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She bled for too long.
Utahime pressed on her own stomach — what trails remained from the dinner-plate-sized wound in her stomach were exhumed, cleaned off herself with a damp washcloth. The timeline of labor and nursing had bypassed her — how long her body held onto its hole, how leaking tits made her smell sour.
Gojo didn’t seem to notice — not when he walked the baby at night, holding up each of her limbs to the nightlight for inspection.
He didn’t mind the dark hair, the eyes black enough that no light could make a color out. He didn’t question her, never called doubt to mind; though he was quieter these days. For their respite, maybe, maybe because it was the first time he had a migraine in years.
He was a good father, which was the hard part.
Gojo watched from the side of her bed as Utahime birthed — he was serious, holding himself upright through the crowning, the arms, lifting Utahime’s leg back as she whimpered, mouthing good girl aside from the nurses after every big push. Closing his eyes when the baby broke into a cry; Utahime certain he did not know how to pray. He was figuring it out.
Gojo cut the cord, touched their daughter’s burnished wet head with his god-sent hand.
You did good , was what he whispered in Utahime’s ear, adrenaline shakes taking hold of her tongue. Resisting asking for her back, knowing Gojo was proud, too.
She only nodded, the nurses busied with toweling blood off her legs, unable to notice her own zealous pride rooting in her head from Gojo’s praise.
She was half-stupid to be in love right now, herself only half-alive.
He was a good husband, which was worse.
She could hear their daughter spitting in her crib now, kicking her legs. All well sounds, Utahime told herself, staring at the ceiling. Gojo hadn’t come to bed yet – he hadn’t taken time off, though he brought all of his paperwork home in his arms, unbound, scattering pages around their house as he filled it with his .35 millimeter black ink, the cap lost somewhere under their couch.
Utahime liked him like this. Changed, calmer. Like a dog taken off its track.
He was patient, too — sponging Utahime’s legs and back, frying bubbled eggs for her with saltine crackers for her stomach. Taking the plate. Swaddling the baby, walking her around the house while Utahime stretched.
She was almost asleep when Gojo’s weight tipped the bed, Utahime feeling him siddle her arm, pinching her elbow’s loose skin.
“Hey.”
Gojo waited until she opened her eyes, his mouth stoppered, pursed just like their daughter’s. He needed a trim – his hair was over his ears, unattended. She’d have to call Shoko ovee to cut it — it was one of Utahime’s failings, with scissors.
Utahime slept with a towel over her chest, trying to soak up the milk – Gojo pulled it off, letting it drop over the side of the bed.
“You’re cleared, right?”
Utahime stared. Her doctor told her she was fine last week – Gojo always asked for her doctor’s notes, a habit once she got pregnant, motioning with his hands for them when she walked through the door. He had read them without comment – Utahime thought that was the end of it.
But Gojo had learned to like waiting. “Yeah.”
Gojo hummed, his nose warming her scalp. “Your husband misses you.”
Utahime swallowed. “Right.”
He was quiet for a moment, his face rubbing into her head. “I don’t deserve it?”
He’d jerk off in the corner if she told him too. Probably shake the whole way through, the attention enough.
“You do,” Utahime whispered. “I love you.”
Gojo was grinning. “I know.”
He climbed on top of her, the sheets billowing under the fan. The baby was swishing in her crib, her quickened breaths pausing them both.
“I’ll be fast,” he mouthed.
Utahime’s ears got hot. “Fine.”
He was embarrassing, even in private – hot hands on her chest, palming her until she yelped, Gojo’s weight paralyzing her legs. His mouth went down, tongue flat over her nipples, pressing like an over-saturated stamp. It was some relief – Utahime breathed out, Gojo lapping in the dark, Utahime putting a palm on his forehead to stop him when he was too loud – a heat indent on his skin.
“Don’t dribble,” she hissed, pulling his head to the side by a handful of scalp. He was getting her ribs sticky, the milk and spittle drying tight on her skin. It itched, Utahime squirming.
She was getting impatient, anyway.
Her cunt hurt.
Gojo was smiling, grinding onto Utahime’s legs. He loved the berating, leaning into her pull. “Okay.”
His mouth was red, white streaks down his wetted chin. He had a point to his upper lip, Utahime staring at it while he undid his pants, the tip of it braised from sucking.
He’d have a milk blister to match the baby, given enough attention, the hedonist.
Gojo was pulling her shorts down to her ankles, touching himself while keeping a hand on the crease of her hip, keeping her cunt open. He tapped his dick on her a few times, Utahime sliding up her knee.
She wasn’t going to ask. Gojo seemed to get it – he smiled before pushing, Utahime tensing up, opening her mouth to tell him to stop.
It burned. He fought her – Utahime grinding the ridges of her teeth down, Gojo watching as he got in an inch at a time.
“Good girl,” he murmured, fucking just past his tip, the wet sound starting to come through. He sounded besotted, his eyelids dipping. “That’s it.”
She let him in, lifting her own ass up. Ignored the blistering feeling, let Gojo lay into her until she could feel him run out of room, holding himself still.
He was quiet for a moment before starting to hump her, sliding out in little thrusts.
“You got tight again,” Gojo kissed the corner of her eye, his voice soft. Utahime could feel him streak against her insides, forgetting the feeling. “Maybe the next one will loosen you up.”
She almost hit him.
Utahime hated that she was going to do it again. Two back-to-back. It would be humiliating – what faculty would say, her students. Her parents.
At least one of each , Gojo said. I’ve always wanted that.
If she was a lucky girl, she’d be done this next time.
It didn’t matter in this world. She knew she’d do it. She was committed.
“You ready for it?” Gojo nipped her ear too hard, Utahime yelping, her cunt tightening on reflex. “First shot. Maybe we should keep track this time.”
“Fuck,” Utahime couldn’t think. Not now, not ever again. Stupid. “We should.” She could picture it — tally marks on the calendar. Innocuous to visitors. Gojo getting out of bed just to draw a line.
He’d be into it.
“No tests,” Gojo was calm, Utahime getting too close already, feeling her chest stick to his skin. Milk was coming out, the sheets under her soaked through. “You’ll show sooner this time.”
Utahime couldn’t feel her hips. Gojo was heavy, Utahime feeling herself split in half again. “Please.”
“At least I know how easy it is,” Gojo brought a hand down, stroking her side, her stomach sore. “You want it so bad in here.”
She came, feeling spit get thick in her mouth – digging her heels into the mattress, Gojo fucking her through it, his elbows popping. He knew it, the fronts of his teeth skimming her face in a slitted smile. It had been months since he’d had anything — Utahime let him grind it out, turning her head to watch him above her: eyebrows locked, the hairs splitting. He had creases around his mouth – Utahime tried to kiss them, but Gojo moaned, matching her kiss. She could feel the heat from his neck, his pulse like popping grease.
“Fuck,” he murmured. He sounded like he wanted to cry, Utahime rubbing his spine. “Good.”
He came, getting pats on the back. Utahime let him roll off her, his dick making a mess on her thighs - she closed her eyes, eager to get another thirty minutes of sleep before a feeding.
“That’s one,” Gojo said.