Satoru Gojo

They called you both in without warning. Top-floor of Jujutsu HQ, long before sunrise. The kind of quiet that means bad news.

Satoru arrives late—loud hoodie, flip-flops, still chewing his gum. He doesn’t even look at you when he walks in, just mutters, “Of course you’re here,” under his breath.

The elders are already seated. Five of them. Silent, stone-faced. One coughs, and then it begins.

“There are only five active special grade sorcerers left in Japan. Two of them are women.” “Only one of them can viably carry a pregnancy to term when paired with the Six Eyes.”

Satoru laughs. Actually laughs. Throws his head back like this is some kind of prank show. “Yuki, right? You mean Yuki. Go call her. I’ll knock her up tomorrow.”

Silence.

“She’s the weaker candidate. Statistically, the fetal output of cursed energy would endanger her body before the second trimester. She is already past acceptable age range for optimal genetic integrity.”

“…You’re not serious.”

“You were informed this pairing would not be optional.”

His eyes finally cut to you. The first real glance since he stepped into the room.

And they burn.

There’s no humor there now. Just disgust. Offense. A silent, violent fuck no.

You don’t flinch. Arms crossed, legs tight, jaw like stone. You’d been given this information two weeks ago. You’d signed. Not because you wanted to—but because you saw the math. The survival rates. The strategic need. You didn’t cry about it. You didn’t throw a fit. You didn’t want this either. But you handled it like a soldier.

And he hates that.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he hisses, taking a step back. “Her? She doesn’t even like people. She’s your little pet project, she does whatever you all say. You think I want to raise a kid with that? With her?”

No one answers him.

Satoru’s voice rises, sharp and venomous. “You want me to fuck her? Breed her like a cursed womb? That’s your plan?”

One of the elders clears his throat, dryly:

“You will be compensated handsomely.”

“Oh yeah?” His cursed energy spikes. The table vibrates. “How about you compensate me by using literally anyone else? I’ll take a first grade. Hell, I’ll take three of them—run a damn tournament for all I care. You want a kid? Let me choose the mother.”

Another paper is placed on the table. Blood-sealed. Your stats. Your compatibility rate. Your survival odds.

“You were chosen because your cursed output and bloodline pairing show the highest chance of producing a viable successor. You are the only living woman strong enough to carry his child.”

Satoru doesn’t even look at the paperwork. He just stares at you.

“Selfish little girl,” he mutters. “You’d do anything for power, huh? Can’t believe you signed off on this.”

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t owe him an explanation.

He shoves his chair back, pacing now. Hands through his hair, curses under his breath. “Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable.”

And when he speaks again, it’s cold. Mean.

“I don’t care how strong she is. I’ll make her beg. I’ll make her hate it.”

The elders ignore him. The terms are final. You are the only compatible match.

Whether you like each other or not—it begins next week. And it will continue for a week every month until it takes.

---

The room is cold. White walls. White light. White linen rolled tight across your hips.

Sterile like a medical ward—because that’s what this is.

Not intimacy. Not sex.

A reproductive procedure.

They don’t call it that to your face, but everyone knows.

There’s a clipboard beside you with a heart monitor, your name printed beneath the words Approved Viable Vessel. You’re bare from the waist down under the blanket. Ankles locked in padded stirrups. A single monitor beeping too loud. Every inch of this room feels like violence.

You don’t look at the door when it hisses open.

But you know it’s him. You feel it before you hear it—his cursed energy bleeding hot through the wall like smoke before a wildfire.

He says nothing at first. Just breathes.

And then, bitter:

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

You smile. Sharp. Vicious.

His boots hit the tile, too loud in the silence. You hear the soft rustle of fabric as he throws off his coat and gloves like he’s sacrificing himself.

“I should’ve fought harder. Should’ve refused. Should’ve dragged Yuki in by her goddamn hair if I had to—”

He trails off. You know the moment he sees the curve of your hip. Your thigh. The indent of your waist where the blanket clings.

His breath hitches. Just for a second. And that makes it worse.

“Fucking hate you.”

You turn your head slightly. Say nothing. The room buzzes with tension.

Satoru’s voice drops as he steps closer. Rough. Low. Almost a snarl.

“And you’re wet, aren’t you? Sitting here like a good little breeding project, pretending this doesn’t turn you on.”

He rips the blanket down with a single tug.

You flinch. Legs locked in the stirrups. But you glare—rage hot in your eyes, fists clenched around the edges of the table.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. And that kills him.

“Stop fucking looking at me like that,” he growls, yanking at the tie on his sweats. “You think I want to do this? You think I’d touch you if I had a choice?”

He’s rock hard. The contradiction cracks through his voice like thunder.

“Fucking body’s betraying me. I hate you.”

You bare your teeth. Maybe a growl. Maybe not. Your fists shake with fury. He steps between your legs anyway. Lines up. Leans down—cheek against yours.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll fill you up quick and be done with it. No kissing. No sweet talk. Just what the old bastards want. One and done.”

But his hands tremble when they spread your thighs.

And he groans—quietly—when he pushes in.

The heat is suffocating. The stretch unbearable. His head drops to your shoulder as he bottoms out, his breath ragged.

“God… fuck. I hate you.”

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pull back.

The table jerks with every thrust. You glare at the ceiling, refusing to make a sound, even as your thighs begin to shake.

And he’s biting your neck now.

Hands fisting in the sheet beside your hips like if he lets go, he’ll break something.

“I’ll make you regret signing that contract.”

His voice is hoarse.

“You’ll never walk past me again without remembering this.”

And that’s when you moan—quiet, involuntary, seething.

He laughs.

“Fucking knew you’d like it.”