I want to get beaten up. I want to hold on until I’m thrown off and everything ends. And you know what? Until that happens, I want to hope again. And I want it to hurt. Because that means it meant something.
I’ve been told a lot that I deserve better, but what if I don’t want anyone else? What if I love you and don’t see why everyone thinks you’re not treating me like you should? I just want to be with you, only you.
Stop it,” Louis hissed at either himself or the cock throbbing in disappointment between his legs, “You’re not going to have a fucking wank over a bloody pap of all people. Pull yourself together, Lou!
I have a son. His name is Mieczyslaw Stilinski, but we call him Stiles. I remember. When Stiles was a little kid, he couldn’t say his first name. Not sure why, pretty much rolls off the tongue, but the closest he could get was Mischief. His mother called him that until…I remember when Stiles first got his Jeep, it belonged to his mother and she wanted him to have it. The first time he took a spin behind the wheel he went straight into a ditch. I gave him his first roll of duct tape that day. He was always getting into trouble, but he always had a good heart. Always. We’re here tonight because my goofball son decided to drag Scott, his greatest friend in the world, into the woods to see a dead body.