Hateful Love

“You look so nice, Si,” Blaine reassures me, a hot look in his eyes. Then he nips at my ear, sucking on my stud before lowering his voice so only I can hear him. “Very fuckable. Sexy spies later?”
God, not the roleplay again. My boyfriend’s a closet sex maniac. We just did pizza delivery guy a few nights ago.

“Here.” I shove the plastic box with the boutonniere he insisted on having into his hands. “It matches your eyes.”
“Aw, look at you, so sweet,” he teases, opening the box and holding it out to me. “You’re supposed to put it on me, you know?”
“Fuck off,”

“What?” he snarls. “You had so much to say a second ago.”
“I…” Jesus Christ, why can’t I speak? “Baby, you’re beautiful.”
I can’t be sure, but I swear I hear Mayor Yates gagging in the background before he storms away.

Whoever came up with the idea of prom needs to be punched in the face.

“Fuck’s sake, Mama, not the camera.”
“You stop your griping and let me take some pictures. This will probably be the only time I ever see you dressed up like this.” She then proceeds to take about a dozen more.
Yeah, she’s right about that. I won’t even dress up like this for my own wedding. Blaine will just have to suck it up. He’s going to marry me in my leather jacket and Doc Martens.

“I get you forever now, don’t I?”
“Yeah,” he whispers, tears in his eyes as he nods. “Forever.”

“Marinara?” I ask, wrapping my hand around his throat.
He gulps, nodding as he closes his eyes. “Marinara.”

I hold onto him, crushing him against my chest, knowing that the life we’re going to build together is going to be worth all the bullshit we went through.

“Oh, come on!” he shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. “Just get on with it.”
“Fine! I’m movin’ to fuckin’ Connecticut with you! Can you shut the fuck up now?”
Fuck him for making me say it like that.

“Um, where are we?”
I look around with a raised brow. Isn’t it obvious? “We’re at a drag race.”
Blaine’s jaw drops, watching as racers roll their motorcycles around him, cringing when a drunk girl almost runs him over. “Silas— Um— Is this your definition of a romantic date?”
Well, when he says it like that, maybe it isn’t.