Quick introduction about the blogger since i dont have much to say lol-
Hi there!! You can just call me kinnie(lol dw abt it),and all of stuff I'm rambling about you can find under the tag (kinnie be yapping,IS AU Moon,IS AU Sun,IS AU Eclipse)etc. I will from now on post my art under a tag(probably my name again lol-)
But yeah!! Thanks for reading!!
Okay time to yap about all the lovely DCA fandoms im in XDD
(i will tell the artist/writer names but i aint TAGGING them dude they are too powerful and cool i am scared to death😭)
Sleuth Jesters by NaffEclipse
Love,death and roller skates by Spadillelicious
Ghost in the Machine by Venomous-Qwille(hope i havent misspelled-)
Vampiric Equinox by MiwaChan2
Celestial Sundown by Pillowspace(im not sure-)
Bitting the Hand that feeds by Xitsen
After Hours by SnowyRey
Serial Killers by Ayyy-imma-ninja
Celestial Punks by Celestialpunks(I am actually not sure how is the AU called but yeah-)
Gamma Code by Sunnydbeam
I think thats like pretty much it lol-
I would also like to mention that i love Punk Eclipse by Biggiesnails ,Razzle Dazzle by Just a drawing bean, and SugarHog05 (im stil trying to catch up with everything in their AU lol-) and Sunnydbeam that i started following.
If i remember anything else,i will just edit this-
Ofc,im not counting the TSBS fandoms not yet.
This has been edited MULTIPLE times and will change A LOT.
Really love the Moon and Sun from that universe! I'm still working on a drawing that features LDR!Sun on it.
And to anyone reading this (sorry for my English -w-'''), does anyone have a "map" of how Party Planet layout looks like? I always have a hard time picturing places.
Love, Death & Robots: JJK Men x Home Appliances Edition
Summary: In an abandoned house with a bad power supply and worse history, the kitchen appliances are still alive enough to love, fight, and make each other miserable. Sukuna is a tyrant of a double-door fridge. Gojo is the condenser bolted to his back. Nanami is a microwave with a dead clock and no patience. Haibara is the only warm thing in the room. Toji bites, Kashimo burns too hot, and Suguru—the ice cream maker from the basement—still thinks Gojo belongs to him. What starts as stupid appliance crack turns into something colder.
A/N: This started as “what if Sukuna was a refrigerator” while talking to my bsf @mullermilkshake, and then the kitchen developed attachment issues and a body count. All headers and dividers are my own; do not repost without permission.
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: I think the toaster was the point where God stopped looking. You can tell me who got you worst. Also, when I wrote this, I didn't know Urame was gonna be outed as only the part of single dad Kaisen because Sukuna needed a multipurpose sentient refrigerator. 💀
And why his final piece is regression disguised as transcendence
Before I start roasting Zima, I'll have to confess that it's out of love. Zima Blue holds a special place in my heart and this story has been driving me crazy, especially since I'm so late to the party.
1. Zima is a puer aeternus archetype
I gotta explain to the best of my understanding the Jungian concept of the Self and Ego, and how these are experienced by artists in an unusual way.
What artists describe as a divine gift is essentially the same thing Jungians call “the Self”. If you’re a creative type you know what I mean — it’s the core of your being and the source of all the beauty you experience. It’s not exactly you, but a force that gives life meaning and propels you to create. The thing is that everyone has this force at their core — the artists’ Self is just a little quirky and extra.
Puer is a Jungian archetype/symbol that signifies childlike creativity, purity, curiosity, and vitality — basically your inner child. Because the artists’ Self is so unusual, they are often deemed “special”, and this, combined with childhood trauma, can result in an identity problem called puer aeternus a.k.a. the Peter Pan syndrome. The inner child is a necessary source of vitality and creativity — but it can turn against the person if it's out of control. Puer aeternus is a result of a delayed Self/Ego differentiation — in other words, the artist can’t differentiate between their "divine gift" and themselves — they identify with the gift and avoid adult life in fear of losing it. This results in a rich, overwhelmed inner life and an empty, unfulfilled external life. The puer is repulsed by ordinary life, identifies with extraordinariness, lives only in ideas, substitutes reality with fantasy, and is obsessed with concepts of “purity” and “origin”. Good examples in fiction are Peter Pan, the Little Prince, and as I believe, also Zima Blue. In Zima’s case, he experiences the Self as that specific shade of blue (his core programming), can’t differentiate himself from the blue, and subsequently wants to enclose himself inside it.
2. Zima's design and cybernetic modifications
He’s imposing, freed from bodily limitations, superhuman both physically and intellectually, all to divorce himself from humanity and ascend to the stars for inspiration. It's easier than staying on the ground and finding meaning among other people. My gosh, he's so tall dark and handsome, women fawn over him but he's not interested because he's just so above lowly human desire. How convenient — to be sexually wanted and remain asexual. To be an object of attraction without touching the vulnerability of it. A virgin sex symbol. A 7ft tall Ken doll. He can walk around butt-naked because his body is “purified” with cybernetic modifications. To be both desired and untouched by desire is a puer fantasy, because he can't accept all the pain and chaos that goes along with it.
This makes Zima an inverted image of the Little Prince, because the Prince at least admits his fragility. He admits to being broken and small. Zima’s inability to live a human life is disguised as being superhuman and above others. Both are essentially “too pure for this world”.
3. The portraiture period and failed human life
“The human form was too small a subject”, but a singular shade of blue wasn’t? What was it about ordinary life that repelled him so much? The canon explains his origin, but not necessarily how he'd gotten to the point of rejecting the world and choosing to live in abstraction. One would imagine unbearable alienation and lack of understanding among other people. The puer lives as his authentic self only in his mind — meanwhile his persona is either nonexistent or merely a mask that shields him from being exposed. How could he have explained his longing for the blue to other people, when at the time he'd been unaware of it himself? He must’ve suffered — so much so that it had driven him to abandon humanity and reach for the stars, instead. Everyone saw his exterior, no one truly saw his vision — so he decided to get rid of the persona entirely and show the world only his vision. Because there’s no separate Ego to identify with, only the Divine, Infinite Self, there is no point at which his art would be great enough — even the cosmic scale was insufficient. He would need to paint existence itself blue to satisfy his Self-enmeshed ego, and so he did.
4. What Zima's relation to his creator implies
This only applies to the Netflix adaptation, but it cannot be ignored — his creator is simultaneously his mother. Zima had canonically transferred his programming into a lab-grown human body before becoming a cyborg, and he looks almost like her twin. I conclude he must’ve gone out of his way and commissioned the body to look exactly like her. Not only had he lost his mother before being able to comprehend it — he’d never managed to even separate himself from her. His anima (the subconscious feminine in a male psyche) is so disintegrated that he seeks fusion with Eros (the feminine force that rules over relation and feeling) that’s frozen in the past. Eros for him is still bound to the mother (Yes, that’s some Oedipus complex type shit. No, it doesn’t mean he wants to bang her).
The animation's depiction of his origin screams unprocessed grief: the bittersweet, melancholic music during the swimming pool flashback, the reverence Zima talks with about his creator, not to mention the symbolic resemblance between the pool and a womb. The narrative implies that the blue is all Zima needs, but everything else says otherwise. My headcanon is that his core programming had gotten enmeshed with his unprocessed grief, to the point that the color and the mother are one and the same in his mind.
And notice how nothing else matters to him — the impact his art had on the world, how he inspired other people, and how much it cost him to accomplish so much. All of this has zero worth in his eyes — the only valuable thing is the abstract meaning and “inner truth”.
His final piece is a finalization of puer’s death pull. He succeeds — he returns to the womb, escapes embodiment, becomes pure abstraction, and encloses himself inside blue perfection. This is presented as abandonment of ego, but it actually preserves his ego, because he can opt out of existence and be revered forever in an infantile state where relation and friction don’t exist. He returns to the pool — but this time, nobody is there to upgrade him. There is no one to clean the tiles for.
5. How real mystics describe enlightenment
Mystics say that divinity is found in embodiment, not outside of it. Meister Eckhart, for example, says that detachment is actually existing in the world without holding onto your desires and fears, and a great deal of spirituals would say the same. Detachment means being present in life because you’re not afraid to risk pain. Creation is ongoing — there is no point at which a person is “perfected” or “finished”.
6. The interview with Claire is Zima's last brush with embodiment
The moment of touch isn’t grandiose just from Claire’s point of view (like, of course she is in awe upon meeting a mythical figure + he's fine af can you blame her). The visual language clearly implies this holds great significance for Zima as well. In the LD+R artbook, there’s a color script which includes a couple shots that didn’t make it to the final animation.
Pardon the quality, I don’t have the book myself.
There’s a reason this deleted shot is from Zima's POV, looking down at awestruck Claire. There’s a reason why the handshake is so uplifted, why it lingers on for so long. Her role isn’t just that of a narrator or a vessel for the audience. She is a witness. The only one who witnesses both Zima's Self and Ego. The only one given insight into both his art and his personhood. Note the moment they meet, she takes her sunglasses off and we see her eyes for the first time.
Whether the authors were aware of it or not, it's no coincidence that this gaze is female. Sophia/Eros signifies embodiment. Logos (the masculine element signifying meaning and structure, and the force that rules over Zima's life) remains hollow until it’s embodied. But Claire is used as a shortcut: she is given the task of presenting Zima's personhood to the world, after he departs and strips himself of a body. He's allowed to bid goodbye to embodiment and remain adored without actually facing it. And it's no coincidence there’s so much weird ass tension between them (I’m saying this fully aware of my shipping brain's bias). He's allowed to merely flirt with embodiment before dumping it for good. Because why expose yourself to the world when an insightful journalist can do it for you? That’s the problem: the puer desperately wants to be understood, but is too terrified of vulnerability to expose himself. After the dismantling scene, the whole audience is dumbfounded and she's the only one who's calm, melancholic — because she's the only one who had a glimpse into the person behind the art. And being seen in your entirety is what Zima had never been given.
7. The last image
To tie this all up, I'll refer to The Little Prince again and point out how similar its last visual is to the one in Zima Blue.
Notice the minimalism and emptiness of both images. Both protagonists are reduced to untouched concepts, solitary abstractions (the Prince — a star, Zima — a little bot). Both are surrounded by peaceful, barren emptiness. One is fixed above the world to be gazed upon, one is enclosed as an art piece to be admired. Marie Louise Von-Franz, one of Jung's students, described the Little Prince's last image as empty, because the puer can neither experience pain nor happiness — he's too terrified of both. Terrified of existing.
TL;DR — Zima needs to touch grass before saying shit about enlightenment.
