rosewaterandivy

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Lily Seika Jones aka Rivulet Paper (American, b. 1989, San Antonio, TX, USA, based Seattle, WA, USA) - Tea Drinking Cat, Paintings: Watercolor

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how it feels to not gives a fuck or shit

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PEDRO PASCAL photographed by Paul Mescal

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do you think about vampires. have you thought about vampires. will you think about vampires. when will you think about vampires

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girls night!!

(close up under the cut)

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steve teaching robin his evil white boy ways is very important to me. he's boosting her up into a girl's window. she's wearing backwards baseball caps and popped collars and sunglasses inside. sitting on the roof in lawn chairs. throwing random stuff off high places.

the first time she does a keg stand, he cries.

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Listen. You either laugh or you cry. Sometimes, you do both - but you still have to be able to laugh. It is essential to survival.

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SIN CITY (2005) dir. Robert Rodriguez, Frank Miller

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well… *pushes up glasses* i’m something of a fucking idiot myself 😏

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Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice…. Part one.

Excerpts from the journal of Steve Harrington's oldest daughter.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Just start writing.

There’s too much to say, with no way to completely purge it out.  So we’ll just start here.

It’s a Wednesday. It’s Autumn.

I’m still in my late twenties.

I still live at home with my parents. I didn’t always, though.

I was on the right path.

Well, according to the societal norms that normal young adults should adhere to.

Normal; how I’ve grown to hate that word.

I was a normal kid who had a normal education.

I went to a normal university, I lived a normal college life.

I had a normal dating life, a normal job, and a normal apartment with normal roommates.

Normal, normal, normal…. Normal? Me?

I’ve always felt everything but.

Too many thoughts in my head, too many cavities. Too many stomachaches. Too many headaches. Too many sleepless nights where I cry and question,

“What’s happening to me?”  

I want to blame the 2020 pandemic; that’s been a solid excuse.

Before, I used to leave the house every weekend with friends to drink and eat.

But mostly drink.

Now? Even the thought of staying out past my bedtime makes me uncomfortable. 

It’s not like I’m even doing anything productive.

Dad leaves for work at the same time he always has these past twenty-something years. 

I can smell the coffee he makes for mom before the garage door beneath my room gently rumbles me awake.

Mom’s usually in her office talking with a long-distance client in the morning.  She’ll blow a kiss before I kill off the rest of Dad’s coffee.

She actually, only recently, started doing that since I moved back home.

And only recently have I started to really cherish it.

Enough to make me cry.

I don’t know the why's, what or how it happened, but last month I glanced into her office while she was on the phone with some new female-fronted punk band named after a Japanese film.

She was asking if they would like to make an appearance on my uncle’s podcast.

It took a while for Mom to notice me standing in the doorway, I watched the way her face lit up when she spoke to them

The band is so young. So full of potential. They’ve already accomplished so much, and their oldest member is about my younger brother’s age.

I remember that look.

It’s the look I imagined she made when I told her over the phone that my novel was being published.

I did it.

They knew I always would.

At that moment, as I stood in the doorway, wondering if I should get my coffee and then come back, something just struck a chord in my throat to see that face.

The way that silver streak of hers elegantly flows down her face. The lines around her dark eyes that my sister and brother have, the great big smile lines she’s grown after being with my goofball of a father for thirty years.

She spotted me and her eyes twinkled.

When she blew that kiss, I caught it like a football to the chest.

I just started crying.

After her call she asked if I was okay, and I didn’t know how to answer.

I was speechless.

Mute.

It felt like there was a zipper over my lips and the slider broke off.

Me!

The girl who got in trouble in class because I was talking too much, the girl who was never afraid to raise her voice.

It feels like being a NYT bestselling author is old news.

It was last year’s accomplishment, what’s next? 

Fuck!

I don’t know!

There was never supposed to be a “next” in the story, it was just supposed to be a one-off novel.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to jump that high again.

I’m just… so tired.

I’ve contemplated going back to school.

I’ve picked up numerous hobbies and crafts to cope with the loneliness of womanhood. 

For fuck’s sake, I even started writing sparkly vampire fanfiction again after ten years.

(But that’s between you and me)

I’m glad I get to tell someone at least.

You, someone, this burgundy leather journal with embossed wild roses.

It looks like something I would’ve begged my dad for at Barnes and Noble at the mall, back in the black-skinny jeans day.

He probably already bought me the newest Paramore shirt and we were on our way to meet back with Mom and my siblings for lemonade at Hot Dog on a  Stick.

I can hear him now, after checking out the price tag,

“Maybe put it on your wishlist for  Santa, Monkey,” that mustache of his would smirk.

I was probably fourteen.

I already knew about  Santa

and I know he knew that.

But he still tried to make everything whimsy for Me, Winnie, and Leo. 

I think those were his intentions when I woke up to find this gift on my desk with a letter saying,

“Celeste Bailey Harrington, You are a real writer.

So prove it.

Write anything.

Write about your day, write about love or heartache.

Write about how your old man embarrassed you at the library asking the reference desk if they had a copy of your book.

Just don’t stop writing.

Don’t do it for me or your Mom, Not for your brother or sister,

Do it for yourself.

Love,         Dad.”

On the outside, one might assume my dad is just full of sports analogies and locker room monologues.

While that’s not entirely wrong, I just know him. 

He writes these little notes with heartfelt intentions.

If my dad wasn’t Mr. Harrington, the high school’s beloved history teacher, he probably would have been

S.O. Harrington.

historical-fiction novelist and hermit, somewhere in the Colorado Rockies. 

I’m just glad to call him dad.

A dad who wrote on the back of the letter,

“P.S.

Movie night on Friday. We-”

(He means us three Harringtons, and Uncle Eddie, honorary Harrington)

“-bought tickets for Beetlejuice 2 @ 8 pm. 

P.P.S.

Eddie said Jeff is in town with his kid. They might be joining us. Let's turn on the juice and see what shakes loose.”

There go my macramé plans.

Sincerely,  C.B. Harrington

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The Princess Bride (1987) dir. Rob Reiner

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When I'm liking your vent post just know that I'm kneeling with my sword to offer you support.

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18+ MDNI

who among us hasn’t found themselves in the ol’ needs to be dicked down to sleep quandary?that’s right no one! anyway, despite peacing out earlier in the evening, it’s now going on 2 am and you’ve been tossing and turning all the while.

scattered goodbyes and see you soon’s echo down the hall as the party leaves after yet another successful campaign. hearing eddie lock the door and gather a few plates and cups, you decide to give up the ghost and admit defeat.

it’s time to call in the big guns: eddie laying pipe, for as long as it takes you to pass the fuck out.

he turns from his spot at the sink, hearing your soft footfalls, his lips kicking up in a soft smile. “did we wake you, baby?”

slowly shaking your head, you grab his hand and drag him to bed. his arm snakes around your waist as he noses along the back of your neck.

“mmm, what’s wrong?”

his voice is a soft thing, a faint tsk falls from his lips when you eventually drop his hand in the bedroom.

turning to him, you cross your arms and huff. “can’t sleep,” you supply, rather sulkily. and yeah, you’re verging on bratty territory but you’re tired and have a to-do list a mile long for tomorrow, or today. whatever.

eddie rolls his eyes and steps closer, his hands cupping your face, thumbs grazing the full of your cheeks. “s’that all? need me to take you out of your misery?”

your nod in response is all he needs before you find yourself back in bed, sleep shirt rucked up past your tits, shorts dangling from one leg, as eddie settles against your cunt. with one hand, he brushes along your skin, goosebumps breaking out in his wake. while his opposite arm finds home along your hips, holding you down against the soft sheets.

pulse accelerating, you catch his eye once he has you arranged to his liking. “okay baby,” he says, breath skittering along your inner thighs. “jus’ gotta lay there and take it, hmm? have you fucked out in no time.”

he promises and then has the audacity to wink, the fucker, before his pretty pink mouth descends on you. the first brush of his tongue forced the breath from your lungs, thighs tightening involuntarily.

his laugh brings a flood of warmth to your chest, even though there’s no reason to be embarrassed. his free hand smooths along the curve of your waist and stomach, light touches that ignite like fireworks against your skin.

eddie’s always been a motormouth and that definitely extends to oral as well. he’s loud— low groans that vibrate up your spine, kissing and sucking, licking and fucking his tongue just how you like it.

eventually, his hand finds your clit rubbing in slow, lazy circles— nose bumping against it occasionally. wet, spit slick sounds join your low whines and mewls as you writhe against the sheets. and while that’s all well and good, it’s not the sign he’s looking for.

it’s only when your hips begin to buck that he knows it’s time to double down. increasing the pressure on your clit, he sucks harshly and sinks two fingers into your sopping cunt. curling them up in a thrust eliciting a sharp gasp from you.

“how many’ll it be this time?” he slurs out, the low timbre of his voice sending you into shudders. he slows to a lazy thrust, your bucking hips compensating for the reprieve.

“hhhnng,” is all you supply in response before he’s clambering up your torso.

you can hear the squelch of his fingers and your arousal. his palm pressing down against your clit with delicious pressure as he leans over you.

“was somethin’ like two or three last time.”

god. it’d be a miracle if you could simply fucking come, much less wager how many orgasms eddie could wring from you.

and you must make some sound of discontent to elicit his soft, “aw, doin’ so good for me baby,” before slotting his lips against yours.

your mouth falls open at the musky taste of arousal on his tongue. a low moan echoing in the warmly lit room. the kiss growing sloppy along with the noises from you clenching against his fingers.

though the pressure of your orgasm builds delightfully from his ministrations, it’s just not enough to push you over the edge. hearing your whine, eddie pulls back, your lips parting with a wet click.

“c’mon honey,” he soothes, damp fingers slipping from you to maneuver you onto your stomach. face down, ass up, he rucks down his sweats and spits into his palm before giving himself a few strokes.

the bratty part of you is pissed because you can’t see what he’s doing, but you can hear it— your walls clenching against nothing. face settling against the pillows, you turn your head to the side, cheek brushing the cool fabric.

he spies you from the corner of his eye, a soft smile overtaking his face. you’re getting impatient and tired, he can tell. a telltale sign that everything is going according to plan. you’ll be out like a light in no time, he’s sure of it.

his head falls back as he thrusts in, pausing briefly for you to adjust before he bottoms out. the air leaves your lungs accompanied by a breathy moan as eddie pulls out, running his dick along the seam of your cunt.

“eddie,” you pant, thrusting your hips back impatiently.

taking pity, he slowly works his way back in with a sigh. “be good baby,” he warns, hand curving around your hip to pull you flush against him.

exhausted, you allow yourself to be rocked back and forth against him, his hands anchored at your hips and dick seated from root to tip.

and that’s the ticket— being so full of him that you’re fit to burst. couldn’t escape even if you wanted to. his hips piston against the fat of your ass and thighs, the sound of skin on skin filling the air, occasionally accompanied by the mewls that would tumble from your mouth or low pitched groans and curses that would fall from his.

eventually, eddie would grow just as impatient as you and pull you up— back bowed in an impressive curve as he buried a hand in your hair, turning your head just so to capture your open, panting mouth. a hand falling from your hip to circle your neglected clit, applying the right amount of pressure to send you reeling.

with his sweat slick skin against yours, arousal coating your thighs, walls hugging his cock, you’d break open. the pleasure swooping low in your stomach and careening clear over the precipice of desire. it wrests a strangled moan from eddie as you clench down against him, his slick fingers working over your clit, as you come apart beneath him.

he follows not long after, a hand pressing your closer to his chest as his fingers cradle your throat, neck turned impossibly to latch your lips to his in a blistering kiss as he comes. a few more thrusts, more form momentum than anything, and eddie is easing himself out and laying you down on the bed.

the sheets are damp but neither of you can be fucked to care, not when you’ve finally gotten what you were after, the promise of sweet oblivion brought about by some good dick. your face hits the pillow and before he can kiss you goodnight, you are down for the count.

TLDR: eddie’s dick so good we should be calling him NyQuil.

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Oh baby, absolutely CORRECT!

Currently being raw dogged by a head cold, you know what that means 🤙🏻

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THE LOVE WITCH 2016 — dir. Anna Biller

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In the club saying shit like "frankly" and "in all honesty"

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"I wanted to forget him, and yet it seemed I thought of him always. It was as if the empty nights were made for thinking of him. And sometimes I found myself so vividly aware of him it was as if he had only just left the room and the ring of his voice were still there." - Interview with the Vampire, 1976 Interview with the Vampire (2022) | Season 1 - Season 2