nanamigooner

Latest Posts by nanamigooner

If I was Arisu I'd be looking down somewhere else

TikTok aib fans when rarepairs exist

i love when tsubomi is mildly (extremely) unsettling. she's a weird girl at heart okay

Chishiya introduced them they’re friends now you’re not gonna prove me otherwise. You can’t.

Let's go UFO hunting!

everyone gets a turn to be the one to fuss over their hair while the other waits

Do it. You won't.

jesus christ

Oh Joon Yeong in All of Us Are Dead

What have i done

Shut up

Bingo at the match factory - Bandaimon

A/N: Been meaning to write a fic about these silly Billy’s! I adore side games and ten of clubs is def one of my faves so I did this!

The clamor of fireworks cracked like gunshots above the city, but in the cracked-tile silence of the subway bathroom, Sunato Banda didn't flinch.

He had escaped. After rotting in that cell for years, betrayed by the very world he once smiled with—he was free. The laughter slipped out of him like smoke, low and sharp. No guards. No sirens. No one. Just the fizz and pop of distant celebration and the hiss of broken pipes.

He made his way to his old apartment, a crumbling tenement that hadn’t changed. No one had claimed it. The world had tried to erase Sunato Banda, but it had failed.

He swapped out the prison uniform for a soft denim button-up and worn jeans. They smelled like dust and memories. He stood in the half-light, soaking in the feel of freedom when the old television in the corner flickered on. Static danced. Then—an arrow. A word.

"Game."

A smirk tugged at his mouth. The screen blinked again, showing coordinates. Curiosity lured him more than logic ever could.

He followed.

The match factory loomed like a forgotten cathedral, broken windows and brick dusted in moonlight. Inside, cold silence. But he wasn’t alone.

She was there.

Daimon Hinako. Red hair like flame. Blazer sharp enough to draw blood. She still had that loan shark swagger, but her eyes were colder now.

The last time he saw her, she was filing divorce papers after discovering the truth: that her husband had a thing for murder. Four women. Maybe more.

“Daimon,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer.

A third girl—young, too young for this—stood by them. Ten others in total. All strangers. All here for the same reason: the screen had called.

The game explained itself with a robotic monotone that made Banda’s skin tingle.

"Difficulty: 10 of Clubs. Game: Bingo at the Match Factory."

Rules:

Twenty-five rooms in a 5×5 grid.

Each room, except the center, hides a number.

Find numbers. Complete a bingo.

Each player has nine matches.

The factory is in complete darkness.

Run out of matches… Game Over.

"Game Over" meant lasers.

"Game Clear" only occurs when a full row, column, or diagonal is completed by the group.

Banda chuckled again. A death game. Of course. This world always had a twisted sense of humor.

The factory swallowed them in shadow. The first match flared—light like a gasp. A number scratched onto a wall: G-47.

Each step was a gamble. Rooms twisted like labyrinths. Shadows whispered. Two players used all their matches too fast. The scream came first. Then the burn. A flash of red, then silence.

It wasn’t a game for the anxious. Banda moved slow. Precise. He watched others waste flame on nothing. But Daimon—sharp as ever—counted her steps, rationed her fire, memorized the grid like she memorized debts.

Together, with the girl who barely said a word, they worked. Tension thick like oil, but they survived.

Game Clear.

Three remained.

Seven did not.

Outside, the moon hung low. Daimon didn’t look at Banda—just walked past him, her pace sharp, as if standing near him was poison.

“Daimon—” he called, “I kept thinking about you, you know. In that cell.”

She didn’t stop. Just raised her hand in a half-wave, half-warning.

“You’re not the only one who’s obsessed,” he whispered after her.

She thought she could avoid him.

But Banda knew the game wasn’t over. Not even close.

And they’d see each other again— much sooner than she thought.

Rushed Uruenji bc it’s been a while since I posted anything Uruenji related

Go ahead, put anything

The most iconic duo ◇♤

Um so... As long it isn't pink or blue...

I LOVE THEM I LOVE THEM

SPMEBODY SEDATE ME

”The joker is Yaba!”

“the joker is Mira!”

“the joker is Banda!”

“The joker is Urumi!”

cmon guys… the joker is OBVIOUSLY Nam-Gyu

Squid Game season 2

오징어게임 시즌2 (2024)

Touches you

best friends in that delulu mind of mine

headcanons of my parents

They plot people’s murders together

they eat cake and drink tea

they kind of adopted Risa and Enji… Kyuma and Urumi are In-Laws. They treat them like they’re their actual children.

They play classic card games just for fun

Kyuma is honestly worried for Mira’s health

they watch actual wildfires like they’re on a campfire date.

They met before borderlands and got married in borderlands

they r zombie song coded I fear

mira likes petting his hair. He just accepted it at this point

T4t coded… How much trouble am I in for saying they’re T4t

collecting korean netflix horror show girls with cool hair like pokemon

the majority of the squid game women are THEEEE living personifications of the phrase, “she looks like a chase atlantic song”. dark, sexy, androgynous, and enigmatic. effortlessly alluring, as if they just walked straight out of a neon-lit fever dream rife with sin, whispered secrets, and the lingering pulse of a slow, hypnotic bassline.

girls don’t want boyfriends, THEY WANT WON JI-AN

Chotatta make a robot

A/N: Another crackfic. Felt lazy so I posted a draft.

In the cramped living room of their tiny Shibuya apartment, wires were strewn across the floor like spaghetti, tools cluttered the table, and a half-assembled robot sat slumped on the couch like it had just given up on life.

“Okay,” Chota said, hands on his hips, sweat beading on his forehead, “I told you giving it laser eyes was a bad idea.”

Tatta, grinning like a kid on a sugar high, adjusted his baseball cap and waved a soldering iron like a wand. “They weren’t real lasers, babe. They were just LEDs. Probably. Maybe.”

Chota, in his blue polo and khaki pants that screamed I work in IT and never signed up for this, glared at him. “It set the curtain on fire, Tatta.”

Tatta winced, glancing at the singed window drapes. “Okay, yeah, that was unfortunate. But! We’re learning!”

Chota pinched the bridge of his nose. “Learning how to destroy our deposit.”

Their grand plan had seemed romantic at first—Tatta came home one evening, sun-kissed and smudged with grease, and announced:” “Let’s build a robot together.” He said it with that bright, passionate energy that made Chota’s heart skip every time, and before he knew it, they were knee-deep in YouTube tutorials, wiring kits, and arguments over whose fault it was the thing kept flailing its arms like it was dancing.

“Well,” Tatta said, nudging the robot gently, “at least it can wave.”

The robot, as if on cue, sparked and made a whrrr noise before tipping forward and face-planting into the floor.

“Great,” Chota muttered. “It’s got the same balance as you after two beers.”

Tatta laughed and wrapped an arm around Chota’s waist, tugging him close. “Admit it. You had fun.”

Chota looked at the wires. The smoke-stained curtain. The robot’s blinking red “error” light.

He sighed. “…Yeah, okay. It was kinda fun.”

Tatta grinned, kissed the side of his face. “Next time: rocket legs.”

Chota pulled away just enough to look him in the eye. “I’m not going back to the ER with you again.”

“No promises.”

They both laughed, surrounded by sparks, chaos, and the slow-burning scent of melted plastic—but somehow, it still felt like a win.