"We're not having a Hello Kitty theme for Kaya's room, dammit!"
"We are, and you know it!"
My wife is a stupid, mental woman. It gets worse: she's pregnant. That's right; she's pregnant and hormonal and she wants a Hello Kitty theme for our daughter's room.
Me? I'm just fucking dandy.
"I know no such thing," I growl (yes, growl; fear me, I'm a badass!) and then add, "Dammit" for good measure.
There's nothing more manly than a few profanities squeezed in every conversation you have, I tell you. Dammit.
She turns away from me huffily, her expression a cross between annoyance and determination. It looks very ugly on her, believe me. It does not make my hypothalamus flood with fantasies of her lips and all she could do with them, dammit. My will shall not bend. Because we're all humans and prone to mistakes and blunders, sometimes I suffer from these insane Badass-ness Lapses where I have all these mushy, cheesy, wimpy, craptastic thoughts about how I love her and how her hair is all lovely. Which it isn't, mind you. Sometimes it even renders me to be so fucking unmanly that one simple glance in her eyes sends me melting down into a puddle of girly goo.
Don't even get me started on the times where I suddenly start to think she walks in beauty like the night. I told you; it's that insane.
This is all an act; she is a stealthy hypocrite and her pseudo-angelic antics are all see-through. What does she think I am, an idiot? Pft, as if.
She turns around smugly, and interrupts my love-sick – I mean, brooding silence –, saying, "Accept it or die." Her expression is insanely smug, and in her hands she holds a baseball bat.
Cheat, see? She's a demon in disguise. A very, very appealing demon, but anyways.
Inadvertently, I take a step back. "You wouldn't dare," I choke out before I can really think. I cough, eyes widening, and square my shoulders. "I mean, dammit, no! Never! Over my fucking dead body!"
Okay, I'm no wimp. That bat is spectacularly big and hard, and Gabriella knows just how to use it. Mind you, it was me who taught her to use it.
Something throbs inside my pants. Thinking about Gabriella and baseball simultaneously is not good for me. At all. And just for the record, it's not in a negative sense, dammit.
She smirks, as if reading my mind, and drops the baseball bat with a pitying expression. Well, isn't she very confident about herself? Uh, you have a seven-month-old inside your body, woman, and that counts! "Why not? What's so wrong about Hello Kitty? God, you're such a sissy!"
Wha—She's backing me into the wall! Think, Troy, think! And not just about her damn cleavage, you dope!
My eyes widen a little. "Because giving our baby a room covered in pink and purple illustrations of cat faces is very, very akin to subjecting the poor soul to merciless torture, fair lady!" I yelp.
"No it isn't!" she shouts, horrified. Her eyes soften abruptly, and I know she's swerved to another tactic, the cheat. Dammit. I do not like it. Cue, thunderous growls! Growl! With your heart—
Or I can just take her waist and kiss her back. Because she's a damn good kisser.
But before I can even weigh my options, she's pulled back and is looking me very threateningly in the eyes. Note: heavy sarcasm. "Troy."
Troy? Troy? What does that mean?
I raise a pierced eyebrow. "Gabriella," I reply, oh-so-eloquently.
Suddenly, before I can even contemplate the utter eloquence of my reply, she's weeping all over me and soaking me in her tears.
There's something in her eyes that tells me it isn't fake anymore. It's just the hormones. Dammit.
Still, my will shall not bend, let alone break. I'm a real man like that, grr.
"Do you really want to fight with your pregnant wife so much?" she says hysterically.
"No, I just want to take you in my arms and get downright dirty!" I blurt out. Dammit, oops. Not the very best of answers, but when she giggles and hugs me tightly, one of those Badass-ness Lapse attacks me and I'm left grinning like a damn moron.
I wrap my arms around her and kiss her, giving up.
Because, dammit, she's mine and I'm whipped.