#yes... yes i am...

[spookghoul87]

In the intro post it goes like

"Heyyyyy. Fan favorite ghost Connie here,"

And the full stop is white and it's been stuck in my head PLEASE I BEG OF YOU FIX IT 🙏

Oh my god.

[starrii-galaxii]

Oh, you sweet summer child, you should've seen the other guy

*Points at me yesterday night being up at 5 in the morning and seeing the crack of dawn come through the window*

[physical-manifestation-of-spite]

u know whats fun to think about,,., mob coming down from rage/??? and walking ((oh man would he walk slowly- hesitant and afraid or would he run- desperate and frantic?)) to get to reigen's limp body. he had put up a protective barrier around reigen during his rage to shield him, even tho it couldn't protect what wasn't there anymore. and mob just says "shishou?" in the smallest most broken voice, with the slightest edge of hope still in it. "shishou, please"

You like this, don’t you? Seeing me suffer? A ND YET FUELLING ME????

f-FUUUUCK DUDE

I can just imagine him, all soft and quiet, like he was earlier that day when he finally saw Reigen after the attack on his parents (he says “Shishou” with such assurance, such insistence, like a child finally able to relax in the presence of an adult, who can take the weight off of their tiny shoulders) except Reigen isn’t smiling and cracking a joke, he’s just lying there, one arm draped high above him, tipping over the balcony and just hanging, while the other lies closely against the floor. His hair tosses in the wind made by broken glass. Mob cannot see his face. 

“Shishou?” he murmurs, his tongue like ash against his throat.

He’s just asleep. That’s all. He’s sleeping. He always sleeps when there’s nothing to do. He always sleeps in subways. In cars. He falls asleep on Mob by the time the fifth-minute strikes, a heavy weight against his head but not too heavy, with the soft press of Shishou’s warm suit jacket rubbing against his shoulder. He always smells like nicotine, despite the fact that Mob hasn’t seen him smoke for four years, and cologne and that foreign scent called “aftershave”–he only knows it because his dad uses the same brand, and it always lingers for hours in the bathroom. 

He doesn’t smell like any of those things right now, and he’s reminded of the house, of the burning, of the ash and the heat and the clawing and the sweat and the hand reaching out–

“Shishou?”

His chest is rising and falling. It is. As long as Mob doesn’t move, it’ll keep moving. It’s okay. They were talking just three minutes ago. He’s okay.

It’s quiet in the room, with the rubble crusted on the ground and the red-haired boy behind him, ashen white and shaking, and the quiet, sleeping man resting at Shigeo’s feet. When Mob calls out Reigen’s name in the smallest whisper, forced out of now-swollen throat, it’s the loudest noise there.

.

.

Hey if you wanna… if you wanna like… keep sending me shit… I’m okay with that.