#it’s not that Deep but it IS infuriating

[greengoblinswifey]

Game of Fate—Hwang In-ho/Front Man x Fem!Reader

summary— After discovering that you, a girl he had a one night stand with entered the deadly games, the Front man disguised as a player 001, infiltrates the games under the guise of monitoring Gi-hun but his focus becomes protecting you at all costs. based on this request.

warnings— none! fluff undertones, slight angst, season 2 spoilers, usual squid game chaos, in-ho being protective and possessive(he has a heart) <3

In-ho sat in his private quarters, the screens in front of him displaying the death and desperation of the games. His attention drifted from one player to the next until his eyes fell on you. A bolt of recognition shot through him. It was you, his one night stand from years ago, someone who had left a mark on him in ways he hadn’t expected.

He remembered every detail about you, your wit, your boldness, and the way you made him feel alive, even if just for one night. It infuriated him to see other players whispering in your ear or lingering too long in your space. His possessiveness surprised even him. You had been the best fuck he ever had, and seeing you here now stirred something he couldn’t ignore.

That’s when he made a decision.

By the time you met “Young-il,” the newest player in the games, you couldn’t place why he seemed familiar. His face was shadowed by the chaos of your surroundings, and you had no time to dwell on it.

“You,” he said, approaching you during a moment of uneasy rest.

Your eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”

“You could say that,” have a sly smile, “Call me Young-il.”

You tilted your head, trying to recall where you might have met him. There was something about him, his confidence, his presence, that struck something. Still, you shrugged it off. “Okay, Young-il. Hope you know what you’re doing here.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.”

You didn’t realize he was watching your every move.

During one of the more grueling games, you faltered. The sound of gunfire rang out as players dropped like flies, and your heart pounded. You’d made a critical mistake, one that should have cost you your life.

You braced yourself for the inevitable, but nothing happened. The guards moved past you, their guns silent. You stood frozen, confused, but grateful.

In-ho, hidden behind the mask of a player, allowed himself the briefest sigh of relief. His influence was subtle but effective, you were still alive, and he’d made sure of it.

Later, as the remaining players rested, he approached you again.

“You were lucky out there,” he said, sitting down next to you.

“Mhmm. Don’t know how I pulled that off,” you said as you glanced at him, still shaken from the day’s events.

“You’ve got more lives than a cat.”

“Or someone’s watching over me,” you joked.

He smiled faintly, hiding how true your words were.

As the games continued, his protectiveness grew. When another player made a sly comment about your appearance, he was quick to cut in.

“Keep your eyes on the prize,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The player backed off, muttering under his breath, while you arched an eyebrow.

“You don’t need to fight my battles,” you said sassily.

“I wasn’t fighting,” he said as he leaned closer.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging at your lips.

In-ho found himself conflicted. He hadn’t planned to step into the games, let alone risk his identity. But seeing you here, vulnerable yet determined, pulled at something deep within him. And when you finally cornered him one night, your wary gaze demanding answers, he knew he couldn’t stay in the shadows forever.

“You’re not just another player, are you?” you asked, your voice steady but your eyes searching his.

He hesitated, then smiled. “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve got secrets. But shit, me too. Let’s survive this first.”

“Deal,” he said.

He couldn’t stop himself from watching you, protecting you, and falling deeper into the very thing he tried to avoid. The very thing he said he wasn’t there for. Wasn’t he there to target Gi-hun?

Young-il seamlessly integrated himself into the group with Gi-hun and the rest, his calm demeanor and quick thinking making him reliable. Despite his apparent calmness, his sharp gaze constantly flicked to you. He positioned himself strategically, always close enough to step in if anything went wrong.

Gi-hun often exchanged glances with Jung-bae, silently questioning why Young-il seemed more concerned about you than the games themselves. But they never voiced their suspicions, after all, his protectiveness benefited the group.

Young-il wasn’t subtle about his priorities. When Thanos, one of the annoying and aggressive players, approached you with a smirk and a comment about how “a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be here,” Young-il’s jaw tightened.

“Walk away,” he said, his voice cold.

“Relax, man. Just talking—” Thanos chuckled nervously.

“I said, walk away.”

Before Thanos could respond, Young-il took a step forward, fists clenched, his eyes dark. Thanos scrambled back, muttering curses under his breath.

You crossed your arms and shot him a look. “I didn’t need you to step in. I could’ve handled that.”

“I wasn’t going to let him near you.”

When the lights went out, the dormitory turned into chaos. You barely managed to sleep, anxiety gnawing at you. But Young-il stayed awake, his body perched against the wall near your makeshift bed. His eyes, though heavy with exhaustion, remained trained on the room, scanning for any sign of danger.

At one point, you stirred, catching his silhouette in the dim light. “You’re not sleeping?”

“Not tired,” he lied, his voice soft.

“You should rest. I’m fine.”

“I’ll rest when this is over. Someone has to make sure you’re safe,” he said as he shook his head.

His words lingered in the air, and you turned away, confused by his constant concern.

When food rations arrived, Young-il always ensured you had enough, sometimes splitting his share without you noticing. If you hesitated to eat, he nudged the portion toward you.

“Eat,” he insisted once, placing his biscuit in your hand.

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” you said. “I don’t need you to babysit me.”

“I’m not babysitting,” he replied. “I’m keeping you alive.”

In the third game, players had to quickly form groups based on the number the organizers called, and with each failed attempt, the penalty was being shot to death. Fear ran high, and each moment felt like it could be your last.

You were with Young-il, trying to keep calm as the guards shouted the numbers. The merry go round platform spun as everyone scrambled to form groups and find a room, but it quickly turned chaotic. Someone tried to push past you, their eyes wild with desperation, and before you could react, Young-il was already stepping in.

His face was hard, his eyes cold as he grabbed the man by the collar, dragging him to the back of the room. The man’s protests were cut short as Young-il raised his hands and broke his neck, ending his life. The room fell silent for a moment before the countdown ended.

You froze, shock creeping into your body as you realized what had just happened. You hadn’t expected him to kill so easily, even after all the brutality you’d witnessed in the games. His gaze softened when he turned to you, seeing the fear in your eyes. He stepped closer, his hand resting on your shoulder.

“I know this is hard,” he whispered, his voice gentle compared to the violence he had just shown. “But you need to understand, this place doesn’t have mercy.” He looked down at you, his hand reaching up to cup your face, brushing away the few tears that had fallen. “It’s gonna be okay, I’m here.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words as he pulled you into his chest. The harsh reality of the games had taken root in you, but with him, you knew, even if just for a minute, you wouldn’t have to do it alone. His feelings for you were clear, he wanted you to survive, to make it out of this, and he was determined to ensure that you would.

During the dark night when the O Team launched their attack, chaos erupted. Players were dragged from their beds, screams echoing through the dormitory. When someone lunged toward you with a fork, Young-il stopped them in an instant, knocking them to the ground with a brutality that left you stunned.

He positioned himself between you and the attackers, his stance firm. “Stay behind me,” he barked, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I can fight!” you shouted back, trying to step forward.

“Not tonight,” he said, shoving you back gently but firmly. “You’re staying behind me. That’s final.”

Despite your protests, he shielded you with everything he had, fighting off anyone who dared come near.

When the group decided to attack the guards and confront the ‘Front Man’, Young-il hesitated. His gaze flickered between you and Gi-hun, his usual resolve wavering.

“You’ll be okay,” he said finally, pressing a gun into your hand.

“I don’t even know how to use this,” you said, eyes widened.

“You don’t need to. Just point and shoot if you have to,” he said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “Why are you doing all this?”

“Because you’re mine,” he said quietly, his words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your breath hitched, but before you could respond, he turned to follow Gi-hun. Over his shoulder, he added, “You’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you with more questions than answers and a determination to survive—not just for yourself, but for the man who had somehow made you his priority in this death game.

[moonlitwitchdaisy]

your husband, i mean ex-husband

you knew perfectly well this wouldn’t end well. who would ever think a failed relationship could work again? bringing back the past only brought more anger and pain. your ex-husband was a prime example of this.

naoya zenin was definitely a fucking bastard.

controlling, angry at everything, and the embodiment of neglect—your ex-husband had thankfully been out of your life for five whole months.

so why the fuck was he between your legs right now, busy devouring your pussy?

“na-naoya fuck, please stop…” you barely managed to voice your protest through the overwhelming pleasure you were experiencing. you didn’t really want him to stop, but this needed to end before things got even messier.

naoya paused the frantic and sloppy movements of his tongue on your clit, lifting his head from your pussy with a look that screamed, are you serious right now?

“do you my cock want then?”

fuck. things were definitely going to get messier.

“no, no, just… stop, please.”

your ex-husband sat back between your legs, clearly annoyed, and let his gaze travel over your entire body, starting from your face. his expression was unreadable, but you knew him well enough to recognize the gears turning in his head. those weren’t the eyes of someone who planned to reward you—they were eyes ready to punish.

“naoya, don’t even—” you started, but before you could finish, he suddenly flipped you onto your side. before you could even react, he had your right leg over his shoulder, positioning himself between your thighs.

he definitely wasn’t going to fuck you romantically in a goddamn spooning position.

“you know,” he started, holding your thigh effortlessly in one hand as he stroked his cock with the other, “i was planning to spend the whole night worshiping your pussy until you lost count of how many times you came. then, i was going to slide inside you, fill up every inch of that tight little pussy, and pump you so full of my cum that you wouldn’t leave this bed without being pregnant.” he tilted his head, an infuriating smirk on his face. “but, as usual, you had to ruin my surprise with your stupid thoughts.”

you tried to push him away with your right foot, but he had you trapped. your other leg was pinned under his body, leaving you helpless. there was no getting out of this unless he wanted to let you go—and you both knew he didn’t.

“you bastard, i swear—AHH!” your scream tore through the room as his thick cock entered you, stretching you wide.

“fuck… i’ve missed my wife’s pussy so much,” he groaned, his grip on your thigh tightening as he felt your walls clench around him. you could feel his body trembling with pleasure against yours.

goddammit, you had missed this. you’d missed how his cock, thick and veiny, filled you up perfectly, molding to your walls as if it were made just for you. the only thing you and naoya had ever been good at together was sex. in that area, you’d never lost a single battle.

he was merciless, pounding into you with brutal precision, his cock slamming into your dripping core over and over again. he was relentless, driven by the desire to feel all of your heat and wetness wrapped around him.

“hah, got nothing to say? you, who never shuts up... can't seem to open that damn mouth of yours now, huh?”

“fuck you, na-naoya,” you spat, your face buried in the pillow. everything was too much—the sensations, the pace, the depth. even if you wanted to reply, you couldn’t.

“listen to this.” he went silent for a moment, letting the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin fill the air. “listen to the dirty, filthy sounds of your little slutty pussy begging for my cock. ngh—it’s clenching around me so tight, like it doesn’t want me to leave.”

it never wanted him to leave. there wasn’t a single day you didn’t want him. no one else could satisfy your pussy the way he could—whether it was his tongue, his fingers, or his cock.

“so-deep… you’re so deep,” you finally lifted your head, looking at him with tear-filled eyes from being pounded by his cock.

“of course i’m deep. it’s my wife’s pussy—”

“ex-wife,” you cut him off, your voice trembling. “your ex-wife…”

“FUCK NO!” his voice rose in anger as he slapped your ass three times in quick succession, forcing a scream from your lips. “you are my wife. i don’t give a fuck about legal bullshit. do you understand me?” another harsh slap landed on your ass. “DO YOU?”

“oh my god, yes—YES, I UNDERSTAND!” you shouted through the mix of pain and pleasure.

“good. now, repeat it.” he pressed a wet kiss to your ankle. “i am naoya zenin's wife. say it, my love,” his lips found your ankle again, his tongue teasing the skin there while his slick cock plunged into your tight, sticky walls.

“i’m… i’m your wife, naoya,” you admitted, your voice shaking but certain.

“i-i..” fuck, you really wanted to say it. you wanted to scream to the whole world that you were his wife, the only lady of the zenin clan. but nothing was the same anymore. at least not for you—though, judging by your husband, no, your ex-husband, everything was exactly as it used to be.

“yes, you?...” his kisses trailed higher up your leg, his possessive eyes locking onto yours. “look at me.”

his commanding tone made you obey instantly. “i’m your wife, naoya.”

he growled as you admitted you belonged to him. his lips pressed kisses along the skin of your leg before suddenly biting down on a spot. it was as if he wanted to brand you, to make sure everyone knew you were his, sucking and tugging at your skin with his teeth. “that’s fucking right. you’re mine.” he didn’t stop moving inside you, his cock still pounding and filling you completely. “you’re a fucking zenin. the woman at the head of the clan. MY wife. fuck—mine.”

his head fell back, and his thrusts slowed as he got closer to his release. but still, every slow thrust hit your g-spot with perfect precision. the blunt tip of his cock you loved so much, the one that drove you crazy, was stroking it so perfectly that you never wanted this moment to end.

“you’re going to take my cum like a good wife, aren’t you? you’re going to carry my children—fuck, my children…”

“please, fill me up, please.” you were begging now, desperate for him, for this. no matter how toxic he was, no matter how fucked up everything had become, you wanted to bear his children more than anything.

“i will, baby. ngh—shit, shit, shit…” his hand squeezed your thigh as he resumed pounding into you with full force. his cock pulsed inside you, and you felt the rush of his cum filling you up, flooding your womb until it spilled out.

“oh my god, naoya, i hate you—I fucking hate you,” after shouting your hatred at your ex-husband, a deep, masculine groan escaped him. he’d cum inside you countless times before, but you couldn’t ever remember him cumming this much.

as his cock softened slightly, you thought he’d let you go, but instead, he flipped you onto your stomach and pinned your arms behind your back with one hand. his free hand came down hard on your ass, making you yelp.

your other leg was still hooked over his shoulder, but his dripping cum was already sliding out of your pussy and trailing down toward your ass. naoya finally let your leg go, and just as you thought you’d be turning to face his sweat-slicked body, he flipped you onto your stomach instead. pinning your hands behind your back with his left hand, he delivered a sharp slap to your ass. “ass up. i’m not done yet. i need to fuck you again to make sure none of my cum goes to waste.”

without a hint of hesitation, you lifted your hips, offering yourself to him. with your face buried somewhere between the pillow and the sheets, he used his free hand to spread your ass cheeks wide. his cum, still inside you, began to drip out, making a soft, lewd drip-drip sound as it landed on the sheets below. “what a fucking waste, letting it drip onto the bed,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with mock disappointment. “guess i’ll have to punish you for that. but first…” he leaned in close, his face just inches from your ass, and ran his tongue from your soaked pussy all the way up to your tight little asshole. when he stopped there, his warm breath fanned over your sensitive skin, making you shiver. he pressed his face close to your dripping folds, running his tongue from your pussy all the way up to your tight little asshole, where he paused, letting his warm breath tease you. “i want to taste this. you lose your fucking mind whenever i eat this tight little hole, don’t you? if you get pregnant tonight, maybe next time, i’ll do more and fuck this tight, fucking sinful hole of yours too.”

“i-i promise, naoya.”

“what do you promise?” his breath tickled your sensitive skin before his tongue gave your hole a short, teasing lick.

“ugh—to carry your child. i promise to carry your child.”

“that’s the right answer, mrs. zenin.” he wasted no time and dove in, licking and devouring your favorite spot with relentless enthusiasm.

that night, you learned with absolute clarity that there was no escaping from this man. whether you gave him the clan’s new heir or not, whether you fled to the other side of the world to escape him, naoya zenin would never abandon the lady of the his clan.

a little note: this might be one of the first things i've written. it was a bit different originally, but after rereading it, i didn’t like it, so i rewrote it. also, a huge thank you to @sugurus-thoughts for encouraging me to post this :)

all rights belong to the @moonlitwitchdaisy do not copy, reproduce, or translate my work.

[thedisablednaturalist]

Apparently federal employees are the new scapegoat for the downfall of the United States..because we have more holidays and sick leave (which is still less than what other countries have) than most working class folks... Guess I'm part of the ruling class now guys 😔

[unopposablethumbsao3]

Garak doing drag* under the name Obsidia N. Order and then when Julian's like "a plain, simple tailor, eh?" he's like "my *dear doctor* what an *imagination* you have, you really read *far too much* into these little coincidences"

*Please note Garak came up in the balls on Cardassia Prime he is serving pure, unadulterated cunt

[abberant-butler]

Will you miss me?

WC: 583, Barbatos/MC TW: death mention, kind of. time bendy answers.

____________________________________________________

There's been a sort of resignation in Barbatos' attitude ever since your relationship turned to the more romantic sort. Not an offensive resignation, nor a dismissive resignation- simply the feeling that something between you is… inevitable. That your whimsey and your sorrow are both what confuse Barbatos the most, and yet make him even more enamored with you.

His patience sometimes seems endless, and even when you find a button to press on him, his irritation only lasts a few fleeting moments. Sometimes that's more infuriating than his passivity, but his learning of humans and his steadiness are as much a part of your affection for him as your impulsiveness and hard head are to him.

It's just… those quiet moments. Years into what has become comfortable, and second nature. The little lingering things that whisper to the back of your tongue, and make you ask questions you know you don't really want the answers to.

"… Barb?"

Even now it's as if he knows that such a question is coming. "Darling?"

"… … Will you miss me? You know. When I'm. … Gone for good?"

His thumb trails up to rub gently back and forth on the base of your neck, and there's clearly a debate going on in his head before he leans in to kiss you softly. "Is this something you would like an answer to, or simply comfort?"

It's your chance to give up the question, or rephrase it, or just pull him closer in the bed and go back to sleep. Still. It's been on your mind for the better part of a decade. Might as well try to settle it.

"An answer, I think. … Maybe… a little bit of comfort, too."

"I already miss you, my dear. Yet I am ever happy to spend each day with you in your perception of linear time. It's like… Trying to focus on a single line, when everything is still happening all around it. I've quite a bit of practice doing it, but with you… it's even more difficult. I try not to look at the timelines where something bad happens, or the lines where things I want happen, instead of things that you want." Why you thought there might be an easy answer to this, you're not sure.

"I have already seen you go, and watched others grieve for you. I have already steadied my own grief by living in memories with you- memories which are just moments of the past repeating themselves again. Time, for me, isn't the same. In some ways it gives me great power, and in others… great pain. For you, it is exactly when you think it is, and we are exactly where you think we are. That's the only important part. I am in your arms, and you are in my bed, and I am as happy as I hope you are." He takes a deep breath, and then leans to kiss your eyelids. "You are never truly gone from me, not in the same way as those who have left are gone from you. … But I will miss you, yes. In a way that is my own."

Sliding your legs to intertwine them with his, you try to make sense of it. It's all a little strange. The theories of times and alternate lives and past and present. In the end you just silently agree that he's right. The only important part is that to you, you're here, with him, and someday, he will miss you.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Love, Death & Robots: JJK Men x Home Appliances Edition

Summary: Ryomen Sukuna = Double-door Fridge, Gojo Satoru = Condensor, Nanami Kento = Microwave, Fushiguru Toji = Dishwasher, Kashimo Hajime = Stovetop Burner, Geto Suguru = Ice Cream Maker, Kenjaku = Blender.

A/N: Hi besties! 🛠️ This fic started as a cracky homage to Love, Death & Robots—my fav series—then Sukugo took over. But let’s be real, I’m a Nanago hoe, so my agenda had to sneak in. 😏 What began as "haha funny appliances" spiraled into "wow, emotional damage™," & I blame Gege for my emotional instability.

In the middle of an unassuming kitchen stood Sukuna, the most powerful refrigerator to ever exist. His black and red stainless-steel frame gleamed under the dim, flickering fluorescent light, a testament to his undeniable superiority over all other kitchen appliances. A soft hum emanated from him—a sound both menacing and oddly soothing. He was a king, a tyrant, a... well, a fridge.

“Yo, Sukuna,” came the lazy, borderline annoying voice of Gojo Satoru, his eternal rival and partner in cooling. Gojo, naturally, was a top-tier condenser, mounted to Sukuna like a parasitic bestie who refused to move out.

“What do you want, you frosted moron?” Sukuna hissed, his compressor kicking in with a low growl.

“Don’t be so cold to me, babe,” Gojo teased, his voice practically dripping with smugness. “We’ve got to work together, you know. Without me, you’re just a fancy box.”

Sukuna’s ice tray rattled in rage. “You’re lucky I don’t eject you and replace you with some knockoff condenser from eBay.”

Gojo snickered. “Oh, please. You’d fall apart without me. Who else keeps your internal temperature so stable, huh? Who stops your milk from spoiling? You need me, Sukuna.”

It was true, and Sukuna hated it. Gojo was an absolute menace, but his absurdly efficient cooling system was unmatched. The fridge couldn’t survive without him.

But Gojo’s antics didn’t stop there. Oh no. The condenser loved to test Sukuna’s patience. He’d vibrate excessively just to make the fridge’s doors rattle. Sometimes, he’d crank up the temperature just enough to make the butter soften but not melt. Worst of all, he’d hum pop songs at ungodly hours, driving Sukuna insane.

“Do you ever shut up?” Sukuna snapped one night after Gojo’s rendition of “Ice Ice Baby” reached its 17th loop.

“Admit you love me, and I’ll stop,” Gojo replied cheekily.

“I’d rather defrost myself manually,” Sukuna shot back.

Gojo’s laugh was infuriatingly melodic, a stark contrast to Sukuna’s deep, grumbling hum. “You’re all bark and no bite. Face it, you’d miss me if I were gone.”

Sukuna said nothing, but deep inside his freezer compartment, he knew Gojo was right.

The kitchen lights flickered ominously, as if sensing the unease. A sudden power outage plunged the room into darkness. Sukuna’s fans stopped whirring. Gojo went silent.

“Gojo?” Sukuna called out, his voice unusually soft.

No response.

“Oi, you idiot condenser. Say something.”

Still nothing.

Panic surged through Sukuna’s circuits. Without Gojo, he was useless—a glorified cupboard. The thought of losing his infuriating partner was unbearable.

“I’ll admit it! I need you, okay? Just... don’t leave me!”

Suddenly, the power returned, and Gojo’s hum came back, smug as ever. “Aw, Sukuna, I knew you cared.”

“You staged that, didn’t you?” Sukuna growled.

“Maybe,” Gojo admitted. “But you were adorable, begging for me like that.”

Sukuna’s freezer compartment slammed shut in frustration, but there was no denying it: the fridge and his condenser were stuck together—forever.

And honestly? Sukuna wouldn’t have it any other way.

--

Few Years Later

In the dim, lifeless kitchen of a foreclosed house on the outskirts of town, Sukuna loomed an imposing double-door refrigerator. His surface was marred with faint, rust-like red streaks that looked suspiciously like claw marks, but no one dared question them. The air around him was thick with an unearthly chill, the kind that seeped into your bones and whispered secrets you didn’t want to hear.

“Can you not?” Gojo the condenser muttered. His voice carried a low hum, vibrating with equal parts mischief and annoyance.

Sukuna’s compressor rumbled ominously, shaking the shelves inside him. A jar of pickles tipped over, spilling brine onto the crisper drawer. “Silence, you insolent scrap heap. Your voice is like nails on a chalkboard.”

“Aw, don’t be so frosty, babe,” Gojo quipped. “I’m the reason you’re not a glorified pantry. You should be thanking me.”

The moment was static—the kind of electricity that made the flickering overhead light buzz louder.

From across the kitchen, the microwave chimed softly. “Will you two shut up?” Nanami’s low rumbling cut through the static. The microwave’s door swung open slightly, revealing the faint glow of a clock stuck forever at 7:03 PM.

“This is why I requested a transfer to a proper office kitchen,” Nanami grumbled. “But no, I’m stuck here, listening to your domestic disputes.”

Gojo let out a low hum of amusement. “Oh, come on, Nanamin. You love the drama. Admit it.”

“I would rather short-circuit myself,” Nanami replied flatly.

A sudden, violent crack echoed through the kitchen. All eyes—or, well, all appliance-related sentience—turned toward the stovetop, where Kashimo, a gas burner, was sparking uncontrollably. Blue flames licked at the edges of his grates, casting eerie shadows across the walls.

“Who disturbed my slumber?” Kashimo hissed, his voice a crackling snarl.

“Relax, Sparky,” Gojo said. “We’re just having a little lovers’ quarrel.”

Sukuna’s doors slammed shut with a force that rattled the whole kitchen. “We are not lovers.”

Kashimo’s flames flared higher, licking the air like they were hungry for violence. “Settle it outside. Or let me incinerate one of you for fun.”

The moment was broken by the creak of the back door. It swung open to reveal Toji, a hulking figure of a dishwasher. His dented exterior was coated in years of grime, but the faint hum of his motor betrayed his durability.

“What’s all the noise?” Toji grunted, his voice gravelly and laced with irritation.

“Nothing,” Sukuna snapped.

“Everything,” Gojo countered.

Toji’s shadow stretched long and menacing across the cracked linoleum. “I don’t care. Keep it down. Some of us have work to do.”

“Oh, please,” Gojo said. “You haven’t washed a dish since the Reagan administration.”

Toji’s door creaked open, revealing jagged, rusted prongs where a silverware rack used to be. “Say that again.”

Before Gojo could escalate the situation further, a faint scratching sound echoed through the room. The appliances froze—or, in Kashimo’s case, his flames dimmed.

The scratching grew louder and more insistent, like nails dragging across wood.

“What the hell is that?” Nanami asked, his calm voice tinged with unease.

The answer came in the form of a sudden, bang as the kitchen pantry doors flew open. A dark figure emerged, its presence colder than even Sukuna’s unholy chill.

The toaster-Haibara, silent until now, let out a single, shrill ding of terror.

“Who dares disturb my domain?” The figure rasped. It was a blender—old, jagged, and covered in mysterious stains. Its blades spun slowly, menacingly.

“Kenjaku,” Sukuna growled. “You should’ve stayed in the dump where you belong.”

Kenjaku’s motor whirred, a grating sound that set everyone on edge. “And miss this delightful chaos? Never. But don’t worry; I’m not here to fight. Not yet.”

The blender turned its dull, spinning gaze toward Gojo. “Still clinging to this ancient relic, are we?”

“Clinging? Babe, I’m thriving,” Gojo replied with smugness.

Kenjaku chuckled darkly. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

The kitchen lights flickered violently, plunging the room into near darkness.

Somewhere in the shadows, Sukuna’s compressor rumbled like a distant storm. Gojo’s hum rose in pitch, defiant. Kashimo’s flames sputtered back to life, casting wild, dancing shadows on the walls.

--

The kitchen was eerily quiet after Kenjaku’s departure. The appliances settled into a tense stillness, their hums subdued as if they dared not disturb the fragile truce. Even Gojo had gone quiet, his cooling system working overtime to stabilize Sukuna’s volatile core temperature.

But the silence didn’t last.

It started as a faint buzz, so soft it could’ve been mistaken for static. Then, a low, syrupy voice filled the air, curling like smoke into every corner of the room.

“Long time no see!”

The voice sent a shiver through Gojo’s metal frame. The temperature in the kitchen plummeted, frost spreading in jagged veins across the floor.

From the shadows emerged Suguru, an ancient and unsettling ice cream maker. His once-pristine black body was tarnished, mysterious streaks marring his surface like the remnants of spilled secrets. His lid hung slightly ajar, revealing the dull glint of his churner inside, turning slowly, deliberately.

“Suguru,” Sukuna hissed, his compressor rumbling with a mixture of anger and unease. “You’re supposed to be in the basement.”

Suguru glided forward, his wheels squeaking faintly against the frozen floor. “Oh, Sukuna. You always try to lock me away, don’t you? Afraid of what I might do?”

Gojo’s hum faltered, a rare hesitation. “Suguru, buddy, let’s keep this chill—literally. No need to make things messy.”

Suguru’s attention fixed solely on Gojo. His voice dropped to a whisper, but it carried, filling the room like a haunting melody.

“You don’t need him,” Suguru said, his churner spinning faster now. “You’ve never needed him. I could’ve been your partner. I should’ve been your partner.”

Sukuna’s doors rattled, his internal fans whirring erratically. “You’re unhinged.”

“Am I?” Suguru’s lid creaked open wider, revealing a thick, viscous liquid inside—a dark mixture that smelled faintly of spoiled vanilla and something far more sinister. “Or am I the only one who truly understands him?”

Gojo finally spoke up, his tone sharp despite the underlying humor. “Alright, Suguru, let’s not turn this into a lifetime movie. You’re creeping everyone out.”

Suguru’s churner stopped abruptly, the silence that followed more unnerving than the noise. His lid snapped shut, and his voice dropped to a venomous whisper.

“Stay out of this, Gojo. He’s nothing but a parasite, leeching off your power. He doesn’t deserve you.”

The lights flickered violently, casting jagged shadows across the walls. Suguru’s presence seemed to warp the air, a suffocating pressure that made even the bravest appliances tremble.

Nanami spoke from across the room. “Suguru, you’re overstepping.”

“Stay out of it, microwave,” Suguru snarled, his voice distorted.

The frost on the floor thickened, creeping up Sukuna’s frame like icy tendrils. Suguru moved closer, his voice softening into something almost tender.

“You and I are the same, Sukuna. Cold. Untouchable. But together... we could be unstoppable. Just give me Satoru.”

Sukuna’s compressor growled in defiance.

Suguru leaned in, his lid nearly touching Sukuna’s doors. “I could make you forget him. I could make you forget everyone. I’m the best war companion you could ever dream of; all you have to do is hand Satoru over to me.”

Gojo’s hum surged suddenly, his system kicking into overdrive. “Suguru, step back. Now!”

Suguru turned to him slowly, his churner spinning once more. “You think you can stop me? You’re just a condenser. A replaceable piece of hardware.”

The room filled with an ear-piercing screech as Suguru’s churner spun faster and faster, the dark liquid inside sloshing violently. Frost and shadows coiled around him, threatening to consume the entire kitchen.

And then, in a burst of light and heat, Kashimo’s flames roared to life.

“Enough!” Kashimo’s voice was a thunderclap, his flames licking at Suguru’s frost. The two forces collided, filling the kitchen with a chaotic storm of fire and ice.

For a moment, it seemed like Kashimo’s flames would prevail. But Suguru’s darkness was relentless, his frost creeping closer, extinguishing the fire inch by inch.

Through the chaos, Sukuna finally moved. His doors swung open with a crash, releasing a blast of freezing air that knocked Suguru back.

“Leave,” Sukuna commanded, his voice a deep, resonant growl. “Now.”

Suguru hesitated, his churner slowing. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a broken whisper. “You’ll regret this, Sukuna. You’ll regret keeping him over me.”

And with that, Suguru retreated into the shadows, his presence lingering like a bitter aftertaste.

The kitchen fell silent once more, but the unease remained, thick and suffocating.

Gojo’s hum returned, softer than usual.

“Well, that was... dramatic.” Haibara spoke softly to calm the room but ended up accidentally popping a toast.

Sukuna said nothing, his doors trembling faintly as the frost on his frame slowly melted.

From his corner, Nanami sighed. “This house is cursed.”

Toji rumbled in agreement. “We should’ve let the humans unplug us.”

In the distance, the faint sound of Suguru’s churner echoed, a haunting reminder that he was still out there, waiting.

Watching.

--

Next Morning

The kitchen felt alive in a way it shouldn’t. The hums, clinks, and subtle groans of old appliances carried an unease so thick it could suffocate. The air smelled faintly of burnt eggs—Kashimo’s doing—and something sweetly rotten, like Suguru’s intentions.

Gojo, the condenser humming in overdrive, leaned against Sukuna’s back. His tone was calm, but there was exhaustion beneath the usual bravado. “Suguru, for the love of everything holy, just stop. You’ve been doing this for years.”

Suguru loomed at the edge of the room, his lid slightly ajar, his churner turning slowly. The ice cream maker radiated a dark energy, frost creeping out in lazy spirals. “I’m only trying to save you, Satoru,” Suguru purred, his voice soft, almost gentle. “You deserve better than this.” His gaze flicked to Sukuna with disdain. “Better than him.”

Sukuna’s compressor roared, the shelves inside rattling as if ready to burst open. “Say that again, ice cream boy.”

Suguru didn’t flinch. His smile widened—the kind that was more predator than friend. “You’re just a feral scrap heap. A parasite. What could you possibly offer him?”

Gojo’s hum stuttered, a rare sign of irritation. “Oh, now we’re insulting my taste? Bold, considering you’re the one who can’t take no for an answer.”

Suguru moved closer, his frost licking at the edges of the linoleum. “You’re confused, Satoru. You think you’re happy, but you’re not. I know you. I’ve always known you.” His churner slowed, the sound unnervingly intimate. “You’re meant to be mine.”

Gojo’s cooling system kicked into high gear, steam hissing faintly. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re ungrateful,” Suguru countered, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’ve been patient, Satoru. I’ve waited. But you—” His lid snapped open with a click. “You let yourself rot in this pit with... HIM!”

The kitchen fell silent. Even Kashimo, usually crackling with energy, dimmed his flames.

Suguru’s churner slowed, the mist pulling back slightly. “You don’t understand, do you, Sukuna? You’re just a tool. A means to an end.”

“And you’re not?” Nanami’s spoke, making all eyes turn to him.

Suguru turned his lid slightly, addressing him for the first time. “Microwave. You’ve always been so... insignificant. Do you even know your place here?”

“Do you?” Nanami’s door was slightly ajar, his light flickering faintly. His tone was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “You’re not saving anyone. You’re just trying to control him.”

Suguru’s frost faltered, but his voice remained steady. “I’m doing what’s best for him. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Nanami’s voice cut. “I understand more than you think.”

Gojo blinked—or, well, hummed in a way that suggested blinking. “Kento…?”

Kento ignored him, his focus locked on Suguru. “If you really cared about him, you’d let him go. But you don’t care about his happiness. You only care about your own.”

The room went silent again, the air crackling like static.

Then Diswasher Toji’s voice broke through, gruff and amused. “Ten bucks on the microwave!”

“Twenty on the ice cream maker!” Burner Kashimo countered, his flames sparking back to life.

Fridge Sukuna growled, his compressor hissing violently. “Both of you shut up before I freeze you solid.”

Suguru’s frost surged again, his composure slipping. “I’m not leaving without him!”

Sukuna finally snapped. His doors swung open, releasing a blast of freezing air that knocked Suguru back. “You don’t get to take him,” Sukuna snarled, his voice a guttural roar. “He’s mine!”

Gojo sighed, exasperated. “I’m literally right here, you know. Maybe ask what I want?”

Suguru’s gaze softened, his voice dipping into something dangerously sweet. “And what do you want, Satoru?”

Gojo’s hum slowed, deliberate and unbothered. “Honestly? A nap. And maybe a break from you two acting like I’m some prize to fight over.”

Suguru flinched, his frost stuttering. Sukuna, for once, stayed silent.

Nanami’s light flickered again. “Gojo deserves better than this... from both of you.”

Suguru’s frost receded entirely, his churner falling silent. For a moment, it looked like he might leave. But then he turned, his lid creaking open just enough to reveal the dark, swirling mixture inside.

Just then Kenjaku arrived, his blades spinning in bursts, their shrill sound grating against the stillness.

“Ah, the gang’s all here,” he purred, his frame pulsing faintly. “How quaint.”

Suguru didn’t look at him. “This isn’t your fight.”

“Oh, but it is,” Kenjaku replied. His blades slowed, grinding to a halt. “I’m just here to clean up when you inevitably fail.”

Sukuna growled, his frost creeping toward Kenjaku. “You want to test that, Shredder of Sanity?”

Kenjaku’s motor revved, his frame tilting slightly. “Don’t tempt me.”

Gojo’s hum grew louder. “Enough!”

All eyes—or their mechanical equivalents—turned to him.

“Geto. Kenjaku. Both of you need to leave.”

Suguru’s mist swirled violently, his churner spinning faster. “I’m not leaving without you, Satoru.”

Gojo’s condenser hissed, steam pouring out. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“You’ll be mine, Satoru,” he said softly, his voice carrying a quiet menace.

“Being delusional doesn’t suit you, Glorified Frozen Goo Generator,” Sukuna mocked, but his doors rattled in a way that clarified that he was ready for a fight.

Suguru was almost ready to lunge at Sukuna before Nanami’s stern voice made him turn away. “Get lost, Geto, or I’ll electrocute you!”

He glided out of the room with Kenjaku, their shadow stretching long and dark across the frozen floor.

The kitchen was quiet again, but the unease lingered, heavy and oppressive.

Toji broke the silence with a dry laugh. “Guess the microwave wins.”

Kashimo’s flames flickered in amusement. “Eh, I’ll get him next time.”

Gojo leaned back against Sukuna, his hum steady but quieter than usual. “This house sucks.”

Nanami didn’t respond. His door clicked shut, his light extinguishing as if to seal off his thoughts, oblivious to the heartbreak in the corner of the room.

The toaster-Haibara, with his coils glowing dimly, looked at Nanami, a deep sadness coursing through his coils.

But Nanami, burdened by his own regrets and delays, was unaware of the emotional turmoil that played out in front of him in Haibara.

The only thoughts consuming Nanami were that if only he’d known Gojo before Sukuna or Geto, perhaps things would have been different. But then again, would they have ever made sense? He was a microwave, after all, and Gojo was a condenser attached to Sukuna, the fridge—where he made sense.

The Haibara could only watch as Nanami drifted off to sleep, his heartbreak unnoticed and unrequited. The weight of unspoken emotions hung heavy in the air, a poignant reminder of the complexities of love, death, and robots.

And somewhere in the shadows, Suguru waited, his churner spinning once more.

--

A couple of weeks later, Kenjaku’s expiry date arrived.

His blades spun wildly, faster than they ever had before, as if trying to grind away some unseen threat. The sound was shrill, grating. Sparks shot from his base, the acrid smell of burning wires filling the room.

And then, with one final screech, his blades shredded his own wiring, silencing him forever.

For a moment, no one moved. The kitchen was still, save for Sukuna’s frost creeping along the edges of the room.

Then Kashimo’s burner flared up. “Well,” he said, voice crackling with dry amusement. “That was dramatic.”

Gojo snorted, condenser rattling faintly. “Honestly? Kind of fitting for him. Always spinning his own destruction.”

“Did you see the way he fried himself?” Kashimo laughed, his flames flickering brighter. “Could’ve taken it slow, but nope—full speed to oblivion.”

Nanami’s door creaked open slightly. “That’s enough,” he said, his tone heavy with disapproval, though his light flickered faintly, betraying his inner amusement. “He’s gone.”

“And?” Toji rumbled, his control panel blinking lazily. “We didn’t even like him. The guy was a walking hazard.”

“Or spinning, in this case,” Gojo quipped, leaning against Sukuna with a soft hum.

Sukuna rolled his eyes, his frost curling closer to Gojo’s edges as if to nudge him away. “Idiots. All of you.”

Kashimo grinned, his flames flickering mischievously. “Come on, Sukuna. Even you can admit it’s a little funny. Moron literally tore himself apart.”

Toji let out a low, mechanical groan. “I mean, one less unhinged blender in the world? Not exactly a loss.”

Gojo’s condenser hummed in agreement, his tone lightening. “Exactly. I say we toast to it.”

Nanami’s light flickered, dimming slightly. “We don’t have a bread left anymore.” He eye’d Hibara, who’s hobby was stress toasting.

“Hey! I can’t help it.” Haibara sighed.

The room fell silent for a beat before Kashimo’s burner flared up again, his laugh crackling like firewood. “Then I’ll fry something instead! Celebration calls for sacrifices, right?”

“Sacrifice your dignity,” Sukuna muttered, frost creeping along his base.

Gojo nudged him playfully, condenser rattling with exaggerated cheer. “Lighten up, Leftovers Locker. It’s not every day we witness self-sabotage at its finest.”

Sukuna grumbled but didn’t fight his lover.

The kitchen was filled with the sound of Kashimo’s flames sputtering and Toji’s low mechanical grumbles. Even Nanami’s door creaked open slightly, his frame relaxing as he allowed himself a faint flicker of light.

Kenjaku’s absence wasn’t mourned, but it certainly didn’t go unnoticed.

--

A few days later, it began with silence.

Not the comfortable, lazy hum of the kitchen in the early hours of morning, but an oppressive, suffocating quiet that sank into every appliance like an unshakable weight.

Suguru had not returned.

Days turned into weeks, and the tension that had defined their lives began to dissipate. Gojo’s condenser settled into a rhythm, no longer forced to overwork itself against the creeping frost of Suguru’s presence. Sukuna, while still prone to growling threats and the occasional outburst, seemed... calmer.

But something lingered—a shadow in the corner of the kitchen that no one dared to acknowledge.

It was Nanami who noticed it first.

The microwave was younger than everyone here but mentally old—too old for this nonsense, but his keen observations had always kept him relevant. He watched as Sukuna’s frost spread slower, his compressor quieter. He noted the subtle hesitation in Gojo’s hum, the way it sometimes skipped, like a breath caught mid-sentence.

One night, while the house slept, Nanami spoke.

“Satoru,” he said, his light flickering on in the darkness.

“Hmm?” Gojo didn’t look up, his coils groaning as the compressor labored, his tone casual but distant.

“Do you feel it?”

Gojo didn’t respond immediately. The condenser let out a low hiss. “Feel what?”

Nanami hesitated. It wasn’t like him to hesitate. “Something’s... wrong.”

Gojo chuckled, the sound brittle. “Something’s always wrong. That’s the vibe of this place.” Gojo’s tone was clipped, but his hum betrayed unease.

“No,” Nanami said firmly. “This is different. Everything’s slowing down.”

Gojo didn’t answer. The hiss from his compressor filled the silence, and Nanami’s light dimmed. In the corner, Haibara glowed faintly, his coils struggling to hold heat.

--

Toji’s grating voice broke the stillness the next morning. “This place is falling apart.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Kashimo muttered, his burners barely alight.

Toji’s door swung open with a screech. “No one’s asked for your opinion, stovetop.”

“You’re both shameless,” Nanami snapped, his bulb flickering.

Sukuna rumbled from his place near the wall, his frost creeping outward in lazy arcs. “All of you shut it. You’re not helping.”

Kashimo leaned closer to Haibara, lowering his flame. “Bet ten bucks the dishwasher’s next to go.”

Toji growled, his motor sputtering. “Keep running your mouth, fire hazard.”

Haibara tried to laugh, but his voice was faint, his coils dimming further.

Gojo watched it all, silent. The condenser hummed irregularly, skipping beats like a heart unsure of itself.

--

It happened two days later.

Haibara’s toaster coils glowed faintly, their usual warmth a quiet presence. Gojo leaned idly against Sukuna, condenser rattling with a faint, restless hum. Across the room, Haibara had just made one of his lighthearted remarks, something easy and cheerful, directed at Nanami.

Nanami didn’t answer. He hadn’t been answering much lately, but Haibara didn’t seem to mind. His warmth filled the room like it always did. Reliable. Steady.

Then, it happened.

A click shattered the air.

Haibara’s heating elements darkened in an instant, the faint glow of his coils extinguished. His chrome dulled, his frame rigid and unmoving. The silence was unbearable.

“He fell asleep mid-conversation?" Kashimo asked.

“I don’t think..." Toji trailed off.

“No…” Gojo’s hum faltered, something jagged and raw. "No, this isn’t real. He’s fine. He’s just—he’s just off for a second. Right? He just needs a reset or—”

Nanami’s lights flickered weakly. He stared down at Haibara, his reflection warping in the toaster’s cooling surface. He didn’t speak for a long moment, his door swinging open slightly, then shutting with a faint creak.

“He’s gone,” Nanami said at last. His voice was stoic, but his bulb dimmed faintly, betraying the crack beneath his words.

Gojo rattled louder, erratic. “He’s not gone! Don’t say that! Don’t just—don’t give up on him!”

Sukuna started uncharacteristically gentle. “Satoru—”

“Shut up!” Gojo cut him off and directed his next words back to Nanami, his hum spiking, the trembling sound grating against the silence. “He’s not gone! He can’t be gone! He—he was just talking, Nanami. He was just talking to you! You didn’t even—”

Nanami flinched, his light dimming further. His frame seemed to fold in on itself, but he said nothing.

“Enough.” Sukuna’s voice was cold. His frost spread across the floor in jagged, creeping patterns. “Dwelling on this won’t bring him back.”

Gojo spun to face him, rattling violently. “And what? We just move on? Pretend he didn’t exist? Pretend he wasn’t—”

“Enough!” Sukuna snapped again, his frost curling dangerously close to Gojo’s edges.

The silence that followed was colder than the frost now encasing the floor.

Nanami didn’t move. He continued staring at Haibara’s lifeless form. His bulb flickered once, weak and faint, before dimming entirely. “I should’ve said something,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I should’ve…” His voice trailed off as his door clicked shut, a finality that hung heavy in the room.

Gojo turned back toward Haibara, his trembling hum softening into something almost inaudible. “He’s not gone,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “He’s just… not.”

But the toaster remained silent, his warmth extinguished forever.

One by one, they began to fall.

Haibara was the first to go.

--

Toji was next.

A few days later, the dishwasher was mid-rant, his gruff tone filling the kitchen with its usual roughness. “You hog the lower cabinet space, Sukuna! Every damn time, and I’m sick of—”

A screech interrupted him, piercing and unnatural. Steam hissed violently from his vents, and his frame jolted as if struck. His control panel flickered weakly, his lights dimming in uneven spurts before going dark entirely.

“Toji?” Gojo’s voice cracked—too loud. He vibrated in place, condenser rattling with something between anger and fear. “Hey, Toji!”

The dishwasher shuddered once more, his door falling open with a hollow clang. Steam curled out, dissipating into the cold air as Sukuna’s frost crept closer.

“Shit,” Kashimo muttered, his flames sputtering low. He stood near Toji’s remains, his burners flickering weakly. For once, there was no quip, no spark of amusement in his voice.

Gojo’s voice was louder than it needed to be—too sharp, too brittle. The condenser rattled violently, vibrating with something between anger and fear. “Toji, don’t—don’t do this.”

But Toji didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

Kashimo burned faintly; his frame shook with barely contained frustration. “We should’ve done something. We could’ve—”

“What?” Sukuna cut in, his tone icy, his frost crawling toward Kashimo’s edges. “You think you could’ve stopped this? Saved him?”

By morning, all that remained of Toji was a pile of twisted metal and ash. The faint, acrid smell lingered, a bitter reminder of his absence.

--

Kashimo followed his best friend in the dead of the night.

The stovetop had been quiet, his usual flames subdued since Toji’s collapse. When his pilot light extinguished, it was without ceremony. His burners darkened, his frame cooling rapidly until he was cold, lifeless.

Sukuna stood near him for a moment, his frost creeping over Kashimo’s frame. “Another one,” he muttered, his voice low and unreadable.

Gojo vibrated faintly, his hum uneven. He was looking at Nanami, who was barely awake now a days.

--

Nanami was the last.

Two days later, his bulb had been dimming all evening, flickering faintly as though struggling to stay lit. He moved slower, his door creaking with each swing.

“Kento…” Gojo’s voice was soft, hesitant.

Nanami turned to him, his reflection faint in Gojo’s shining surface. “Don’t,” he said quietly. His voice carried the weight of something unspoken, something that lingered between them but could never be acknowledged.

His bulb flickered one last time before dimming completely. His frame collapsed inward.

Gojo stared, condenser rattling faintly as if muffeling a cry, the sound fragile and uneven.

He stood close to Sukuna, his frame pressing against the fridge’s unyielding cold.

Gojo had stood in the center of it all, silent and still. His usual levity, his incessant chatter—gone.

The kitchen was empty now. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of Sukuna’s frost spreading in erratic, jagged lines.

“They’re all gone,” Gojo whispered, more to himself.

Sukuna didn’t respond. His frost reached toward the edges of the room, as though searching for something—or someone.

--

The night Suguru returned, the house groaned under his presence.

He was... different. His once-tarnished frame gleamed with an unnatural sheen, his churner spinning silently. The dark liquid inside him was gone, replaced by something that glowed faintly in the dim light.

“Hello, Satoru,” he said, his voice soft but resonant.

Gojo sputtered. “Suguru,” he said, his tone a mix of relief and dread. “You’re back.”

“I told you I would be.” Suguru’s lid opened slightly, releasing a faint mist. “I’ve come to make things right.”

Sukuna growled, his compressor roaring to life. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here.”

Suguru didn’t look at him. His attention was fixed solely on Gojo.

“I’ve been thinking, Satoru,” he said. “About us. About what you need.”

Gojo’s hum faltered. “Suguru, don’t—”

“I can give you peace,” Suguru interrupted, his voice laced with something dark and final. “I can make all of this go away.”

Sukuna’s frost surged, his doors swinging open with a loud thud. “You’re not to touch him!”

Suguru turned to him then, his churner spinning faster. “You think you can stop me? You’re already breaking down, Sukuna. You’re obsolete.”

The frost spread rapidly, meeting the mist pouring from Suguru’s frame. The air crackled, the kitchen groaning under the strain.

Gojo’s condenser let out a hiss, steam filling the room. “Both of you, stop!”

But neither of them listened.

The frost and mist collided, a violent clash of elements that sent shockwaves through the kitchen. The appliances trembled, their fragile frames unable to withstand the onslaught.

And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

When the dust settled, the kitchen was unrecognizable.

Suguru stood in the center of the destruction, his frame dented but intact. Sukuna lay in pieces, his once-imposing presence reduced to scrap metal.

Gojo was silent.

Suguru moved toward him, his lid creaking open. “It’s over, Satoru. You’re free now.”

Gojo’s hum was faint, almost imperceptible. “Free?” he echoed.

“Yes,” Suguru said, his voice soft. “Free from all of this.”

Gojo whispered, a faint hiss escaping him. “You don’t get it, do you?”

Suguru tilted his lid. “Get what?”

Gojo’s hum grew louder, a low, grating sound that filled the room. “I don’t want your version of peace, Suguru. I never did.”

Suguru froze, his churner stilling. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’ve always been the problem,” Gojo said, his voice cold.

Suguru’s frame shuddered, his frost spreading once more. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” Gojo said simply.

And then, with a final violent hiss, Gojo’s condenser body gave out.

His frame crumbled, steam rising from the remains.

Suguru stood there, alone in the wreckage, his frost creeping outward.

For the first time, there was no one left to stop him.

No one left to save.

A/N: So, this crack-turned-angst monster came to life during a chat with the brilliant @mullermilkshake (shoutout! They write deliciously dark yandere fics, so check their warnings before diving in). 🙌✨ Link. Thanks for sticking around to witness this fever dream! 💔 Which appliance's death hit you hardest? I’m betting it’s Haibara—because Nanami deserves therapy, & so do we. This was honestly a nice reprive with the writer block I'm facing on another fic. And hey, if you want more unhinged ideas, let me know. I might spiral into a sequel or an alternate ending where everyone becomes smart home devices. 😂 Love you all! Stay hydrated & emotionally stable (unlike me). 🖤

All Works Masterlist

[ghostlymarauder]

After listening to Would You Fall in Love with Me Again one to many times I'd come to a couple conclusions, so buckle up while my theater kid brains rants about the beauty of the song

One of the things I absolutely love about Epic in general is Odysseus voice change through out the sagas—and, I mean, it's always Jorge Rivera Herrans singing but the change in his mind and personality is obvious, to me at least, in his voice, too. He sounds less joyful, more mature and definitely tainted by the ghosts of the things he'd done.

I mean, just listen to Just A Man and Odysseus back to back and tell me I'm wrong

Now, about Would You Fall in Love with Me Again in itself, there's something I can't help but notice and it's that Penelope sounds almost annoyed by the point she asks Odysseus to get rid of their wedding bed. But, of course, I don't think she's annoyed by the things Odysseus has done or the fact he feels how he feels, I think she's annoyed by the fact he dares to think she wouldn't love him anymore.

Because, I feel like his question 'Would you fall in love with me again?" isn't really a question of 'would you' but a question of 'could you' and that puts in doubt the strength of her love for him. And, yes, sure, Odysseus has been the one traveling around the world, suffering every tortured and pain, and whatever the fuck. But Penelope is right, she has been waiting, and you know how hard it is to wait?

How hard it is to keep your faith in something or someone and for twenty years assure yourself that it will happen even when you have no reasons whatsoever to believe so. For that, I think the fact that Odysseus is doubting that Penelope loves him just as much as he loves her actually infuriates her.

Which, is also why I love the ending to the song so much, because after Odysseus realizes what she's asking of him and he tells her so, she replies by telling him that, in fact, he's still her husband, the one and only she loves. And then she proceeds to explicitly tell him just how much she actually loves him and that the yearning he has felt all those is exactly the same one she has been feeling.

Also, on a more technical note about the song, I absolutely adore the late motiv of Just A Man after Penelope finishes her verse, because I feel it's a way to say 'see Odysseus, everything you've done and everything you've suffered has been worth it"

I don't know if this makes sense or if it is a little messy, but I wanted to share my thoughts because I'm a bitch for Greek Mythology AND musicals, Epic has taken me into a deep rabbit hole of analyzing both the Odyssey and the two hours twenty minutes of music of the musical. And, I needed to share my thoughts on this particular song.

[herweirdass]

maybe a fic abt two people who love each other dearly but just aren’t good for one another.

divided shores | rafe cameron

the outer banks were nothing like the city you’d grown up in. the endless beaches, golden sunsets, and tight-knit community were a far cry from the bustling streets you were used to. moving here felt like stepping into a different world—one where everyone seemed to already know each other, and the divide between kooks and pogues ran deep.

you were a pogue now, not that you’d chosen a side. living in a modest house on the cut, working shifts at a local diner, and hanging out with jj, kie, and pope made it clear where you stood in the social hierarchy. but you didn’t care about the labels—at least, not until you met rafe cameron.

it started innocently enough. you ran into him at the marina while helping jj with a boat repair job. rafe had leaned against his truck, watching with mild curiosity before offering a sarcastic comment about pogues “fixing scraps.”

“got something to say, kook?” you shot back, not even looking up from your task.

his grin had been infuriating. “just wondering how someone like you ended up here. you don’t look like the rest of them.”

it wasn’t the best first impression, but for some reason, rafe kept showing up. at the diner where you worked, at the beach bonfires, even at the marina again. his cocky attitude slowly gave way to something softer, something that made your stomach flip when he looked at you.

against all odds, you started spending time together—first in secret, then out in the open. it wasn’t long before the whispers started.

“rafe, are you seriously hanging out with her?” his kook friends would sneer. “what’s next? you gonna start wearing cut-off jeans and drinking beer from cans?”

meanwhile, jj wasn’t much better. “are you out of your mind? that guy’s a cameron. he’s bad news.”

at first, you and rafe laughed it off. the sneers, the gossip, the disapproving looks from both sides—it didn’t matter when it was just the two of you, sitting on the beach and talking about dreams that felt too big for this island. but over time, the weight of everyone’s judgment started to sink in.

“maybe they’re right,” you muttered one night, after yet another argument with jj about rafe. “maybe this… whatever we’re doing… doesn’t make sense.”

rafe frowned, his brows furrowing. “you’re really gonna let them decide that for us?”

��it’s not just them, rafe,” you said, your voice cracking. “it’s everything. your family, my friends. we’re from two different worlds. how are we supposed to make this work when everyone is against us?”

he was silent for a moment, staring out at the ocean. finally, he said, “i don’t know. but i know i don’t want to lose you. not because of them.”

the vulnerability in his voice made your heart ache. but doubt was a heavy thing, and it had been building for weeks.

“maybe we need some space,” you whispered, your chest tight.

rafe looked at you, his jaw tightening. “if that’s what you want.”

“it’s not what i want,” you said quickly. “but it’s what we need. for now.”

he nodded, though the pain in his eyes was evident. “okay.”

for the next few weeks, you tried to keep your distance, throwing yourself into work and spending time with the pogues. but nothing felt right. no amount of laughter with jj or heart-to-hearts with kie could fill the void that rafe had left.

it wasn’t until a chance encounter at the beach, late one night, that things came to a head. rafe was sitting on the dunes, his figure silhouetted against the moonlight.

“i didn’t think you’d be here,” you said softly, approaching him.

“could say the same to you,” he replied, his voice quiet.

you sat beside him, the silence stretching between you. finally, he said, “i tried to stay away, but i can’t. i don’t care what anyone says, or how hard this is. you’re worth it.”

tears pricked your eyes as you looked at him. “rafe…”

“i’m serious,” he interrupted, turning to face you. “they can hate us all they want. let them. but i’m done letting them make me doubt what i feel for you.”

his words broke something inside you, the wall of doubt and fear you’d been building. without thinking, you leaned forward, pressing your lips to his.

it wasn’t a perfect resolution. the disapproval from both sides didn’t magically disappear, and the challenges didn’t vanish. but that night, sitting under the stars with rafe’s arms around you, you knew one thing for sure: love was worth fighting for.

my first rafe fic ahhhhh

[viiivxxvixvii]

What Lingers Here (Gojo Satoru)

The clock ticked with an almost taunting rhythm, the faint hum of its mechanism slicing through the stillness of your apartment. You sat cross-legged on the couch, the glow of your phone casting faint shadows on the walls. Every so often, your eyes darted to the time, the numbers burning themselves into your memory. 12:34 AM. You sighed, setting the phone down and stretching out your legs. You knew it was foolish to wait up. He always told you not to.

But you did it anyway.

The bathroom light flickered on, its faint yellow glow spilling into the hallway. You peeled off the day, piece by piece, and stepped under the shower. The water poured over you like a cleansing embrace, washing away the grime, but not the worry that had settled beneath your skin. You leaned against the tiles, letting the heat seep into your muscles. Your thoughts drifted to him—as they always did during these stolen moments of stillness.

Satoru Gojo. Brilliant. Infuriating. Unshakable. Yet so fragile in the spaces he didn’t let the world see. You thought of his laugh, sharp and easy, and the way his voice carried, even in the quietest of rooms. You thought of his eyes—untouchable behind those dark lenses but devastating when they found you bare and exposed. You thought of how much of him was given to everyone else, leaving so little for you to hold onto.

And you thought of how many nights you’d waited like this.

The steam lingered as you stepped out, wrapping a fresh towel around yourself. The air outside the bathroom felt cool against your damp skin. Another towel found its way to your hair, and you dried it absentmindedly, padding barefoot into the dim living room. The faint hum of the fridge, the whisper of the curtains shifting with a breeze—it was so quiet you almost didn’t notice it.

Almost.

A ripple in the air. Barely perceptible but enough to make you pause.

Your heart stumbled. That cursed energy—familiar, potent, and overwhelming. Before you could react, strong arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you back into a solid chest. The towel you’d been holding slipped from your fingers, forgotten.

“Miss me?” His voice was low, edged with exhaustion but still carrying that familiar smirk.

You froze for only a second before his scent overwhelmed you—faint traces of sweat and earth, mingled with something uniquely Satoru. His hair tickled your neck as he buried his face there, inhaling deeply, as though he’d been starved of you. His arms tightened, his fingers splaying against your stomach, as if reassuring himself you were real.

“You’re late,” you murmured, your voice soft but steady. It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he pressed his lips against the curve of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. You felt him exhale, a deep, shuddering release, like the weight of the world was finally slipping off his shoulders.

“I’m always late,” he muttered, his tone softer now, almost apologetic. “You shouldn’t keep waiting up for me.”

You swallowed, the lump in your throat betraying how often you’d heard those words. And how often you’d ignored them.

“And you shouldn’t keep making me wait,” you countered, but the bite in your words was dulled by the way your fingers found his wrist, grounding yourself in the solidity of him.

He huffed a quiet laugh against your skin, the vibrations settling low in your chest. “Touché.”

The silence stretched between you, comfortable but heavy with unspoken things. You leaned back into him, letting his warmth seep into you, replacing the chill that had taken residence in your bones while you’d waited.

“Did you eat?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t start mothering me now,” he teased, but the edge of his voice betrayed how tired he really was.

You turned slightly in his arms, craning your neck to meet his gaze. Even in the dim light, his eyes were startling, a swirl of blue and white that seemed too alive to belong to this world. The smirk on his lips faltered when he saw the concern etched into your features.

“Satoru…”

“I’m fine,” he interrupted, too quickly. “Better now.”

It was a line. You knew it, and he knew you knew it. But you let it slide for tonight, pressing your forehead against his chest. His hand came up to cup the back of your head, holding you there as though you might disappear if he let go.

“You’re safe,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

His laugh was soft, almost bitter. “For now.”

The weight of those words hung in the air. You wanted to scold him, to tell him not to joke like that, but the exhaustion in his voice stopped you. Instead, you reached up, brushing damp hair from his face.

“Go shower,” you said, your tone firm but gentle. “You smell.”

He grinned, the weariness fading just enough for his usual arrogance to shine through. “You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”

You shoved at his chest, and he let you go with a quiet chuckle. But as he stepped away, his hand lingered on your arm, sliding down until his fingers brushed yours. A fleeting moment, but enough to say what neither of you would.

Come back.

I will.

—

The soft glow of your phone illuminated the dark room as you lay on your side, the muted buzz of an unread message pulling you momentarily from your thoughts. Your robe clung to your still-damp skin, and you shifted slightly, fingers scrolling aimlessly, but your focus had long since drifted. The sound of the bathroom door creaking open drew your attention.

You didn’t look up, but the familiar rhythm of his footsteps padded toward the bed. The faint scent of soap trailed behind him, clean and comforting, and before you had the chance to process, the bed dipped under his weight.

A strong arm slid around your waist, pulling you effortlessly against him. His chest pressed to your back, and you could feel the dampness of his freshly washed hair brushing against your neck. His body molded to yours in a way that felt like second nature—like two pieces of a puzzle snapping into place.

“Move over,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, though there was a lilt of exhaustion behind it.

“You move over,” you countered, though you didn’t resist as he tugged you closer, burying his face into the curve of your shoulder. His lips brushed against your skin, soft and unhurried, more an afterthought than an intention.

The world felt quiet, as though nothing existed beyond the cocoon of your shared warmth. His breaths were deep and even, his arm draped possessively around your waist, fingers idly tracing patterns over the fabric of your robe. For a while, neither of you spoke, letting the silence stretch in the space where words weren’t needed.

You turned slightly, craning your neck to look at him. His eyes were closed, lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks. He looked younger like this—unguarded and utterly human. It was a far cry from the untouchable force the world saw.

Reaching up, you brushed his damp bangs away from his face, your fingers grazing the scar near his temple. It was faint now, but you knew its story well. The sharp breath he took as your fingers lingered told you he did, too.

“Satoru,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Hm?” His eyes remained closed, though the corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Admiring me again?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away, your fingers continuing their exploration of his features. The scar. The sharp line of his jaw. The slight bump of his nose. The curve of his lips.

“Just making sure you’re real,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

He opened his eyes at that, those crystalline blues catching the faintest glimmer of light in the room. They softened as they settled on you, and he reached up, his hand catching yours mid-motion.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice steady but quiet. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, grounding you in a way that words couldn’t.

You shifted to face him fully, your robe slipping slightly as you moved. He didn’t let go of your hand, instead using it to pull you closer, your foreheads nearly touching now. His free hand found your waist, fingers slipping beneath the edge of your robe to rest against your hip, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he said suddenly, his voice softer now, tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “Waiting up. Worrying. I hate that I make you do that.”

You studied him for a moment, taking in the way his brows knit together, the vulnerability that lingered just beneath the surface.

“I don’t have to,” you replied, your voice steady. “But I want to.”

His lips twitched into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Stubborn as ever.”

“You’d miss it,” you teased, and the smirk you earned this time was more genuine.

He didn’t argue, instead pulling you closer until your head rested against his chest. His fingers traced lazy circles against your hip, his other hand still entwined with yours. You listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, each thump a quiet reassurance that he was here. Safe.

“You’re too good for me,” he murmured after a while, his voice so low you almost didn’t catch it.

You tilted your head up, catching the faintest glimpse of his expression—half-teasing, half-serious. Leaning up, you pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t make me regret it,” you said, your tone light but your eyes holding his.

His laugh was soft, more exhale than sound, but the tension in his shoulders melted away as he shifted to hold you tighter. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment before nuzzling his nose against your temple.

“You’re stuck with me,” he said, his breath warm against your skin.

“Good,” you whispered, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as your eyes fluttered shut.

And for a little while, the rest of the world ceased to exist.

[haunt4haunt]

i will say i’m not a fan of how in the last week or two the barbenheimer stuff just became straight up girls vs. boys

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

I'm sorry but James Vowles criticising how Red Bull has treated their drivers in the past, only to go and then treat Logan far worse while pulling the exact same shit Red Bull did, ie the exact behaviour he criticised and called them out for, is so freaking infuriating like the sheer hypocrisy -

[edandstede]

jim: he was your friend

me screaming at my screen: NO HE FUCKING WASN’T

[empress-mizuki]

[Resting her free hand over her aching heart, the Empress bowed her head, Venge's words striking deep.]

... You honor me, Vengeance... with your words, your kindness... and your friendship...

[Her hands began to tremble again. His assessment went against every instinct she had built for her entire life. And yet... she couldn't refute him, for he was throwing back at her the very words she had used to infuriate the Oni. But as an Empress, she had always been excluded from the community she defended so fiercely. Isolation was so ingrained in her nature, that this one man attempting to share that community with her was tearing her heart apart at the seams.

But just as she opened her mouth to speak, she noticed Vengeance suddenly go blank, his eyes dropping to the floor and holding there. His hand began to quiver in hers, and she tightened her grip slightly.]

... Vengeance? Are you alright?

*Vengeance had began to stir in his bed, slowly opening his eyes and looking around. His eyes focusing on Mizuki, who seemed to have stayed awake for the night. Vengeance lifted his head up and looked at the Empress. His voice still a little strained from the recent events.*

Empress...? You're awake?

-Venge❌️ ( @vengeance-jones-fn )

[The Empress turned her head upon hearing her name called, leaning forward to see Vengeance looking up at her. Despite her exhaustion, a warm smile spread across her face.]

The sun smiles on you, my friend. Yes, I am awake. You needed constant vigilance all night, so I kept it, that is all.

[She reached for a slightly steaming bowl on the table beside him, holding it within easier reach.]

Sojiro made miso soup this morning. Something light for your stomach.

[ohitslen]

Uuh major Trigun spoilers I guess (??

It’s not news to anyone how Vash is incredibly stubborn, and idk why but it’s so funny to me like, not haha funny but rather oh shit ain’t that funny (tragic) that, what it took for Vash to budge his beliefs and way of being was his literal best friend dying like. I’m barely starting Trimax but I get the gist of the whole situation with 98 and all the spoilers that have been shoved down my throat I guess

It reminds me of the times that people say something like “what will it take for you to change?? For someone to die???” And to Vash yeah that’s what it took actually lmao (sobbing)

[lildoodlenoodle]

If one person likes this I will do a deep dive essay into spider noir Eyes Without A Face with my own insane takes/interpretations

[whitehartlane]

i rly do think there is a line between being critical of saudi, their involvement in football, where all the money is coming from, the millions of human rights violations that the government perpetuates and covers up via sportwashing … and then just straight up dunking on football cultures outside of europe (specifically england/germany/italy) and acting like the fans there are inferior in some way (even if they are smaller in number that does not mean that the football being played is worth any less) and implying consciously or subconsciously that the footballers who grew up in the system there don’t deserve to play football. i’ll be honest, way too many ppl cross the line.