I NEED More Simon Content There’s Literally None Anywhere

Reblog if you've ever cried over the death of a fictional character

Maddie: I’ve accidentally indulged in to much ‘me time’

Maddie: Turns out, I’ve been reported missing for six months and presumed dead by most local and national authorities.

Maddie: .......

Maddie: I hope they make a Buzz Feed about me.

I love that my post with the most notes is a criminal minds incorrect quote that took 5 seconds of thought. 😭 personally I think my buzzfeed unsolved one about Emily was funnier but go off I guess.

Derek: are you the big spoon or the little spoon?

Emily: i'm the knife

Jj: *from across the room* she's the little spoon

Halsey from I Would Leave Me If I Could

Headcanons

Rhonda Rosen x Reader

Warnings: One "innuendo" (the word frisky)

(I broke under the pressure of Bi panic. She needs more love)

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Rhonda will never admit it but she loves to be serenaded. Gentle kisses and sweet whispers of love in private. 

She’s touched starved, badly. If you touch her around others she’ll smack your hand away and give you a death glare, but when it’s just the two of you she wants to be held like a baby. It took a while to get to this point, promising her its okay and that you’re not gonna make fun of her. 

Little dates where you would draw her in charcoal. (She seems so drawable for some reason) “Yeah, it looks nice i guess.” Is the biggest compliment on your art that you’re gonna get. On the inside shes freaking out because out of everything you could draw you chose her. 

Rhonda’s secretly a hopeless romantic. She’s read every cheesy rom-com book she could get her hands on. Speaking of hands, she won’t let you hold hers. Says it's childish but will let you interlock pinkies with her when no ones looking. 

Secret makeout sessions in the teachers lounge when its empty. Won’t let it escalate beyond kissing, that's for special occasions when shes feeling frisky. 

Never, and I mean NEVER steal her hat. She will freak out, it’s what ties her look together. 

Write her little poems and leave them for her, just never read them out loud or let her read them in front of you. If she happens to ‘accidentally’ stumble across one of them you wrote for her she’ll read it, keep it, and never mention it to you. Secretly she learns every word to it and holds it close to her heart. 

Her version of ‘i love you’ is ‘fuck you’. She says it with such grace. 

Baby’s got trust issues and has a hard time leaning on people because the one time she did it landed her a first class ticket to death so it’s gonna take a lot for her to be able to show her soft side. She will never be the type to use sweet pet names or go for romantic late night walks but eventually she’ll open up. Her hearts a very delicate thing so feel honored that she gave it to you no matter how reluctant she was.

Spencer: You're the love of my life, my best friend. I would do anything for you.

Y/n: I want you to eat three meals a day and have a descent sleeping schedule.

Spencer: Absolutely not.

Happy birthday to Milo Manheim and happy last episode of school spirits (i haven't got to watch it yet 😭)

I JUST WANT A SUGAR DADDDDDDDY

INTERVIEW 020. WALLY CLARK murdrtober oct 5th. ghost sex

You've never really believed the ghost stories about Split River, but this encounter definitely gave you a new outlook 800+ words MDNI 18+

You’ve been downplaying it the entire day. There were rumors that Split River was haunted, usually nothing but ghost stories told between kids during lock-ins, followed by dares to venture down dark hallways alone. 

You were instructed to make sure none of that happened at tonight’s lockin. It was supposed to be nothing but fun, with as few freshmen sent home crying as possible. You didn’t know how much authority you would have as just a TA, but you wanted to keep as much credibility as possible. Spewing out accusations of phantom touches to your back wouldn’t have helped your credibility at all. So you kept it to yourself. 

You tried your best to keep your composure, ignoring the feeling of a body behind you, keeping your heels glued to the ground even when you wanted to jump at the feeling of a hand pressed into your lower back. By the end of the night, you felt like you were losing your mind. 

Maybe one of the seniors slipped something in your drink during dinner. Maybe your lack of sufficient sleep was finally catching up to you. Maybe you’ve been secretly predisposed to some sort of mental illness and these are the warning symptoms. 

Or maybe it’s real. 

The possibility is there. Maybe Split River is haunted. Maybe you should’ve chosen another school in another district to be a teacher’s assistant. 

You’re busy trying to hold the remains of your mind together when the feeling intensifies. Your eyes stare straight in the bathroom mirror, the remnants of cold water from a damp paper towel sliding down your face, dripping into the porcelain sink that you’re leaning over. You take deep breaths, trying to clear the thoughts speeding around in your head. And just when you think you’ve gotten it all under control, you feel it. 

The feel of a human hand touches right between your legs, brushing against the skin revealed by your shorts. You swear under your breath, staring down with an expectation to see a hand in that very spot. There’s nothing there, just empty space between your legs. 

“What the fuck?” You’re about to turn around and get out of there, join the others with the belief that there’s safety in numbers. But a strong grip keeps you still by your hips, pushing you right against the counter. 

Your heart thumps in your chest with such ferocity that it hurts. You’re scared you might go into cardiac arrest at this rate, left to become another spirit to wander these halls. You close your eyes, waiting for the moment to come, but the only thing that happens is a hand pressed against your mound from behind. The feeling of fingers reaching into your shorts and pulling your lips apart through the cotton fabric of your panties. Those same fingers press right into your clit, experimentally tweaking the bud a few times. You try to remain shocked, refusing to give voice to a moan bubbling within your belly. But then your panties are pulled to the side and there’s a finger slowly penetrating you, in and out in and out. An arm wrapped around your waist, a chest against your back, one finger that soon becomes two opening you up. 

You feel ashamed as you wantonly gasp into the stale bathroom air. You should be recoiling away from the apparition, running out of this place and leaving completely. Maybe skipping town if you’re really scared enough. You shouldn’t be pushing yourself back into the touch and searching for more. 

It’s a purely human instinct, that’s what you tell yourself. It’s natural to search for the touch that makes you feel good, to want to amplify it, receive more and more until you reach a climax. And after you’ve orgasmed, gasping into the sink as you’re slumped over, trying to catch your breath—it’s natural to want it again. 

You don’t know how long you’re in that bathroom, but you’re there for a while. On your knees with your mouth open, letting the cavern be used by someone you cannot see. You would help if it weren’t anything other than air on your end, but you like it like this. All of the control is out of your hands, leaving you pliant as you sit on your knees, your mouth hung open, your eyes closed as you enjoy the feeling. 

By the time you’re done—or, by the time whoever is done with you—you’re spent, limbs and joints aching in ways they never have before. You want more, but the phantom doesn’t touch you after he’s done, leaving you to stand to your feet and splash water on your face, trying to get rid of the flush that’s taken over your features. 

When you come up for air, you swear you see someone standing behind you, their frame present in the mirror. Taller than you by a longshot, dark hair, a mole under the lips spread into a small smirk. You make eye contact and he grins, but then you blink and he’s gone like he was never there. 

Maybe he wasn’t. But you choose to believe he was. 

Split River was a peculiar school, after all.