You twist up another rope of pasta before you were even done chewing, feeling ravenous, over the best thing you had eaten in months. Having a man cook for you made you hungry for something else but you shamefully shook that idea away.
"Do you have a secret restaurant tucked away somewhere too?"
"Nah." He shrugged, pleased. "Didn't like my usual takeout, figured I could do better, so I did. I don't cook like this every night. Though, maybe I will with all this praise I'm getting.” He grinned at you and you felt your cheeks warm up.
You scarfed down the pasta while Satoru worked through everything else, when the warmth in your body began to spread. His cologne smelled stronger, and it made you realize how close his chair was to yours. He draped an arm on the back of your chair which made his thigh brush against yours. He was just being friendly and here you were treating him like a Victorian woman showing an ankle.
It’s just been so long. This'll pass. You prayed.
You twirled up some more pasta, when you noticed you were twisting up more than the last bite. You shook some of it off and started eating slower, feeling self-conscious about how much food you'd eaten. While you couldn't normally afford this much to eat, your stepfather’s constant criticism had you eating less and less. Any trip to the store had you automatically flipping to the back to check the calories. Even now, when you were no longer worried about your figure for your future husband, Satoru's toned body made you jealous. How he could eat so much and still look like a snack.
He nudged your shoulder as your fork slowed down and it made you jolt from how sensitive your skin was.
"Eat as much as you want. You'll need it. We've got a lot ahead of us tomorrow.”
His attentiveness made the warmth in your body spread even farther. You ate more pasta to distract yourself from what you were feeling.
He pushed the slice of cake towards you and you took a bite. The chocolate was decadently sweet and given a stronger flavor by…by what?
"Coffee." He said, before you could even ask. "I mixed it in to bring out the chocolate. Frosting's nothing special, though. I bought it pre-made and whipped some softened butter into it.”
You took another bite as he rose and opened the fridge. He took out a pitcher of tea and poured two glasses. The sharp crack of ice tinkled like wind chimes as he put a few in and set a glass down in front of you.
“Is this peach tea?”
"Apricot lemon. I've got an apricot and lemon tree — they grow them this big." He held out a hand and you raised an eyebrow. "Aww, don't give me that look. They're hand-sized, I swear. I'd show you, but they grow on a recursive island — it's an island in the middle of a lake — and you'd have to get Suguru or Kenjaku to pick them for you. But those two hog all the good ones. I get stuck with the runts.”
You couldn't help the giggle that slipped out at his rambling. Despite his build he seemed like a nerdy guy with the way he was so knowledgeable, technically he even had glasses on.
I just got hired and I'm already developing a crush on my boss. It's just because I haven't gotten out much these days.
But as you watched his throat bob as took another swig of sweet tea, and you knew it was going to be an uphill battle.
"It's getting late." He set his glass down. "I'll show you to your room and dig up something for you to work in later on. What you've got on is fine for work tomorrow — you won't be doing any real work anyway.”
You glanced down at yourself and cringed. You'd dressed for what you thought was a second interview: a high-waisted pencil skirt and a short-sleeved blouse. You looked like an elementary school teacher who'd gotten left behind on a field trip.
You picked up your plate, but Satoru slipped the dish from your grip, stacking it atop his own.
“I'll get the dishes since you're my guest today.” He said as he put them in the sink.
He then placed his hand on the small of you back and led you towards the stairs. You could feel the heat from his palm right through your shirt and despite how it was warmer than your body heat it felt good. The floorboards creaked beneath your feet as you followed him and soon you found yourself in an even cozier part of his home.
Woolen carpet comforted your feet as he walked you towards your room and inside was a fully furnished bedroom, minus any of his personal decorations. The plush mattress was covered by thin silk sheets for the hot summer climate. Right outside the window the lake gleamed under the moonlight. Considering how close it was, if you opened your window you could probably hear light splashing from the animals outside.
"I don't think I said it before but your decorating skills are stellar. It's so cozy in here."
"Got an eye for it." He leaned against the doorframe. "If I'd let Suguru have his way, there'd be plush toys piled in every corner. He swears women love them — probably just eavesdropping on his daughters."
"Actually," you admitted sheepishly, "I do love plushies. The jumbo ones are always sold out, though.”
You walked over and sat down on the bed, letting out a low moan of satisfaction at how incredible it felt against your sensitive skin. After sleeping on a rock for a mattress back home, this felt like a cloud.
"There's spare clothes in the dresser. Take whatever you like, I won't mind." He turned toward the door. "I'll introduce you to everyone tomorrow. Get some rest. You'll need it."
"Thank you, Satoru."
"No problem." He smiled back at you and his gaze made you shiver. "Welcome to the ranch.”
He closed the door and the latch clicked, leaving you alone to your thoughts. You opened up one of the dresser drawers and pulled out a large shirt with his ranch's logo plastered in the middle. The soft fabric felt good in your hands and you couldn't stop yourself as you pressed it against your nose. Your body felt electric and warm — too warm. You took your clothes off and quickly put his on before pulling up the collar and rubbing it against your nose.
Stop! What am I doing? I should be ashamed of myself for acting this way when he's just trying to be nice. God, he probably has a girlfriend. What am I doing.
You turn off the light and climb into bed as you try to ignore the feeling that maybe your stepfather was right. That you'd sell yourself just for a place to sleep.