carnation pamela isley / poison ivy fluff “ carnation — fascination, love and distinction. ”
this is for @poisonnivysgf my pookie bear
━━━━ YOU had no idea how territorial pamela seemed to get out of nowhere. of course, recently delving into a relationship and experiencing her trying to undo years and years of trauma, it was rocky.
regardless of how rocky or hard it was, you loved pamela, and she loved you—even if she had an odd way of showing it—and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
loving pamela meant loving plants, and isolation (not in a bad way, just being quieter and paying attention to the energy of the plants). for her it meant changing her ways, being a different person.
but it was a change she made willingly and happily.
you’d taken it upon yourself to pick up a book about the language of flowers. even if pamela never used it seriously, maybe you could.
so, when you woke up to the bed spot beside you empty, a frown crossed your face. but you could hear her, through the vines that inched across every square inch of your—now—shared house.
it never bothered you.
she was in the living room, curled into the couch with a book in hand and flowers sprouting from her hands subconsciously.
the domesticity of it made you sick with love. you smiled tiredly as you rose from the bed, making your way to where she sat without having to think much about it.
“morning, love.” you greeted her, sinking into the couch beside her, letting your head hit her lap as she moved her book, raising her hand from her leg to run through your hair. it almost put you back to bed.
almost.
“i’m hungry.” she hummed, grinning down at you. she did this often, a grin on her face whenever she did. you scrunched your face playfully, before rising up and moving to the kitchen.
from where the stove was, you could see pamela cooing to her plants, gently cupping the leaves and vines and talking to them quietly. your heart felt more and more content as the seconds passed.
you liked the adjustment that had been made—nearly every day was spent like this; aimless loitering around her apartment as plans for the day rose into the air, lazy cuddles and kisses shared as the clock ticked further and further into the day.
“do we have plans today, pam?” you called out, a grin hiding on your face. you knew the answer—no. no plans whatsoever. they never had any until last minute.
it was discovered by then that it worked better that way. no plans, no ideas, just instinct and sudden remembrance.
“nope.” she replied, gently removing her hand from under a leaf. “do you have something you want to do?” she asked, stepped into the warm kitchen and standing behind you, using her vines to pull you flush against her.
“mmm…” you pretended to think, “no. obviously not.” a laugh left both of you.
hey Tumblr mooties !!! i wrote this story for class earlier this year, but I like it a lot. do you think that I should rewrite it to be longer ?
A BUG IN THE 70'S
"The Lodge, as we called it, was packed with sleeping kids as I got ready to meet Cara at Ciela’s Coffee. There were toddlers in cots to almost-twenty year olds in sleeping bags that were too small. I tried not to dwell on it as I walked down the block to meet Cara. All of The Lodge kids liked Ciela’s Coffee. Ciela Curtis had been one of us, years ago, so we tended to get a free table for breakfast. I let out a breath as I saw Cara sitting at our usual spot in the back. The place was sort of rundown, but in a home-y type of way. The dark red vinyl was peeling off the benches, and the place smelled like Cherry Coke and faint cigarette smoke. I slid into the bench, which was facing Cara. We all called her Caramel because of her infamous order here. They’re called “Caramel Apple Crumble Cakes”. It’s a stack of just-right fluffy pancakes with crumbled up pieces of caramel apple on top. She’s been ordering them since our first visit here. I personally didn’t care for them, though.
“Hey, Vi!” Cara said as I sat down. She was already eating, and my favorite black coffee was on the table in a mug.
“Hey Cara.” I responded, picking up the mug and taking a sip. Perfectly bitter, just the way I liked it. We talked for a while, as we usually do, about everything under the sun and finishing up our food.
We eventually started walking to Cara’s workplace. It was a small auto shop called “Oilline Auto”. It had a garage in the back, and broken windows. None of us really minded, though. Growing up on the streets just makes broken items like windows invisible to you. It was honestly more of a shocker if a window was fully intact on this side of the city. Her boss was this forty-something named Randy Newman. He was pretty built, with dirty blonde hair and dark eyes. He had inherited the shop from his dad, apparently. I liked Randy, he gave me free Pepsi and gummy worms from the vending machine when I visited with Cara. She wandered to the garage in the back of the shop, which was crowded with old cars that needed some form of a fix-up. She pulled a dirty old sheet off of a car near the back corner, and I gasped. It was a Malachite colored Volkswagen Beetle, and, with the way the model looked, I estimated it was from the 1970’s.
“Ya like it?” Cara remarked, a giant grin on her face. I couldn’t do anything except nod, a matching smile gracing my lips.
“That is so sick…” I muttered in awe. After her shift, around maybe nine, she woke me up, pulling me from the lumpy, old mattress we shared in our corner of The Lodge since there weren’t enough for us to have our own.
I could barely hear her excited ramblings, as I was still half-asleep, till the cold, albeit heavily smoggy air of nighttime New York hit my face. The same Beetle from earlier was sitting in the parking lot next to a few more modern cars. The off-white vinyl seats were in prime condition and so much softer than the mattress that I practically sunk into the passenger seat.
“Where are we goin’...?” I muttered drowsily as she climbed into the driver’s seat. She looked real pretty in the streetlight. All my tiredness was lost as she shot right out of the parking lot, feeling like the car was going at the speed of light. Everything was rushing past us, yet…the buildings were changing. Some of the more recent ones were just straight-up disappearing right before our eyes.
“Cara…?!” My voice was rising, my hands gripping the doors for dear life.
“I don’t think we’re at home anymore, Vi…” Cara breathed out, stopping the car.
I stepped out of the Beetle, dazed. Everything just looked plain wrong. There were too many vintage cars parked on the side of the building, most of the buildings had either disappeared or changed, and everyone looked different. There were girls in stripes, and most boys were in bellbottoms and leather jackets. I suddenly felt out of place with my unwashed hair and “The Outsiders” shirt, which had holes in it. My jeans were frayed and covered in dirt too. Everything looked like a bad sitcom here. I looked at Cara, who was also looking around. I grabbed her hand gently, running my thumb over her nails. We went up to a girl who looked to be our age, in a pinstripe jumpsuit and big hair.
“Excuse me, miss, but what year is it?” Cara asked in her “polite” voice, aka the one she always used to make her not sound like an orphan.
“Why, doll, it’s 1970!” The perky woman replied. We said our thanks, trying to hide the panic in our voices. We were about to head back to where we parked the Beetle, until we heard squeaking from a nearby alleyway, three girls leaving it. They looked vicious, in matching dirty dresses and greasy hair. Cara exchanged a glance with me, and we immediately started running, my dirty converse slapping the concrete. We shoved past the girls, earning a scoff from a blonde one in a dark red dress covered in dirt.
When we slowed down, we noticed somebody in the corner of the alley. They were skinny, almost malnourished, with short ginger hair, and wearing a leather jacket. They were curled up in a ball, their head buried in their knees. From what I could tell, their knuckles were covered in blood and looked raw. There was a small silver switchblade next to them, which was also covered in blood at the tip. I approached them quietly.
“You okay?” I whispered, kneeling at their side. They flinched, their hands balling up into fists almost on instinct.
“Please don’t hurt me…” They muttered, in a small shaky voice. Me and Cara shared another look.
“We won’t, I promise. Now let’s get you cleaned up, mkay?” Cara said in a gentle voice. We helped the kid up to stand, their legs wobbling. They told us their name was Skit as we helped them clean up. After Me and Cara helped them clean up, they led us to a place tucked behind two shops on a busy streetside. It was an abandoned clothing factory. The label of it was fading, and it smelled like mud. All of the machinery was nowhere to be seen. The flooring was linoleum and the walls were wood. All that was on the floor was a dirty twin size mattress that was covered by a raggedy blanket and a torn copy of “The Great Gatsby”, which was lying next to it.
“Welcome to my hideout…” Skit said, plopping down onto the worn mattress and picking at the scar that I had noticed slashed across their hand. They ended up letting us sleep on the floor for as long as we needed, though the hardness of the linoleum wasn’t as comforting as my mattress was back home.
I was sleeping soundly until, around midnight, I heard the sound of glass breaking and a short scream. I jolted up. Those three girls from earlier were back, and currently holding a knife to Skit’s throat, making them squirm not to scream. I saw red almost immediately. Nobody messed with our friends, definitely not like that. So I punched the one with the knife. As soon as I did, they screamed and scattered, dropping the small silver pocket knife in the process. Skit practically collapsed into my arms, burying their head in my shoulder.
“Thank you…” Skit muttered, their voice breaking. I just shushed them and ruffled their hair. They walked back to their mattress, and I returned to my spot on the floor.
The days came and went, since we decided to stay in the 70’s for a while longer than we probably should’ve. One day, in the middle of October, we managed to find Skit a home. It was this single father named Bill, who ran a little shop called “Oilline Auto”. It didn’t take me long to realize that his seventeen year old son was Randy. Me and Cara hopped back into the Beetle.
“That was fun. I think I’ll miss that kid.” I said to Cara, who nodded, watching the buildings shift back to normal. We parked, and the same, familiar smoggy air hit my face as I stepped out of the car. Back home at last. I grabbed Cara’s hand, stepping back into The Lodge. As I looked at the founder, I made a connection. It was that same bright ginger hair."
Ive been wanting head SOOO bad recently its like actually eating at me like i want someone to eat me out hairy pussy and all drool drool especially squeezing their head with my thick thighs when i get realllllll close
It had been a whole year almost to the day since you realised you’d lost him. You remember that better than any of the rest of that summer; one night you’d been cuddled up in bed with the guy who’d been chasing you for months, hours before he’d explicitly told you how he felt about you. With Beach House’s Space Song softly playing on loop in the background you’d never felt so safe. Your best friend came back into the room from wishing her parents goodnight, smiling at the two of you proudly. “About time!” she’d laughed earlier when she’d first seen you, boasting that she was the reason you’d met in the first place. She didn’t bat an eyelid as he moved closer to you, the three of you chatting quietly on the evening of her birthday. It had been a wonderful day, and with a busier one planned for the following 24 hours, you were more than happy to drift off to sleep in his arms. You trusted him, and meeting the two of them back in town the following afternoon was something you’d looked forward to whilst running your errands in the morning. But when you walked into the coffee shop and saw them together, her legs over his looking closer than you’d ever been with him, the trust started to falter. The words that came out of her mouth in the minutes to follow weren’t anything you could’ve predicted the night before, but now you were here you cursed at your past self for being so naive. “We’re getting together!”
They’d long broken up now, messy cheating on both parts, but even the height of their conflict had now passed. Another summer, nearly her birthday again. The two of you were sat in the brand new jacuzzi in her garden, her favourite alt rock blasting from a speaker as you sipped lemonade and laughed together. The last summer before she left for college and you had to figure out what to make of yourself; for two girls who’d grown up in the small town together, it felt like more of an end than it probably was.
“I’ve got something for you upstairs by the way,” she’d told you, “A purple sweater. It still smells like my ex but I don’t want to get rid of it. I really like the colour.” She was a talker but you loved it. “I was hoping you could take it while I’m away?”
She’d left a month ago, the chill of autumn setting in with the chills of missing her. Messaging and facetime wasn’t the same as beach trips after dark. But there was something inside you that came alive as you pulled the heather-purple sweater over your head, the fabric now smelling of your favourite perfume (you sprayed a little more on just to make sure there was no hint of ‘ex’ left each time you wore it). Sitting in its warmth reminded you of the past two years every time. It reminded you of the fact you’d won. Christmas wasn’t so far off. You’d be reunited then.
