crazy4coco-puff

[crazy4coco-puff]

finest shyt ☝️

[crazy4coco-puff]

“We need more male characters showing fear and being scared with realistic human reactions”

You couldn’t even handle him

[crazy4coco-puff]

Love them to death ᰔᩚ

[crazy4coco-puff]

Welcome to the (Un)Official Squid Game Awards!!

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There will be two different voting periods. One will be for things like the characters/games/and actors of the show (calling it the show voting). The second will be for voting tumblr users (user voting).

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Categories for the Show voting:

-Best character in season 1

-Best character in season 2

-Best character in season 3

-Worst character in season 1

-Worst character in season 2

-Worst character in season 3

-Best game

-Worst game

-Actor who did the best job portraying their character

-Character who least deserved to die

-Character who should've died but didn't

-Character who was screwed up the most in season 3

《 Taking category recommendations 》

《 nomination open now! 》

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Categories for the User voting:

-biggest inhun shipper

-biggest sangihun shipper

-biggest thangyu shipper

-biggest daehee (dae-ho × jun-hee) shipper

-biggest Junofficer shipper

-best squid game fanfic writer

-best squid game artist

-biggest Hwang In-ho defender

-biggest Kang Dae-ho defender

-biggest Sang-woo defender

-biggest Masked Officer defender

-biggest Seong Gi-hun lover

-biggest Hyun-Ju lover

-biggest Nam-gyu lover

-biggest Thanos lover

-biggest Hwang Jun-ho lover

-biggest Hwang Brothers fan

《 taking category recommendations 》

《 a user can be nominated for up to 3 categories 》

《 you can nominate and vote for yourself! 》

《 nomination open now! 》

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How nominating will work!! (For Show voting)

You can send an ask (anonymous or not) with the name of the character/game/actor you want to nominate, then when it's time to vote they'll be put into a poll.

Once nominated, a second nomination is not possible, there will a separate post will who's already nominated for each category so you can know.

— ●▲■ —

How nominating will work!! (For User voting)

Send an ask (anonymous or not) with the user you want to nominate and what categories you want to nominate them for (up to 3 categories)

Once nominated, a second nomination is not possible, there will a separate post will who's already nominated for each category so you can know.

User voting nominations

— ●▲■ —

Ask box will be open for questions too if you have any!

[crazy4coco-puff]

I get better when instead of thinking—

Junho’s character in s2-3 is useless. He was so slow, his entire team got killed before he reached the island.

I rephrase it and think—

Inho all throughout seasons 1-3 really did everything—not matter what cost— to keep Junho safe and away from the island.

[crazy4coco-puff]

𝑽𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂 𝑫𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔

CHO SANG-WOO x reader

𐙚Chapter: 3

𐙚Tags: Age difference (reader is in early 20s/19), slow burn, codependency.

𐙚Note: lemme know if yall liked this chapter! Also idk if I mentioned this but the reader is supposed to be a bit of a loser:D

You rolled onto your side, dragging the thin covers over your head.

God—

Hadn’t you told the girls not to turn on the lights this early? You grumbled under your breath, shifting uncomfortably on the stiff mattress.

A muffled, incoherent complaint escaped you. Something between a growl and a whine. You were seconds away from yelling “turn it off” when you finally peeled the blanket away—

And froze.

This wasn’t your dorm.

And these certainly weren’t your clothes.

Your breath hitched as your eyes darted around. Rows and rows of metal bunk beds stretched into the distance, each one occupied. Everyone looked just as dazed and lost as you felt.

The walls were concrete and the air smelled faintly sterile.

You sat up slowly, careful not to smack your head on the bunk above.

Your legs trembled slightly as you swung them over the edge and slid to the floor.

Scratchy teal fabric clung to your skin. A tracksuit. Cheap, synthetic. A white patch was stitched to the chest with a number you didn’t recognize.

You blinked down at it.

014.

Nothing made sense.

The last thing you remembered was the van and the strange masked man.

Looking around, you figured someone else had to know more than you did.

You spotted a girl sitting a few bunks down, staring blankly into space.

“Um… excuse me?” you tried.

She turned her head slowly. “What?”

You blinked at her, thrown off by how annoyed she looked.

“Where are we?” you mumbled.

She blinked. Then shrugged

Everyone looked just as lost as you felt. That didn’t make you feel any better.

Still, you figured someone had to know something—so you made it your mission to ask around.

You barely got a few words out to a man sitting near one of the bunks before the shouting started.

A commotion broke out across the room—sharp voices, rising panic. You stood on your toes, trying to see over the crowd, but there were too many people in the way.

Then your eyes caught something on the far wall.

456 players.

It was written in bold block numbers above the exit.

The yelling didn’t last long. A few people were still muttering angrily when the first figure appeared.

Your breath caught.

Same uniform. Same mask.

Exactly like the man from the car.

A wave of questions rippled through the room—loud, messy, anxious.

You couldn't blame them. Who would take a bunch of masked weirdos seriously, especially when they claimed they were here to give out money?

You hovered near the back, arms crossed over your chest, lips pressed into a thin line.

This had to be some kind of scam. Some reality show. A cult. Something.

Then the videos started.

Huge screens flickered to life above the dorm, static cracking before footage rolled—of them.

Player after player.

One by one, the players who shouted the loudest had their details laid bare.

You watched as one man began shouting at the guards—only to be immediately silenced when they listed his full name, address, and the exact amount he owed down to the won.

Your stomach twisted.

Then, to your own surprise, untwisted.

Oh.

You weren’t the worst one here. Not even close.

A soft, pathetic wave of superiority rose in your chest. You weren’t a total idiot. Just a little one.

Sure, you were around 200 million won in debt, but that was basically normal in your industry. The bulk of it came from your pre-debut training—years of housing, food, stylists, dance instructors, all now conveniently billed to you.

Still… compared to some of these people? You felt practically rich.

You were mid-spiral when someone nudged your shoulder.

“Hey,” the girl beside you whispered, jerking her chin forward. “Everyone’s lining up.”

You mumbled a thank you and shuffled toward the end.

You stood at the back, rocking on your heels, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever it was people were signing.

That’s when the woman behind you spoke.

“How much debt you in?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

You glanced back. She looked older, maybe in her fifties. Tired expression.

“Uh… 200 million,” you muttered.

Her eyebrows lifted. Not in surprise—more like offense.

She gave a small scoff. “I’m in for a billion.”

Your lips parted slightly.

Oh.

You awkwardly placed a hand on her shoulder. Tentative. Like you were offering comfort—but mostly, you didn’t know what else to do.

“Huh,” you said softly, blinking.

The line inched forward, one slow shuffle at a time.

You leaned a little to the side, trying to see over the shoulder of the man in front of you. He hadn’t moved in nearly a full minute—just stood there, hunched over the paper, scanning it.

You fidgeted.

His form was crisp. Neat.

"Uh… make sure you reread it, sir,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He turned.

His expression was unreadable, flat. Eyes dark. Sharp.

“…What?”

Your mouth opened and closed once.

“I just meant—sometimes they sneak stuff into contracts. You should probably, y’know… check twice.”

The man blinked. Gave you a look through his glasses. Not angry, exactly. Just…irritated.

Then, without a word, he turned back and signed.

You stared at the back of his head.

Wow. Cool. Hope you get scammed.

You stepped forward as he moved off, jaw tight.

Maybe you’d overstepped.

You should’ve kept your mouth shut.

But after everything with your agency contract—and the unpaid hours, and the debt, you weren’t exactly in the mood to trust men in suits.

You picked up your own form.

It felt heavier than it looked.

The text blurred slightly as you read it. The room was too quiet now, filled with soft pen scrapes and the hum of the overhead lights.

You read every line—twice, then again. The paper crinkled beneath your grip as you traced the clauses. You didn’t understand half of it, but you were not getting scammed again. Not like your company contract. Not like last time.

“In the contract, it says we’ll be eliminated… If that happens, do we get sent back home?” you asked, voice quieter than intended.

The guard didn’t reply.

Just stared straight ahead like you hadn’t spoken at all.

You shifted on your feet, uncomfortable. “I said—”

Still nothing.

You let out a quiet, annoyed exhale, then bent over the table and scrawled your name at the bottom of the form. Slowly. Pressing hard.

Soon after, they began lining everyone up again.

It reminded you of sheep, the guards were the shepherds and the players were the animals being herded.

The walk toward the first game began in eerie silence, single-file, shoes echoing against painted floors as you were herded through what looked like… a dollhouse.

Staircases in bright shades of pink which twisted up and down and sideways, going nowhere and everywhere at once. The whole thing made your stomach twist a little.

You tugged lightly at the hem of the jacket, fidgeting.

You were just starting to space out again when a voice piped up behind you.

“Wait… are you that girl from the Mnet stage?”.

You turned fast, blinking.

“The one who tripped—on her face!”

You froze. So did your heart.

The girl lit up. “It is you! Oh my god, I’m a huge fan. I bought your latest album—Candy Hearts—my bias is—”

“Is it me?” you asked quickly, eyes wide, voice a little too eager. “Am I your bias?”

You didn’t get recognized often. And when you did, it was usually for something humiliating you did.

But still—your chest fluttered. You couldn’t help it.

The girl paused. “Oh, uh… actually I really like—”

Before she could finish, it was your turn.

Pushing your hair out of your face, you stepped onto the mark, forcing a smile for the camera—wide and painfully bright.

[crazy4coco-puff]

- you’re beautiful too, unnie.

[crazy4coco-puff]

Hello! This is my masterlist/ about me

SQUID GAMES

CHO SANG-WOO

-> Vanilla Dreams (long fic)

-> more coming soon (you can request fic ideas or one shots)

Other characters:

Nothing yet, but feel free to request anything you'd like.

A little bit about me!

Hi! I'm coco, and I only write for asoiaf, squid game at the moment! (will write for other randoms soon)

I'm pretty new to writing so my work won't be perfect.

I'm really into music, I like the mamas and the papas aswell as The Stranglers :D

Credit for the dividers : anitalenia

[crazy4coco-puff]

𝑽𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂 𝑫𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔

CHO SANG-WOO x reader

𐙚Chapter: 2

𐙚Tags: Age difference (reader is in early 20s), slow burn, codependency.

"Do you want the egg—?"

Nayeon’s voice stirred you from half-sleep, soft and hoarse from early morning.

Your head lifted an inch from the table. A yawn slipped out before you could answer.

“Huh? No. You have it.”

You let your head fall back down with a dull thud, cheek pressed against the cool wood of the table. The light overhead flickered faintly, buzzing like a fly stuck in glass.

The dorm kitchen smelled faintly of burnt rice and someone’s cheap floral shampoo. Plastic trays scraped against laminate. A spoon clinked against a chipped bowl.

You cracked one eye open.

In the corner, your manager stood stiff, arms crossed, jaw tight. He was going off on one of the older girls—something about dating rumors after the group’s last music show.

She just stood there, eyes cast down, nodding silently.

His voice grew louder. Words coming out jumbled—“irresponsible,” “image,” “you think this is a joke?”

Your eyelids fluttered, but you couldn’t quite tune him out. The sharpness of his tone cut through the fog in your head.

You shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable on the hard bench. Every inch of you ached from yesterday’s practice.

Eventually, you pulled yourself upright from the dining table, your cheek still red from where it had been pressed against the wood. You slipped into whatever was clean—or at least passable. A stretched-out hoodie with a faint mildew smell, leggings thinning at the knees.

If this really was going to be your last comeback, you figured you might as well practice.

There was a music show scheduled in a few days—one last performance, maybe. That thought hovered in the back of your head as you finally sat down after hours of dancing, yelling, rewinding, redoing.

Your muscles trembled with every breath. Your instructor had screamed so much his voice cracked. You stopped counting the number of times someone snapped at you to "focus!" or "lift your chin!" or "actually try this time."

The day dragged by in a haze of repetition—same mirrors, same beat, same sour stench of sweat-soaked floors.

By nightfall, the dorm had changed rhythm. A few of the girls were already dressed to go drinking—hair brushed out, heels clacking on the tile. One of them asked if you were coming. You wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

But debt hung around your neck like a leash. The cost of a few drinks was enough to keep the lights on at your parents’ place for another week.

So you made some excuse. Said you were tired. Which wasn’t a lie.

Instead, you wandered. Cheap therapy, you told yourself.

The streets of Seoul were still buzzing. Neon signs buzzed and flickered over storefronts, and somewhere nearby, the warm crackle of fish cakes being grilled drifted through the alleyways.

You told yourself it was a perfect night. Cheap. Peaceful. Soul-cleansing, even.

You ignored the tight coil of dread twisting in your stomach. The truth was hard to outrun: if the group disbanded—if the company went under—what then? Join another agency? Hope for a solo debut? Try acting?

Get a real job?

That last thought hit like a bruise. You hadn’t lived a normal life since you were fifteen. You’d dropped out. Bet everything on a dream and signed your future away with a glittery pen on company letterhead.

You hummed softly as you walked down a narrow alley, hands buried deep in your pockets, hoodie pulled up against the breeze.

A sudden rustle made you stop short.

A small litter of kittens played in the path ahead—scuffed, orange little things tumbling over each other in a pile of crushed soda cans and damp cardboard.

You crouched instinctively, smiling for the first time all day. One of them let you scratch under its chin.

Its purr vibrated against your fingers.

For a moment, your world felt at peace again.

The kitten had already lost interest in your affection—wandering off to tackle a bottle cap—when the sound of someone yelling broke your moment of peace.

“…No, you listen to me. I didn’t ask for the interest rate to magically triple overnight—yeah, well, I’m not the one who moved it out of the damn account—”

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts.

A man stood about twenty feet away, back turned, dressed too well for this part of the city. He was pacing as he talked, sharp in his movements. One hand holding a phone, the other pressed hard against his temple.

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop—it was just that his voice was loud, and the alley echoed.

At the end of the mirey path, a green flicker caught your eye.

A convenience store.

The lights inside buzzed sickly yellow. The windows were fogged with condensation and streaked with grime, but the promise of sugar and processed salt lured you in like a moth to corporate rot.

You checked your pocket—barely enough to buy anything—but you’d been so good today. Trained for hours. Skipped out on drinking. You’d even eaten most of that grey porridge this morning.

Surely a small snack wouldn't kill you.

The store smelled like instant noodles and mop water. You grabbed a cheap choco pie from the rack and stood in front of the counter with your last few coins, feeling kind of accomplished.

“Will that be all?” the cashier asked without looking up.

Before you could answer, your eyes landed on the wallet sitting near the register. Black leather. Bulky.

You tilted your head. “Um… someone left their wallet here?”

The cashier finally looked up, squinting over the register. “Oh. Yeah. Guy outside. He’s smoking, I think. Mind giving it to him?”

You hesitated. “Sure. Of course. I mean… yeah. Totally.”

He rang up the snack and pushed the wallet toward you without another word.

The leather was smooth. Heavy. Expensive.

You glanced toward the door.

Then back down at the wallet.

“…Just a little,” you muttered, slipping it open.

Inside, a neat stack of bills.

You pulled out just one. Then another. Then a third for good measure. Not a lot. Just enough for a cab ride or a proper dinner or a new concealer—one that actually worked.

You shoved the bills into your hoodie pocket and stepped outside, snack in one hand, wallet in the other.

But the guy was already walking away.

“Wait—hey!” you called, jogging after him. “You left this!”

He turned slightly at the sound, just enough for you to catch the edge of his profile. Sharp jaw. Eyes tired. Lips pressed together tightly.

But he looked down at the wallet in your hand, took it slowly.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

He didn’t smile. Just flicked the cigarette away and walked off, the glow of it dying against the pavement.

You stood there for a second, hand in your pockets, fingers brushing stolen cash.

"...You're welcome," you mumbled.

Then shoved the rest of your choco pie in your mouth as you watched his figure slowly disappear.

Your tongue clicked against the roof of your mouth as you stared down the empty street.

What now?

It wasn't like you had anywhere to be. The girls were probably halfway drunk by now, toasting to the freedom of disbandment. You could’ve joined them. You didn’t. Responsible, you told yourself.

Your thumb brushed against something else in your pocket—small, stiff, rectangular.

The card.

You pulled it out slowly

Plain. Cream-colored. The logo in the center barely visible under the flickering streetlight. Just a number. No name.

You stared at it.

Then looked around.

No one.

Your phone was already in your hand before you’d made a real decision. You chewed on your lip. Hovered over the keypad.

Then muttered under your breath, "This is definitely a cult."

And pressed call.

The line clicked. One ring. Two. Three.

[crazy4coco-puff]

[crazy4coco-puff]

Ngl I want sangwoo to mansplain to me

[crazy4coco-puff]

it makes me laugh and pissed off at the same time that now most of the squid game fandom thinks that myungi is hot even though he did a lot of very bad things and that's okay but when season 1 came out and someone dared to think that sangwoo was hot it was unthinkable. (even though sangwoo did all that to survive)

i love hypocrisy

[crazy4coco-puff]

𝑽𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂 𝑫𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔

CHO SANG-WOO x reader

𐙚Chapter: 1

𐙚Tags: Age difference (reader is in early 20s), slow burn, codependency.

𐙚Summary: With debt piling high and no future in sight, your life was unraveling—until you acquired a certain business card. Sangwoo x kpop idol!reader

𐙚Note: hii, this is my first fic ever, I hope you like it :D (eng is not my first language)

The fan hung low and buzzed like a mosquito in your ear. You hated it. Too close. Too loud.

You sat on the top bunk, hunched over your phone, knees tucked to your chest. The familiar scent of stale sweat clung to your blanket as you pulled it over yourself, with one hand the other far too busy scrolling; Your thumb dragged down the screen in steady, tired strokes.

The phone which had been finally returned to you after weeks of being confiscated, cast a pale, cold glow on your face as your thumb scrolled.

A breath slipped out of you—shaky, thin, barely there. It wasn’t quite a sigh. More like something your body gave up without permission.

Your eyes burned. Heavy, half-lidded, fighting to stay open even as sleep clung to the edges of your vision. But your hand didn’t stop. It moved like it belonged to someone else, dragging downward, again and again, through the glow of your phone screen.

The comments blurred together in a smear of text and venom. You caught fragments. Just enough to hurt.

Too much weight.

Lip-syncing again.

Dancing like a broken doll.

You no longer flinched anymore.

They weren’t even wrong though.

And maybe that was the worst part.

You bit the inside of your cheek absently, the taste of iron blooming faint on your tongue as you opened your group’s account.

The latest post was filled with comments.

Not for you.

Praise piled high beneath photos of the other girls—your members.

“She’s glowing lately.”

“Her vocals keep improving!”

“Main dancer for a reason”

You stared at the words like they were foreign.

The jealousy rose slowly, familiar and bitter, like bile catching at the back of your throat. It never screamed—it just lingered, heavy and sour. You’d felt it for over a year now, festering.

Half a decade of training. Wasted. And still you weren’t even close. Not to them.

Some of them had only trained a year—two, at most. They picked up choreo in half the time, looked camera-ready constantly, and hit high notes with the kind of ease you used to dream about.

Envy was the only thing you were ever naturally good at.

Sighing, you kicked the blanket off and leaned over the edge of your bunk, peering down at one of your members—fast asleep, like the rest of them.

God, how did she manage to look flawless while sleeping?

Your hand instinctively went to your face, fingers grazing your jaw. Your skin never looked as good as theirs.

You slipped down from the bed, quiet as you could, and slid your shoes on in the dark.

Outside, the street buzzed with life. Drunk office workers in crumpled suits, college students laughing with arms slung over each other’s shoulders. You envied them both.

The office workers had steady paychecks. Boring, predictable lives—but safe ones.

Years of training didn’t come cheap, and the company expected every won back. You were supposed to start paying them after debut.

But not a single paycheck had ever reached your account.

Sometimes you regret it—dropping out of school, ignoring your parents’ warnings. But there was no use mourning a version of yourself that never got the chance to exist.

The college students laughed louder as you passed them. One of them mentioned another pub, something about a friend joining soon. You wondered what that felt like. To make impulsive plans. To live like time didn’t cost you anything.

Your group was never as big as you’d hoped. The songs charted here and there—just enough to keep you alive, not enough to matter.

The latest album had gained some attention. For its artistry and for your awful vocals.

You stayed lost in thought until the station came into view. It had been weeks—maybe months—since you’d last visited your parents. You kept meaning to. But the company rarely lets you out. Most days were spent either training or rotting in the dorm, waiting for instructions that never came.

The automated voice echoed through the platform as you stepped carefully down the stairs, trying not to bump into anyone.

The train you were supposed to catch had pulled away two minutes before you arrived. Of course it had.

You leaned against a pillar, staring at the timetable like it might change just for you. Another train would come in fifteen minutes.

Your mind wandered. It always did during moments like this—empty, liminal spaces where everything felt suspended. Biting at your thumbnail, watching the station move around you.

It wasn’t crowded this late. A few office workers. A high school couple half-asleep on a bench. A man scrolling on his phone with his back to the tracks.

Still, you stayed cautious. That instinct never really went away.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him.

A man—tall, sharply dressed, clean in a way no one else here was. His steps were slow, deliberate, like he had nowhere urgent to be. But he was walking toward you.

Before he can even speak, you cut in.

“No, I don’t want your church flyer,” you mumble, arms wrapping around yourself as a sudden chill winds up your spine.

He offers a thin-lipped smile. “Miss, it’s nothing of the sort. I only want to play a game.”

Curiosity flickers. You blink up at him. “What game?”

With deliberate care, he flips open the briefcase and lifts out two crisp, colored squares of paper. Your brain clicks: ddakji.

“Pick one.”

Blue feels luckier than red. You take it.

“If you win, 100,000 won,” he explains, voice smooth. “If I win, you pay me the same.”

Your lip caught between your teeth as you nod.

He motions for you to go first. You take a breath and flick—it sails wide, barely grazing the red piece. Your throw was embarrassingly weak.

He leans forward and, with a single practiced flick, sends your tile skittering across the pavement.

Shit.

He straightens, tilting his head. “Well, then—your loss.”

Your heart hammers. ““I didn’t sign anything. I never agreed to pay—” you start.

His smile broadens. “Then how about you pay with your body?”

““Hey! I’m not a prostitute! Do you know who I am? I’m an idol, okay?!”

Your voice cracks, half panicked, rising as you gesture wildly.

Before you can protest further, his hand snaps out—sharp—across your cheek.

You stumble back, wind knocked out, knees wobbling together. Red blossoms on your skint.

He closes the briefcase. “Another round?”

Your hand lifts to your cheek, trembling.

You win the next round.

The blue tile slams down with more force this time, flipping the red one clean off the floor.

You stare, barely breathing. For a second, you don’t even react.

And then, relief. A flood of it. Not joy, ust something stupid and shaky and a little sad. Like proving you're not entirely useless. Finally being good at one thing, even if it’s throwing a piece of paper on the ground.

The man gives a small nod, impressed.

He pulls the crisp bills from his briefcase and holds it out between two fingers.

Your hand hesitates before taking it. The money feels fake in your palm. Clean.

“…That’s it?” you mutter, glancing at him. “No more slapping?”

“No more slapping,” he says, and then—as if on cue—pulls out a small card from his coat pocket. Cream-colored. Simple. Just a number, and a logo. No name.

“What’s this?” You squint at it, suspicious.

“A chance to win more. Much more.”

You stare at the card.

“I don’t even know what this is for.”

“You will. If you call.”

He turns to leave without another word, walking with that same slick, purposeful calm, like he already knows you’re going to follow through.

You look down at the bill in your hand. Then at the card.

Then at the empty subway platform around you.

It’s quiet again. Too quiet.

You pocket both with a sigh, muttering, “Definitely a cult.”

[crazy4coco-puff]

can ppl stop talking about how the squid game fandom is going to die now that s3 is out and the show is over 😭😭 i've already seen a few ppl saying how they're looking for a new fandom to join since "the squid game one is gonna be dead soon" and like......... do you guys know how fandom works? like im not trying to be mean, but...... you guys realize that it's the FANS that keep fandom alive, right? fandoms don't have to die just because the source material is complete.

are you scared of the squid game fandom dying? comment on fics and let authors know that you're still interested in their work- they'll likely keep writing for squid game if they know people are interested in reading their work. reblog art and writing drabbles and edits that people post on here- REBLOGGING stuff is the best way to keep fan content alive and circulating and to give artists/writers/creators motivation to continue creating. engage with other people in the fandom! talk to your mutuals and make fan content and support other people's content and engage in the fan community.

sure, it's inevitable that ppl will lose interest in squid games now that there's no more content to look forward to (american spin off i do NOT claim u.......), but that doesn't mean we have to give up on the fandom before it's gone. fandoms can and do exist for years and years and YEARS after the source material has been completed- so why are we already giving up on squid game less than a week after the show ended?

again, i'm not trying to be rude or condescending or anything like that with this post. it's just a little disheartening to see people talk about how this fandom is going to die and thus leave it "before it becomes dead", when it is so so easy to keep fandom alive by just..... being a part of it!!!! i myself have only been a part of the squid game fandom for a few months, but i absolutely love it here and i am not going anywhere :) comment on fics. comment on art. reblog and share fan content. if you liked someone's work, tell them. fandom is community!