you had just moved into the gojo estate — a pristine, unnecessarily large, traditional-meets-modern home nestled behind privacy walls that screamed “i'm rich but quirky.” boxes were scattered across the tatami floors, your clothes half unpacked, and gojo had vanished somewhere in the labyrinthine house to "find a celebratory snack" — which meant he was likely elbows deep in your shared snack stash already.

you were feeling good. new chapter. cozy future. maybe you’d even light a candle and—

that’s when you saw it.

crawling up the wall, with far too many legs and the audacity to exist in your presence: a spider the size of your worst nightmare.

your soul briefly left your body.

panic set in instantly. you grabbed the closest object: a rolled-up magazine gojo had left on the floor (featuring himself on the cover — of course). with the precision of a soldier preparing for war, you tiptoed toward the beast, magazine shaking in your grip.

you did not got this.

you swung.

missed.

the spider fell. onto the floor.

you screamed — an unholy, dramatic sound that echoed through the hallways.

cue gojo appearing immediately, blindfold pushed up onto his snowy hair, mouth full of pocky. “baaabe, are we under attack? is it a curse? did someone look at you the wrong way? because i will throw hands.”