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Gojo knew she was pregnant when Tsumiki started craving strawberry milk. She drank it with oblong ice, no straw. Gojo liked kissing her cold mouth afterwards, making her giggle when he stopped for a drink in between, holding her down on the couch. Pink was her color – it looked good everywhere on her.
Gojo let her stay home from school whenever she wanted — Megumi bringing back paperclipped math sheets, her French-declension homework. Kissing her on the back of the head as she was skinning carrots and small potatoes for soup, since it was the only thing she could swallow.
It went too quickly — to the time where she couldn’t hide the swell, her shirts unbuttoned under her monogrammed uniform sweater. TF , since her mother didn’t fill out a middle name on her birth certificate, always saying she could choose one herself when she got older. To when she couldn’t run in gym class, her tits leaking through her bra, shirt stretched out in the middle.
Her hair grew down her back, Megumi cutting it with kitchen scissors as she stood on a towel, holding her head in place, darling poise.
She spent more time eating curly corn chips, watching game shows. Doing her nails on top of Gojo’s mission reports, strokes of Passion Heart covering his signature. Sitting on their apartment balcony with Megumi, throwing rocks at telephone wires.
Gojo couldn’t have her getting fat on the couch.
He hit her on the back with a magazine roll, shooing her from the cabinet they kept boxed cookies. “I’ve called my mother and she agreed – you’ll stay there until you deliver. It’ll be safer. Not alone all day.”
“You’re here most days.”
Gojo inhaled. “Utahime did the same with the boys. Servants. Bigger bed.”
She was ready to stand, the brat, crossing her arms. “I want Megumi to stay with me.”
Gojo laughed. “No way. If he gets his Algebra grades up, I’ll let him call.”
Tsumiki’s scowl was cut by a yawn. “Whatever. Should I get a present for your mom?”
“She doesn’t need anything.”
Truth be told, Gojo already had a honeydew in the fridge for her – her favorite. He had minimal worries – his three sons lived at the family compound with his parents, his mother their caretaker. She had offered Utahime money for them each, a smile on, Utahime declining.
Utahime reportedly visited when his mother had stepped out for the afternoon, received in a courtyard. The younger boys climbed trees for her, did handstands on rocks. The eldest sat beside her, told her nothing.
He was his grandmother’s claim.
“Have you ever been?” Gojo could hear them whispering in Megumi’s bed, the little traitors. He knew Megumi was still sticking it in her, acting proud like it was his seed — but it wasn’t like she could get knocked up twice. Gojo let him pretend — it was bad enough he did what he did. Megumi didn’t talk to him for weeks, slept next to Tsumiki for months afterward. Didn’t let Gojo get another hit on her after the first stick came out positive.
His balls were hot. He needed to call Utahime – probably get her drunk to break the news.
A family car picked them up the next morning after Gojo had breakfast — honeycombs and milk, Tsumiki sharing from his bowl, spooning sugar and golden raisins into the swill every couple of bites. She was wearing one of his shirts buttoned down to her stomach until the sides wouldn’t reach, her gym shorts riding low on her waist. Flip-flops, her ankles swollen.
He had to guess she was six months, maybe seven. Showing early — Gojo pet her head, told her she was good for it. Rich with life.
Mine were all at least nine pounds , Gojo told her, eating grocery-bought tiramisu out of a carton with her. It was what she wanted for dinner — taking vitamin tablets out of the cabinet — zinc, folic acid, magnesium. Iron in oil-sealed casing. The middle one was eleven pounds. Utahime almost broke my wrist during delivery.
She was worried. Gojo pushed the rest towards her, sucking on his spoon. Don’t worry. You’re tiny.
Megumi kissed her before they left, Gojo supervising. He wasn’t fucking up again — the last time Gojo left on a winter mission to Amsterdam, the pair nearly froze to death, Gojo forgetting to forward the heat billing. He brought back Tsumiki a watercolor set for Christmas, had to dope Megumi up with cough syrup until his fever broke. Gojo handed him a leaf of bills, pulled out one of his credit cards, too. Little grifter.
He tugged on Megumi’s earlobe. “Don’t go missing.”
He was pushed off.
“Love you,” Tsumiki kissed him freely, her chest up his neck. “Miss you.”
The kid blushed, shut the door behind them. Probably going to jerk off to the smell of her tits on his bed.
It was an hour trip, Tsumiki was looking out the window, rubbing her stomach. “I want blood sausage.”
Gojo didn’t look up from his phone. “I’ll tell my mother.”
As they got close, Gojo clicked at Tsumiki, pulled a dress out from a paper bag on the floor, the melon underneath. “Hey. Change into this.”
The driver looked back in the rear-view. Gojo flashed a grin, the man looking forward. Fucking perverts everywhere.
Tsumiki listened, leaving her home-clothes on the seat. It was a white smock-dress, something Gojo had Shoko pick up at a boutique – cigarettes and a lottery stub was rung up on his card, too. It came with a thick satin bow Gojo tied above her stomach, batting her hair to the side. “Stay still,” he told her, though Tsumiki had her arms braced on the upholstery.
Usually, he would have asked Utahime for this sort of thing.
It wasn’t feeling good.
As they parked on the gravel driveway, tires crunching the earth, Gojo carried the honeydew tucked in one arm, ushered Tsumiki with the other, a steadying hand on her middle. She looked like an American princess – sunlight hair, tanned skin like heated sidewalk. Costal living.
His parents were waiting for him at the front doors, a banner of his family insignia blowing behind them, the fans stirring it ceaselessly.
Both of his parents were shorter than him, Gojo’s mother particularly small – Tsumiki at her current age had a couple inches on her stature. They were both impossible to Gojo – to reason with, to find common ground. They both wore the same folds of heavy gray and black fabric, the ceilings in the household running at full speed year-round. Modest. Tempered.
His mother wanted him crowned. King of the ethers. It was only natural for a mother to want her son to be the strongest man in the room. Gojo tried not to blame her nature.
The landlines were ringing in other rooms, the offices, the private chambers, sounding through doors – surely it was let on that Gojo was coming home for the first time in years. Clans looking to stop by. Guests to be received. He would call a taxi back – Gojo didn’t need anyone from the other families or schools watching his relations.
Gojo had Tsumiki’s upper arm in his hand, pulling her forward. His father was waiting in the front parlor – standing, white socks stamping on the floor.
His father was disgusted when he saw Tsumiki – white hair trimmed above his ears, shaved clean in the back. Block of a face. Father crow. “She’s a child.”
Gojo exhaled. His father hated him, how he acted. Probably wished he had more children, that he wasn’t convinced to stop after it was shown Gojo held the Six Eyes. Eggs in one basket, and all. Wouldn’t say Gojo’s name – falsely named after his grandfather. “That’s what you said about Utahime.”
He was just short of spitting on Gojo’s feet. “You were both children, then. She was taken by you. This is a girl off the streets – you are grown.”
Tsumiki was wide-eyed, shown the world without the clouds of love. She was too stunned to cry; Gojo’s father left, cursing as he turned.
His mother laughed, accepting a kiss from Gojo – he passed her the melon in the same gesture. The servants behind them were motionless, heads down tilted as she sent it off to be sliced. Her hair was silver as god’s wedding ring. Resplendency, Gojo feeling his heart cave. “Has she even bled, Satoru?”
Gojo crossed his arms. “Obviously. She wasn’t a virgin. I know that.”
Tsumiki was red.
His mother studied her. Her plain forehead, Tsumiki’s bow-shaped lips. Swan neck. “She’s quiet. Not like your other one.”
“Uh huh.”
Her hand was on Tsumiki’s cheek, cool. “Why’d you wait so long to come to us?”
Gojo answered, her proxy. “Well, it’s getting hard to hide.”
Without invitation, Gojo’s mother lifted Tsumiki’s dress up, humming as she looked at her bare stomach, stretched out, hanging over her legs. Tsumiki tried crossing them, though his mother only let the material fall back down, her face now beaten with shame. She’d grown quickly, the baby taking up most of her body mass.
“I needed to keep her somewhere.”
“Well,” Gojo’s mother smiled. “We have the room. Plenty of midwives – and I’ll preside, of course.”
Tsumiki looked convicted, her insides unfurling like kite tails.
“Would you like to see where I’ve set her up? Oh, you haven’t seen how we opened the conservatory–”
Gojo held up a hand. “I’m sure it’s adequate. I have a meeting.”
“Gojo, no.” Tsumiki looked at him, her teeth showing. His hand in hers, as if she were cleaning his hoof, sweet-talking. “You’re not leaving me here.”
“Just for a couple months,” Gojo didn’t look at her, just his mother. “I’ll bring Megumi to visit.”
His mother scrunched her nose to that, Gojo cutting her an eye.
Tsumiki had tears like the Madonna. “Gojo, I don’t want to.”
Tough tits , Gojo thought. “I’ll have him bring your watercolors,” is what he said.
She lunged – for a bite, or what, Gojo was uncertain, though she surely had received the directive from Toji. He stepped back, watching her rip a scream. Tsumiki went kicking — servants bracketed around her arms, wailing the floor with her dirty flip flops until one of the plastic straps broke – taken away with her bare feet skimming tile.
“What a show,” his mother said flatly. “Has she ever been hit?”
Gojo grunted. “I’m sure.”
They began walking – Gojo wondered if she was trying to herd him somewhere, or couldn’t stay still. “Do you know what it is yet?”
Gojo shook his head, hands in pockets.“But I want a girl.”
His mother was stroking her finger. She wanted a cigarette, Gojo knew, but she wouldn’t smoke in front of him. “What are we going to do with a bastard girl, Satoru?”
Gojo shifted on his feet. He could hear Tsumiki screaming in the next hallway over, through the paper screens, kicking the walls. His mother was wrong – she was actually a lot like Utahime, especially as a teen.
His mother looked at him, deliberate. “I know what you would do with a girl.”
Gojo laughed. “Utahime’s not getting any younger. And this girl — she’s clean.”
His mother hummed. “There are other women. And girls.”
He hummed. “Maybe.”
“This one doesn’t have a cursed technique.”
“Okay, it was an accident.” Gojo wished he could pinch his mother. She brought out the worst in him. “It’s the Zenin kid’s step-sister. They came together. If I’m being honest, the baby might very likely be his, if his balls work.”
Gojo’s mother was quiet. Then, “Keeping a Zenin bitchmother in our house.”
“Hey,” Gojo winced. He was pretty sure it was his kid. Megumi barely had it in him to make enough juice with the way Toji had battered him. “I said might.”
“It’s bad enough you fed their stray.” His mother looked at him. “And fuck it.”
“Whatever.” He hated being in this house.
She paused for a moment, the craving willed away. Locked in her heart. “There’s lunch in an hour.”
“No thanks.”
“Do you want to see the boys while you’re here?”
Gojo waved her off. “I’m late.”
He had seen photos of the boys against his will — they were identical to him at that age, though skewing bigger. It was expected: Utahime was taller than his mother — they might even be taller than Gojo when they capped.
The oldest must be thirteen now, almost Megumi’s age. Tsumiki was sixteen.
Gojo stopped.
Just three years, huh. He thought about Utahime. Older girls. Tsumiki was beautiful – Megumi had plenty reports of schoolboys he had to punish for her. Clumsy chocolates made by their mothers for Valentine’s Day. High schoolers writing notes to her, Gojo finding them pressed between pages of their dictionary: Let’s see a movie. Can’t wait to hang this summer. Glad your dad’s not around. He didn’t want his kid getting any ideas about her.
“I’ll sit in.”
“Wonderful.”
Gojo took a call while his mother directed the table settings – his father refused to join them, citing his lifelong tolerance of Gojo’s ruinous behavior. The boys would come as Tsumiki would – freshly laundered, clarified with pumice, tallow and lye blocks. His mother liked children to smell like they had just existed for a minute, risen from a linen basket.
His eldest still had undried hair when Gojo saw him – tinted blue when wet. He was seated on his mother’s left side – Gojo’s place on the right – his eyes were a thin veil, glass that was blown for holding sacred milks.
He would never be what Gojo was – his technique was something third-tier. The reports from all the boys were dismal – Gojo didn’t bother to read them.
Of course they were all staring at Tsumiki — the other two were younger, Gojo’s parents forcing birth control onto Utahime after their first until Gojo was of age — but the oldest was really looking at her, tits spilling out her robe, the puffiness in her cheeks she got after crying and biting.
The second came after his graduation. The third after Utahime’s accident, when his mother thought he’d be done with her.
They were overdue for another set.
Maybe with Tsumiki away, he could call.
Within himself, there was a blanket need – Utahime’s perpetual forgiveness, her secret side that lent towards violence. The last part of herself, which said, I don’t care. I’m barely alive, also.
She saw him for what he was; Tsumiki only wanted what was put in front of her.
Gojo kept his eyes off his boys during the meal, forgoing dishes as they were served to him. The boys ate well – the middle one spooning noodles; his cheeks ran hot from the soup.
He spared a look at Tsumiki, who was gritting her teeth at her placemat. She could try to refuse food, though he knew his mother wasn’t above force-feedings.
He wondered if Tsumiki regretted it – it was only a few times they actually fucked, since Tsumiki preferred kissing, petting. The wrongness was her craving, the tripwire that sang when crossed.
Gojo had walked Tsumiki home from a shopping date – waving at her friends through the window display, Tsumiki rushing out. She was the prettiest of the bunch, unafraid to smile at men. Framed in happiness.
“My friends think you’re cute.”
Gojo let her trail him around the apartment – he could tell she wasn’t done talking for the day. “Who’d you tell them I was?”
“My older cousin.”
“Not your boyfriend?”
Tsumiki laughed. “You’re too old for me.”
“Really?”
She shrugged. Smiled, face knitted with satisfaction. Thrilled to her brains. Laughed as Gojo grinned back, stealing her hands, taking her back to his room with enough pull to give her nursemaid’s elbow.
Gojo took it as an invitation.
His cold nose on her neck, chasing under her shirt. Tongued through her pubes, Tsumiki startled at air hitting the trail – he cupped his lips to her over and over, stamping his tongue on her until she canted into him, her legs pushing her up.
Gojo was hard from that girl-smell – spray, stick, shine. Tsumiki had bigger tits than Utahime did at this age – she didn’t fill out until the second kid – her cunt the color of delicate grapes, the ruddy watercolor that entered alongside sweetness.
He kicked off his pants, his dick in pain until it could beg at her, his head kissing her cunt like a swapped print of gum. She loved him aching through her – trundling around, rubbing his base down on her slit, feeling her start to squirm.
“Lift your arms up the wall,” he said. “It’ll make more room.”
Tsumiki listened – huffing out her cheeks, all of creation trying to fit inside of her.
“I’m not even old enough to be your dad, you know.”
She nodded, purgatory in her eyes. “I know.”
He didn’t pop her cherry like he had thought – something else Toji beat him at – Gojo nosed her forehead instead, a blue vein dying down to her brow. “Cum on my dick.”
He wasn’t sure if she came or not – Gojo came with his head hanging, foaled legs falling off his sides.
They both napped afterwards, Tsumiki dressing him for when Megumi got home.
Near the end of the meal, his mother called over the eldest, whispering at him. Gojo ate two bites of dessert – a simple flan, side of honeydew with caramel drizzle. After the meal, the brat followed Gojo out the door.
“Father,” he said. He bowed.
Gojo saw him — he actually looked like Utahime with the scowl on his face.
Gojo wished he had brought his blindfold. Regardless, he lowered his sunglasses, feeling all twenty-eight years in his front face. “What?”
“I wanted your permission to take the girl on our rowing boat the next suitable day. It’s only a half-mile out near the fields. We would rest when she called for it. We’re racing some Zenin boys next month.”
Gojo really looked at him. He wondered how long his mother had been keeping him in her bed. He almost felt compelled to tell the kid off for sticking it in his grandmother, but decided against it.
“She’s not going to be your girlfriend.” Gojo watched the boy turn red. “And you’re not going to fuck her. She’s going to be here three months, give birth, and I’m taking her back.”
He was a snake who had its head flattened.
The younger ones left the room behind him – no doubt at his mother’s command, giving a private lesson to Tsumiki on humility. On Gojo. On how she was a whore for giving it to a man who already fed and clothed her, lacking obligation.
“Tell your grandmother not to whip her until after the baby comes.”
He smiled at the two youngest as he left.