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I’m the guy who fucks you better than you’ve ever been fucked. I’m the guy you’ll think about months later when you’re taking it missionary from a finance bro that lasts three minutes and couldn’t make you come even if his trust fund depended on it. I leave a lasting impression, and it’s in the shape of my cock.
But whatever they said? I’m so much fucking worse.”
This bike is the one thing in the world that’s mine. The one thing my father can’t fucking touch, and good thing because everything he touches turns to shit. Like a disease, infecting everything he comes in contact with.
How no matter what hand I’m dealt, I’m going to be more than just the poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks with a shitty life and an even shittier father.
Call it daddy issues, call me depraved or whatever the fuck you want, but it doesn’t make it any less true. At least I’m self-aware.
No one should have to feel like they’re suffocating. No one should have to feel so… alone standing in a room full of people with all eyes on them. No one should feel caged in a life they don’t want.
Fuck the patriarchy and their arbitrary roles that women should play.
he is absolutely an asshole and the definition of a cliché bad boy. It’s a little ridiculous, if I’m honest. Maybe that’s why he acts like that. It fits his whole broody, fuck-the-world vibe. The reason I want to strangle him with my bare hands, and I’m not even a violent person. Well, unless it comes to him.
You don’t have to like each other for him to be your pretend boyfriend to piss off your father. I mean, he’s also not that bad to look at. There are worse guys to dangle around like a boy toy, for sure.”
“The one and only rule: don’t fall for the bad boy.
“Trust me, the last thing I have to worry about is falling for Saint Devereaux. Hell will freeze over before I catch any kind of feelings for its ruler.”
If she didn’t drive me fucking crazy, I’d entertain the idea of sinking my teeth into her plump little cheeks before I fisted them both in my hands and spread her open, watching how wet she gets from hating me.
Who would’ve thought that prim and proper princess with a stick up her ass and not one for pleasure would have the ability to make my dick hard, but here we are.
You’re an asshole, and you have the manners of a farm animal, and that is precisely what will send my father careening over the edge.”
“Fighting is my favorite foreplay, Golden Girl. Just so you know. Keep insulting me. It makes my dick hard.”
I’ve thought about this a hundred times, maybe even a thousand times in the last ten years. How if I didn’t hate him as much as I did, I would almost feel bad for him. For his pathetic, disgusting existence that’s been reduced to this—drinking himself to death in front of a busted-ass TV in a piece-of-shit trailer. That’s his life. That’s the only future he’ll ever have, and it’s just… sad.
where I came from. Turns out it’s not the house or the fact that my family’s poor that’s the embarrassing part. It’s the fact that my father is an alcoholic asshole.
Life would be so much more freeing if you stopped giving a shit what people thought, Golden Girl. It’s great not having to answer to anyone but yourself. You should try it.”
It’s the mental that’s the problem. Take a breath, recenter, and then do it again without you shit-talking yourself while you’re trying to accomplish it,”
It’s funny how things happen. How life has a way of unfolding in the way that it’s supposed to and not the way you thought it would.
“Why did you come here, Saint?” “I didn’t know where else to go.” It’s a whisper, his voice rough and uneven as he pauses, holding my gaze. “You’re the only thing in my life that feels right anymore.”
She’s the only person who’s witnessed all the ugly, broken, fucked-up parts of me and stayed anyway. And she didn’t just stay; she pulled me closer.
I’m shit at words, at emotions, at opening myself up and being vulnerable, and I’m sure she knows that more than anyone, but I’m trying.
I realize that this is probably not the smartest idea, being naked in her bed, touching her when the little self-control I have is already frayed and busted at the seams. Especially after the rollercoaster of today, but fuck, I can’t stop.
“Stop arguing with me. Sit on my fucking face, baby.”
She’s staring at the art, and I’m staring at her. She has no fucking clue that she’s art in the
“Do whatever makes you happy, and fuck what anyone thinks about it. That should be your motto from here on out. Be wild, be rebellious. Total fucking anarchy,
My Golden Girl doesn’t deserve to answer for her father’s misdeeds.
I have no doubt that her father will have his day of judgment. The day he’ll pay for all the fucked-up shit he’s done, but it won’t be from me.
“Unlike you, I will always put your daughter first. There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for her. No line I wouldn’t cross. One day, she’s going to find out about all the fucked-up, disgusting shit you’ve done to get ahead, and you know who’s going to be there when she does? Me, motherfucker.”
“And I’m thankful for a lot of things today, but it’s you that I’m the most thankful for. Thankful that you crossed that line every single time that I told you to stay on your side, that you pushed my buttons and drove me insane. That you didn’t let me quit when I wanted to give up. I’m thankful that I get to love you, Saint. And that I get to be loved by you.”
I was one of those people who would’ve scoffed at the idea of sitting on a leather couch and talking to a fucking therapist who could never understand the shit that I’ve been through. But now I know that’s not true. It’s not been an easy process, but it’s… helped.
All of our trauma isn’t just going to heal itself overnight,
