glassed in a translucent dream || gojohime

the second year

Moonlight bashfully peeked out from the slits of the sheer curtains, flitting occasionally to unveil the silhouettes of the lush flora behind the paned windows. Gojo gazed unblinkingly at the moving branches, leaves, the pas de deux they danced, the gentle caresses of the wind serving as the accompaniment.

His tail flicked to and fro, purrs erupting from his chest, bathing in ataraxia. With the loss of his Six Eyes, he had found a newfound appreciation for nature and the sights around him, at long last granted the luxury of being able to stop and marvel at the world, shunned no longer. It assuaged the anxiety hidden in the ravines of his mind and anchored him to the secular world, burying questions of whether his students were alive or not and if they were doing well.

He knew the true answers to his questions - they were plain to see, written in Utahime's face that seemed to grow more somber as the days passed.

But he looked the other way.

Utahime's hands ghosted Gojo's pelt as he buried his muzzle between her soft, pillowy mounds, covered by black fabric. Never would he have imagined that Utahime would be hiding such velvety, gilt-edged headrests underneath the miko attire she usually wore around him when he had still been a human. They truly put memory foam to shame.

"I don't like the way Noodle looks at you."

A rough, vexing voice cut through the juncture of peace, serenity.

Gojo watched it crumble, watched it evanesce, lost to the wiles of Satan incarnate. He was powerless against it, weak.

He cast an angry, heartbroken look in Daisuke's direction.

Utahime sighed. "He's a cat, Daisuke. He just likes me better because I've raised him since he was a little baby." She smiled down at him angelically, planting kisses on his flat, deflated face. "Don't you, sweetie pie?"

Gojo chirruped.

He didn't necessarily agree, but he did know he hated Daisuke. No one who had the sheer gall to call a poor, defenseless creature ugly would ever be allowed anywhere near in his good graces.

"Look at him! The thing's in heat! He was even sleeping in your bra drawer earlier!" Daisuke wrestled him out of Utahime's arms, ignoring Gojo's angry mews, holding him up in front of Utahime's face and pointing at the object dangling between his legs. "You see that? His penis is barbed because you didn't neuter him when he was young!"

That's absolutely ridiculous.

Gojo could've snorted had he not been so peeved, heatedly casting his gaze downwards.

His already bulbous eyes nearly flew out of their sockets when he saw what was, indeed, spikes jutting out of his membrum virile.

Tremors slowly began wracking his body. He trained his eyes on Utahime, murky blue meeting hickory, tinted obsidian under the curtain of eventide.

Why?

Oh, how foolish he had been, to think the last of his troubles had disappeared with the conclusion of the Culling Games. He had thought Daisuke to be a simple slight obstacle, a mere eyesore, but with each passing day, he seemed to be less of an annoyance and more of a heinous villain out for his blood. He didn't know Kenjaku very well, but he dared to say that Daisuke had long surpassed Kenjaku in terms of evil feats.

Would Kenjaku diabolically reveal the sight of Gojo's penis to unsuspecting people against his will? He didn't think so.

Gojo narrowed his eyes at Daisuke. How does it feel knowing the Culling Games master would cry if he saw you?