it's swallowed me whole

These demons beat me down…
I am bound to this fight
Round after round of brutal honesty twisted through lies
It spews its intentions at me…
Contaminating me with its plague of sadness
Sometimes the darkness swallows me whole and I stare out in search of any shining beacon to guide me home
But in these moments…
Hope does not exist…
I am a faltering speck of nothing
Crushed under these heavy thoughts
Just inflate me with your beautiful lies
I am not a fool
I can see beyond your disguise
Allow me this temporary fix to a heart
Being swallowed by decay
Allow me these moments of denial
Before my life falls apart

ross doesn’t care about the way dan digs the tip of one of his heels into his back as he whines softly at the feeling of ross’s mouth against him.

Keep reading

aggressive slime videos are the worst and the opposite of relaxing . the moment they start going faster than turtles it gets annoying to me. its like when people practically swallow food whole without tasting it and go “yum!” like fuck off we know your tongue didnt so much as process the flavor before it hit your digestive tract

so much for looking forward
to sunrises
each tomorrow
morning haze morning haze morning haze
yet come dawn and time forgets
the longing that’s been settling in the pit of my guts
tears me up instead, swallowing me whole
like a black hole in its own entirety
waiting for everything to suspend
by the edges of the shards
of the glasses i tried
to hurt myself with,
in the salts kept in my pockets
and which i hesitated
to rub on everybody’s wounds
because i know
because i am not immune
of this unshakeable consciousness
that each tomorrow
they are waking up to
is not the same tomorrow
i barely have the face
to live with
morning suns have seen how
i try i try i try
yet it’s still there,
by sunset,
the pit of pining and loneliness
the selfish swallowing of the black hole
being settled
through the purging of bilious air
and words and words and words
070317

Ours (Daryl Dixon imagine)

@itsmrsdangerous requested a part two to gold where the reader gives birth to daryl’s baby during the governor’s 4x08 attack on the prison! i would 100% recommend reading part one first as there are things in this part that won’t make sense unless you’ve read it. also i never thought i’d write a birth imagine it’s kind of a grim idea and hard to make it in character but i’ve tried. another thing: i’m not an expert on the ins and outs of labour so i’m sorry if the timings and biological details are wrong but it’s only an imagine - natasha

imagine: the stress and fear of the governor’s siege on the prison triggers the arrival of your baby, one month too early. you end up with daryl and beth, delivering the baby in the depths of the prison (2167 words)

  It was just another thing we needed to do. Daryl and I gave ourselves a few weeks to comprehend what being pregnant meant for us, the group, the world, and the baby itself. The others had found out prematurely, through a series of events that were woven together by the more perceptive among them: my strategically-worn baggy t-shirts, Daryl snatching from my hand a bottle of beer that I had unwittingly raised to my lips, my frequent mood swings and continued nausea. When we finally worked up the courage to tell everyone — ‘we’ meaning me speaking and Daryl sitting a few feet away avoiding eye contact — most of them claimed to know already. More shocking was the identity of the father, and Daryl left the room angrily when the topic arose, giving everyone an answer to the question that hung heavily in the air.

  After a million more questions and a few hours of sulking from Daryl, things settled into a comfortable lull. The Governor was less of an imminent danger, memories of Lori’s pregnancy meant that everyone felt better prepared for what was happening, and the prison was safe. It was home.

  One night, a few months into my pregnancy, Daryl and I lay together on the bunk that we now shared. There was no need to hide our relationship now that a physical manifestation of it was developing for all to see. On my side, my head on Daryl’s chest and a hand curved around the small swell of my belly, I watched Daryl with sleepy eyes. He blinked slowly, his gaze directed at the slats of the bed above, his mouth very slightly open. The tip of his tongue darted out to moisten his chapped lips. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jumping erratically in his throat.

  “What’re you thinking about?” I murmured.

  Daryl hummed noncommittally, shrugging as much as he could while lying down.

  I turned my head to place light, dry kisses on his collarbone.

  “Has it kicked yet?” Daryl said ever-so-quietly.

  It took me a second to understand what Daryl had asked, as he tried so hard to avoid the subject of the baby. We both did, because we were so scared, although we hadn’t yet addressed those fears.

  “No. I would’ve told you.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  I lay back, draped one of my legs over Daryl’s and closed my eyes, the allure of sleep tempting me. Just as my mind began to submit to the fuzziness of half-consciousness, a warm, rough palm brushed against my stomach. I jolted awake, and my sudden movement scared Daryl’s tentative hand away.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be,” I whispered, reaching for his wrist. I moved his hand back and left my hand resting upon his, holding it in place. Daryl’s gaze flicked nervously between our hands and my hopeful face, and slowly he relaxed. I closed my eyes again, and when I let my hand drop from its position, Daryl’s remained.


  “Rick! Come down here. We need to talk.”

  It was funny in a sickening sort of way how the sun continued to beat down on the prison, even as the light drained slowly from our eyes. The sky was serene — wisps of cloud drifted lazily across an expanse of powder blue that seemed to shimmer with sunbeams.

  Despite the summer’s day, I shivered as I scanned the group of people gathered outside the prison fences. Their guns gripped tightly in their hands, their features cold and dead of emotion. The Governor stood on a tank with his legs shoulder width apart, hands on his hips, head held high: the epitome of threat.

  “It’s not up to me!” Rick shouted. “There’s a council now!” His voice trembled slightly and his breathing fluttered, but he shifted his feet and tried to maintain his composure. “They run this place!”

  “Is Hershel on the council?” the Governor asked, without missing a beat.

  My heart pounded as a woman pulled Hershel out of a car and pushed him down onto his knees. His hands were bound behind his back and he looked solemnly down at the ground. For the first time I could not find hope in Hershel’s kind face. Maggie’s hand raised to cover her mouth, supposedly to stop herself from crying out. Beth made a small noise in her throat, reminding me of an injured animal. I wrapped my hand around her’s and squeezed it, attempting to reassure her as best I could. With the palm of my other hand, I traced gentle circles on my stomach. The baby was kicking more enthusiastically than usual. I must’ve been eight months pregnant by this point; my belly was huge and I prided myself on still being able to judge relative time.

  “What about Michonne?” the governor said proudly, almost smiling. “She on the council too?”

  Michonne was led out of a car too, and put in the same position as Hershel. My hands, and Beth’s too,  were clammy with fear.

  “I don’t make decisions anymore!” Rick yelled, panicking more and more by the second.

  “You’re making the decisions today, Rick. Come down here. Let’s… let’s have that talk.”


  “You good, Y/N?” Daryl muttered from behind me, his breath tickling my ear as he spoke. He pushed the cold metal of a gun into the hand that wasn’t holding Beth’s.

  “I’m — I’m fine, I’m good,” I said breathlessly, unnerved not only because of the scene between Rick and the Governor that was playing out in front of us, but also because of the cramps that were twisting painfully in my abdomen. I’d felt similar cramps before (Hershel had called them ‘Braxton Hicks’ contractions), and although these were more painful than ever, it seemed silly to complain when Hershel and Michonne were knelt on the ground with guns to their heads.

  “Y’sure?” Daryl’s eyebrows knitted together. “Y’don’t have to do this, you could go inside.”

  “I’m fine,” I asserted, tightening my hold on the gun. I wasn’t about to cower inside while my family fought. Besides, if I couldn’t shoot a gun while pregnant, then how would I manage with a baby?

  “Suit yourself,” Daryl said, pushing guns into the shaking hands of Maggie and Beth. Soon enough, all of us were armed and our guns were pointed at the group who had disrupted our home.


  Rick’s attempts to negotiate with the Governor were unsuccessful — when the Governor pulled out a sword and held it to Hershel’s neck, Beth’s grip on my hand tightened almost unbearably. Both her and Maggie cried out, and a prolonged, excruciating pain shot through my abdomen.

  When the Governor began to pull the sword away, I clung to the wire fence and narrowed my eyes, trying to discern exactly what was going on. I could’ve sworn I saw a tiny smile cross Hershel’s lips, and a fraction of the hope I’d always found in his presence returned. Another cramp nearly made me double-up, and I started to realise that something was wrong.

  When the sword swung and buried itself in Hershel’s neck, everything became numb. The endless gunfire, the shouting, the heart-wrenching screams of Maggie and Beth: all of it blurred into an indiscernible roar of sound. I shot my gun a few times, but I was trembling so much that every bullet missed its target. The ever-increasing pain swallowed me whole, and I collapsed against a wall in exhaustion just as I felt the strange and unmistakable sensation of my waters breaking.


  I must have passed out briefly, because the next thing I knew, Beth was shaking me cautiously by the shoulders. “Y/N? Y/N, are you okay? Is the baby okay?”

  “I think …” I mumbled groggily, completely disoriented. “I think it’s c-coming.”

  “Now?” she said as even more alarm flooded her tone.

  “Yeah,” I gasped, clutching my belly. I now saw the overwhelming pain for what it really was: contractions. Contractions that were becoming steadily longer and closer together.

  “Okay. Okay, okay,” Beth repeated. “We can do this,” she said. She sounded incredibly uncertain, which was expected. Lori had died when she tried to give birth, and there was a high chance that the same thing would happen to me. Even in my hazy state, I reassured myself that even if I died, the baby would still have a father. Daryl. Daryl was the father. Where was Daryl?

  “We have to find Daryl,” Beth said while pulling me to my feet, somehow reading my mind.

  We didn’t have to look for long, because within seconds Daryl emerged from around a corner.

  “Daryl!” Beth shouted. “We need to —”

  “We gotta go, Beth. We gotta go,” Daryl said to us urgently, taking out a walker that got a little too close for his liking. He looked me up and down with squinted eyes, taking in my flushed cheeks, Beth’s arm wrapped supportively around my waist, and the liquid that stained my pants. When he saw the latter, his eyes widened and he stepped back a little, reeling at the overwhelming nature of the situation.

  “Are you — what’s goin’ on?” he asked hoarsely. The little confidence that had remained in his voice disappeared, and he was left looking nothing less than a deer caught in the headlights.

  I tried to muster up words, but all my energy was focused on trying not to scream in agony.

  “The baby’s coming, Daryl!” Beth whisper-shouted, not wanting to attract any further attention from the walkers that were ambling towards us from every direction. “We need to get somewhere safe.”

  “Uh. Yeah. Yeah,” Daryl muttered, tearing his eyes away from my stomach and looking determinedly at anything other than me.

  “Should we go back inside the prison?”

  Daryl nodded, his chest rising and falling rapidly. A single bead of perspiration made its way down his forehead.

  “Go, then!” Beth practically shouted, as Daryl was still standing dumbly, his crossbow dangling loosely from his hands.

  When Daryl finally gathered his senses, he spun around and cleared a pathway back into the prison. Minutes later, he threw open the door to a broom closet in a mostly untouched cell block and ushered us in. I braced my arms against the wall while Beth rushed around trying to find anything at all that would be useful. When Daryl slammed the door closed, I finally let out the screams that had bubbled inside me.


  The next few hours were worse than any agony I’d ever experienced. I began to think that anything would be better than labour, even being torn apart by walkers. At least that would come to an end, whereas this seemed to go on for an eternity. Beth’s gentle encouragement provided me with an anchor to the world, along with Daryl’s hand smoothing the hair away from my damp forehead. The latter only came after Beth screamed at him to reassure me, since before that he had stood silently in the shadows of the closet, his eyes screwed shut, knuckles white as he wrung his hands together. The reality of the baby actually arriving catapulted him into a state of detachment, where his only concern was the inviting emptiness of the inside of his eyelids.

  The baby’s cries finally melted into the room, and I heard Beth murmur, “It’s a girl,” before I slipped into a dreamless sleep.


  I awoke to the sound of Beth mumbling in her sleep. We both leant with our backs against the wall; Beth’s head rested on my shoulder and mine had rested on her head. My hands clutched reflexively, searching out the baby that wasn’t in my arms. My stomach dropped as I thought the worst, but a glance to my right quickly rid me of my terror.

  Daryl sat mere inches away, cradling our baby in his arms. One of his index fingers was caught in the tiny grasp of her fist, and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

  “You good?” I said tiredly, echoing Daryl’s words to me from earlier.

  Daryl jerked slightly at the unexpected sound of my voice. He nodded, and settled back swiftly so as not to disturb the baby. Her legs kicked up and she fanned out the fingers of her hands, but her fist wrapped around Daryl’s finger again when he tickled her palm. “Why’s it so small?”

  “She, Daryl. Not ‘it’,” I said. “And I think she’s premature.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can I hold her?”

  “‘Course,” Daryl replied, and he was more gentle than I’d ever seen him as he carefully handed her over.

  She gazed at me with starry eyes, and Daryl shifted closer so that our hips touched. He stroked her palm again, addicted to the feeling of her clinging to him. There were a million things to worry about: Beth had lost her father, the prison was all but destroyed, and it was hard enough to take care of ourselves in this world, let alone a baby.

  But in that moment, everything was gold.

When my daughter was 5, she really liked to play with blocks.

You know the ones, they have colorful letters and numbers printed on the sides. My daughter started reading at a young age, and she could already spell a lot of words by the time she hit kindergarten. She loved spelling, and she’d play with those blocks for hours. She’d often try random combinations of letters and ask me what they meant. On those occasions that she’d stumble on a real word, she’d clap her hands with delight and giggle.

She was a very sweet child.

One day, I noticed that her collection of blocks had shrunk considerably. “Where did your blocks go, Kiki?” I asked.

“I gave some to my friend,” she said, setting her remaining blocks up into a tower to imprison a hapless Polly Pocket.

I was both proud and exasperated by her answer. Kiki was so generous, she was forever giving her toys away to other children. I was often tasked with tracking them down when she decided she wanted them back.

“And what friend did you give them to?”

“The Wordeater,” she said.

Well, that was new. It must have been a new game – Kiki was very inventive.

“And… who is the Wordeater?” I asked, crouching down next to her on the floor, watching a Polly Pocket hurl herself off the block tower, presumably into a pit of molten lava.

“He’s the Wordeater!” She said, giggling at my ignorance. “He likes words so much, he eats them.”

“I see,” I said very solemnly. “And what does the Wordeater look like?”

“Hm…” she thought, tapping a tiny finger to her lips. “He’s fat,” she started, “and has real little eyes… and a trunk! Like an elephant!”

I frowned. “We don’t call people fat, Kiki.”

“But he is!” She protested. “And he’s not a person, mom, he’s the Wordeater!”

Now I was getting genuinely curious about the little friend she’d made up. I left off my admonition, instead asking, “Where does the Wordeater live?”

She pointed across her room. “He lives under the bed. It’s warm down there, and dark. He likes the dark.”

A strange little shiver crept up my spine at that. He likes the dark. Kids are creepy. Shaking off the feeling, I walked across the room and checked under the bed.

Sure enough, there were Kiki’s blocks, scattered as though she’d tossed them underneath the bedframe, sort of like feeding an animal at the zoo. I smiled, somehow glad that those blocks were the only things I found under there.

“Well, make sure the Wordeater gets enough to eat,” I told Kiki before leaving the room to start dinner, “And that he goes to bed at a decent hour!”

“I will, mom!” She answered, casting yet another Polly Pocket into the den of carpet lava flames.

Kiki made good on her promise.


I didn’t think much about the Wordeater for a few days after that. Kiki didn’t mention him, and I was busy filing taxes and waiting on pins and needles to see if my husband got the promotion he was aiming for.

No, I didn’t think about it one Saturday morning, when Kiki was helping me bake cookies.

“Mom,” she said, her voice lilting with the absentmindedness of childhood, “What’s your favorite word?”

I had to think about that. “Hm… why, my favorite word is ‘Kiki,’ of course!” I teased. Kiki giggled. I loved her giggle.

“What’s your favorite word?” I asked back as I rolled the cookie dough into balls and began spacing them on the cookie sheet.

“The Wordeater has been teaching me lots of new words. I like them all,” she said.

“What kind of words?” I asked.

She looked up at me, grinned proudly, and said,

“Fuck!”


Being a parent is a constant tug of war between wanting to scream at your kid and laugh your ass off.

It was pretty damn hard keeping a straight face as I told Kiki that was a bad word. I realized very quickly that she had no idea it was naughty – wherever she’d heard it, apparently she hadn’t picked up its meaning or connotations. I was firm with her, but kind, all while trying to stifle my own giggles. Oh, that story was definitely going to be great fun telling at Kiki’s graduation in years to come.

I tried asking Kiki where she’d heard that word, but she just kept insisting that the Wordeater had taught it to her. “I give him my blocks when he’s hungry, and he teaches me new words,” she said.

Eventually, I gave up asking, telling her to ask me from now on what the new words she learned really meant. She had probably heard it at school or on TV, anyway. I didn’t think much of it, other than to tell her father later that night. Unlike me, he was unsuccessful in preventing his laughter, and tears rolled down his face as he listened to the shenanigans our daughter had been up to.


It wasn’t long before I noticed that Kiki had begun acting… strange.

She wasn’t any different during the day or anything. No, it had more to do with what happened at night.

The first time it happened, I almost screamed, I was so startled. I walked into her room around ten at night to check on her – I’d put her in bed almost an hour earlier – and was surprised to see her sitting on the floor facing her bed. She was cross-legged and rocking just a little back and forth, as though trying to lull herself to sleep.

“Kiki? What are you doing up? I thought I told you to go to bed an hour ago.” Kiki and I had already had several discussions about her inability to go to bed when she was told. I walked over to her and saw her closed eyes, realizing with surprise that she seemed to be asleep. Kiki used to sleepwalk when she was about three, but it had only happened a few times. I’d thought she’d grown out of it.

I reached down to pick her up when I saw that her lips were moving. She was saying something. I leaned forward to listen, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

Then, suddenly, the little whispers stopped. In fact, Kiki stopped. She stopped moving, and it almost seemed like she stopped breathing. I reared my head back a little, disconcerted.

Kiki lifted her arm, extending it towards her bed. For one moment, in that small, dark room, she held perfectly still, like a statue of an angel child on top of an infant’s headstone.

And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped, her arm falling to her side, her head drooping forward, and her body relaxing in sleep.

It took me a full minute to collect myself before I managed to reach out and pick Kiki up, tucking her back into her bed.

Looking at Kiki snuggled up in her bed, the moonlight casting a waxen glow on her face, I began to feel suddenly that the room was too small. The darkness of the walls crept in on me, and the brown carpet seemed to be swallowing me whole. The door, with its small patch of light coming in from the hallway, seemed very tiny, as though I’d never be able to squeeze through it. I felt something akin to a rat in a dry trap, and it made me terribly anxious.

I shook my head, trying to dispel the feeling. I’d always been terribly claustrophobic. I switched on Kiki’s nightlight – for my sake more than hers – and left the room.

There were a few more incidents of the whispering, the rocking. I mentioned it to my husband, who actually seemed more worried than I was. He said we should take her to a doctor, just to make sure it was normal. I agreed, knowing that it would put our minds to rest, even if we ended up having to pay a few hundred dollars to learn that we were making a big deal out of nothing.

In the end, we never got the chance.

Keep reading

I’ve sort of been running. Running forwards. Running backwards. Running to the sides. Running away. But underneath it all, past the curtain of shadows and the veil of artificiality, I want to run towards myself. I keep on grappling for things meant to drag me down rather than build me up. I keep reaching out a hand towards something unknown, something seemingly full of life, something that might tame the loneliness residing in my soul. I keep calling out and searching for a projection of what might be. I think I need to retract my hand, look deep inside myself, and ignite what is there already. I need to run and run and run towards myself. Towards who I was and who I am. Towards the dormant passions and buried strengths. I keep asking for more, wanting more, that I’m losing my wildfire in pursuit for something paler. I need to bring myself back. I have to remember that I need to just be.
—  (NJ.)

I am going to rant about this Clean speech….
I have taken a lot of time to think of this and to analyze this and the song and I’ve realized that I am strong. I may not know exactly who I am or what I want to become but I know that after nights of struggling with depression, I have overcame it. I am over a year clean and although you can still see the scars, I am fucking clean. I am proud of myself and I am not damaged even thought I still struggle at nights. I am thankful for Taylor’s speech cause it made me realize that I don’t need to give up on myself, even when I believe the world has swallowed me whole into its sadness. I am going to find myself and I will learn from all my lessons and even after I’ve learned, I will make more mistakes and learn some more. I’ve realized this is what life is about and I’m going to make the most of it. Thank you, Taylor. I love you so much.

I want the earth to break open
its cracked-soil mouth &
swallow me whole.
 
     (I smooth the hollows of my
     half-formed grave.
     I press my palms to the soil.
     I dig.)
—  excerpt from human
from the lady of the lake // e.v.

Fire, fire
underneath the deck.
Run fast.
Water, water
boards the sinking ship.
Swim out into the end.

I’ll stay by your side
looking for the tide that
brings us back,
or a flare to lead the night.

Waiting for a sound
louder than the howling
of an ever-slowing heart,
grabbing waves that hug the light.

The wreck,
hiding in plain sight,
laid to rest,
with a crashing fist of surge and regret,
the undetermined emptiness
of fate,
leaving cracks that trap the way
in its feebleness.

We’re cradled by the
swaying of permanence,
by the comfort of known hands and dry land
where

you amaze me with those eyes
you awash me in the sand
that
swallows me whole
in its feebleness.

Made with SoundCloud
The Carmilla Hokey Pokey
  • <p> <b>Me:</b> you put your right foot in the trash<p/><b>Me:</b> you put your left foot also in the trash<p/><b>Me:</b> you let the LaFerry, Hollstein and other various ships shake you all around<p/><b>Me:</b> you cry about Maryne's comics as you let the fandom swallow you whole<p/><b>Me:</b> that's what its all about *clap clap*<p/></p>
The Camp Out-Imagine #191
  • Luke: Before you started touring with your boyfriend Luke's band, your family had a tradition of an annual camping trip. Every summer you and your dad would throw a dart at a map of the US and wherever it landed, that's where your family drove to for the camp-out. Since it was July and you were still out with the boys, you weren't able to make it back home for the trip, and it really bummed you out. Luke noticed you sulking a couple of times when you thought no one was around and he felt bad, knowing he was the reason you were missing out on something that you looked forward to every year since you were little. So, he decided to do something about it. "Hey, Y/N!" Luke greeted cheerfully as he pulled back the curtain of your bunk to see you quietly reading a book. He gives you a peck on the lips and you can't help but notice the Joker-esque grin he's sporting. You eye him suspiciously and set down your book in your lap. "Hi...?" you reply, sounding confused. "We've got a couple days off," he explains as he starts pulling you down from the bunk and into his arms. "I am aware, yes." "Then back a bag!" You look at him blankly. "Where are we going? We haven't even stopped yet?" "You'll see." The bus stops not long after that, in some random place you've never seen before. You figure you must be somewhere in the Midwest. "So..." you begin, looking over at Luke, the other three boys behind him all wearing matching smiles. "Hey, Y/N!" you hear from behind you. You look over and see your dad pitching a tent and waving over at you, your mom by his side setting up a bonfire. You gasp and look back at Luke, eyes wide. "We're going camping!" he exclaims, stretching his arms out to gesture to the surroundings. If a few tears fell from your eyes, no one could really blame you.
  • Michael: "Come on, Michael. It'll be fun!" you plead, pulling on your boyfriend's arm. "You know I hate being outside. Remember what happened last time?" You smirk at the memory, and try to suppress a grin. "I told you not to antagonize that poor raccoon." "I didn't even do anything!" "...You waved a stick around at it and kept on yelling 'Where's Pocahontas?' at it. You honestly had it coming." He huffs and cross his arms over his chest in response. "I still don't wanna spend the night outside." You sigh and give up, walking toward your room for a nap since there was clearly nothing you were going to be doing tonight. "Alright, Michael," you say in defeat before closing the door. When you rise from your nap later on, you walk out into the living room and give a small yawn that shortly turns into a jaw-drop. "What..." you begin, looking over at Michael trying to set up a tent on his own in the middle of the living room. There's a "bonfire" a few feet away from him that is really two forks and a lighter with a pack of marshmallows sitting next to him. The couch is bare, all of the cushions and pillows set up in a fort-like fashion just in front of it. There are two rolled up sleeping bags sitting next to a couple of lanterns and stuffed animals perched in random places. Michael looks over his shoulder at you, the tent lying limply in his hands, and flashes you a small smile. "I figured we could just camp out in here..." he mutters, a faint flush creeping up his neck, indicating his embarrassment. "As long as you can keep me safe from these ferocious bears," you reply, gesturing to a stuffed Winnie The Pooh sitting atop the television set. "Baby, it's a wild, wild world," he replied with a bright smile. You laugh and go over to help him set up the tent because he is absolutely hopeless at it.
  • Calum: When Calum brings up a camping trip that the boys were thinking of having, you almost jump out of your skin with excitement. "I love camping!" you exclaim, shooting out of your seat across from him at your dining room table and plopping down in his lap. "I haven't gone in such a long time. We have to go!" "I don't know, Y/N," he begins, looking hesitant. You pout and wrap your arms around his shoulders, "Please?" you plead. "Alright, fine, just stop with the eyes!" he says with a chuckle. "Excellent!" you reply excitedly before launching from your spot and sprinting over to your room to pack a bag. "This is going to be great!" All you hear as a response from him is laughter. The next day...there was almost nothing else that could have gone wrong. Your car broke down halfway to the camp-site, so you all had to walk a couple of miles until you found a good spot to set up, that also had cell reception so that you could call for someone to come fix the car, it rained for about an hour, you almost got eaten by a snake("It was THIS BIG! It could have swallowed me whole!" "You're exaggerating, Y/N. But it's okay, you're safe now." "My hero."), you and Calum forgot your sleeping bags in the kitchen, so the five of you had to share one, and if all that wasn't annoying, the tent collapsed on you all in the middle of the night. You all sat in silence under the damp fabric covering your faces before you start laughing incredibly, sending the rest of the group into hysterics. "This is probably the worst camping trip in the history of forever," you state as you all lay out underneath the stars, nothing overhead as you were all too lazy to try and fix the tent back up. "I don't think it is," Calum muses quietly. "How could it not be?" you ask with a laugh. "Because," he begins, looking over at you and reaching for your hand. "I'm with you."
  • Ashton: "Isn't this illegal?" you ask meekly, watching Ashton throw your backpacks over the fence of the zoo. "Only if we get caught," he says with a smirk before hoisting himself over the fence. From the top, he reaches out his hand to help you over, you hesitantly take it and you both make it over to other side okay. "When did you become such a bad boy?" you ask him teasingly, picking your backpack up. "Since you told me you've never been camping before and I realized there's nowhere to go camping in the middle of the city," he explains as he grabs your hand. You walk around the zoo for a bit, looking at all the sleeping animals, as Ashton narrates everything like it was an Australian nature documentary. ("And here we have the ferocious lion. He watches ova the rest of pride as they sleep soundly.") You set up your sleeping bags in the middle of the bird sanctuary and eat s'mores poptarts, since you can't really start a fire in the middle of the zoo, as you look at all of the colorful feathers of the birds. "I think I quite like camping," you say with a contented sigh as you lean your head on his shoulder.
  • Me: *waits for the abyss to swallow me whole*
  • Me: I know what will make me feel better!
  • Me: *turns on Hamilton*
  • Me: Ah yiss, so much better.
  • Hamilton: It's quiet uptown.
  • Me:
  • Me: *waits for the abyss to swallow me whole*