#ask grumpy

[grumpytheunicorn]

You know I'm gonna say clothes swap 😂

@afreakingdork

They don't enjoy wearing each other's taste in fashion

@afreakingdork

[burningcheese-merchant]

It honestly feels like they're getting more and more blatant every beast update

Silent Salt might as well just propose to White Lily in the next one the way things are going

Mystic Flour: I want that cookie so fucking bad

Burning Spice: I WANT THAT COOKIE SO FUCKING BAD!!!

Shadow Milk: I want that cookie so fucking bad HAHAHA I GOT HIM I GOT THE COOKIE I GOT HIM HE'S MINE I WIN I WIN!!! who said I want that cookie? Huh? Who said that? WHO SAID THAT???? FUCK YOU I DON'T WANT THAT COOKIE!!! KYS!!!!!!!!!

Eternal Sugar:

I want that cookie so fucking bad~~~

Silent Salt: 😶🤟 -> 💐😶💍 -> 😶💜⚜️💚❓

Mark this shit on y'all's calendars watch me become Nostradamus in real time

[enwoso]

how convenient | alessia russo x child!reader x leah williamson

grumpy masterlist | if you haven’t already i would recommend reading first heartbreak to get up to speed

the sidelines of the pitch buzzed with the usual saturday morning chaos — parent's chatting, children chasing stray footballs as whistles blowed too often and not enough. but leah had stood still, arms folded across her chest. her eyes locked on the man across the field.

harrison.

it was almost poetic, convenient if you will, even if it didn't make her stomach twist that the next time she saw him would be here.

at your football game. the one he was meant to show up for last time. the one he'd promised. the one he then conveniently forgot.

leah could still hear alessia's voice over the phone, quiet and tired as she'd spent the entire evening calming you down as the tried her best to stay calm over the phone as she retold the story to leah. 'she asked me if he even loved her, le.'

and that was it. that was the line.

you deserved a hell of a lot better than a broken promise with whiskey on its breath.

so leah waited, watching your entire game. you playing with that familiar fierce focus which had been missing the previous week as your blonde curls bounced as you ran for the ball. but something in your movement lacked the usual sparkle — it hadn't properly returned since that weekend.

when harrison finally wandered to the edge of the field, the game now finished. he’d been there since the 14th minute — leah had been watching.

a coffee cup in one of his hands, phone in the other, looking more like he'd stumbled out of bed then just stepped into fatherhood afterwards.

leah didn't hesitate after making sure that both alessia and you were occupied and distracted. you running circles with your teammates as alessia spoke to some of their parents, engrossed in a deep conversation. so you both wouldn't see what leah was up to.

"didn't think you had it in you to show up this time," she said, quiet but cutting sharp.

harrison blinked, startled, then smirked faintly, "leah. thought i might run into you today."

"lucky me."

he sipped his coffee looking out to the field, avoiding eye contact with leah. "so i take it less has sent you over here to lecture me then?"

"no, she doesn't even know i'm over here talking to you. i'm just here to watch the kid, who actually showed up."

his jaw twitched slightly, "look, i know i messed up. i didn't mean to forget - i had a lot going on that day."

leah raising an eyebrow humming slightly at his well, pathetic words, "enough going on that you forget your own daughters name?"

he flinched, taking another sip from his coffee. a beat of silence falling over the two as they both looked over the field, arms leaning against the barrier.

"i said i was hungover. i didn't mean it. i was half asleep, and—"

"—and yet you still found time to answer a phone you didn't remember promising her on."

there was another beat of silence, for a second too long, and then his face hardened.

"you don't know what it's like," he muttered, jaw clenched. "you don't know me, you don't know what i've got going on. what we had, how hard it was. you think because you're playing happy families with my ex and my kid, you know everything?"

leah took one step closer, her voice dropping into steel. "i know enough."

he just scoffed, amused almost as a smirk appeared on his face. "no, mate you know alessia's version. that's it."

"no, mate. i know a hell of a lot more than you." that stopped him in his tracks.

"i know how before she goes to bed she has to say goodnight to all of her teddy’s so that they don’t go to sleep sad. i know how she still draws you in every picture she makes cause she doesn't want to hurt your feelings. i know how hard alessia fights not to to bad-mouth you in front of her - no matter how angry she is with you. i know what it looks like when a little girl asks if her dad really loves her—and means it."

harrison looked away. he didn't say anything. he didn't have anything to defend him self with.

"you think this is about you and alessia? this isn't about who's in her bed now." leah added her voice quieter now, but somehow more dangerous. "it's not. it's about that little girl you keep letting down. and if you're not going to be a dad and a proper one at that then don't expect the world to wait while you try and figure out how."

for a moment, the only sound was the distant sound of children giggling and parents chatting as the field started to get less busier of people, the morning of football starting to slow down.

then—

"she's my daughter" harrison said, but it didn't sound as strong as convincing as he wanted it to.

"your right she is, so start fucking acting like it" leah replied, snappy and sharp as if she had a response to every thing he said. "because she deserves better and she not going to keep giving you pieces of herself for you to just drop every time it's convenient for you."

leah turned without waiting for a reply, she didn't want to listen to his pathetic voice any longer. she'd heard enough and said what she wanted to say.

watching as the group of parents surrounding alessia's was getting smaller, as she jogged to catch up with you two. alessia looked over her shoulder, sensing leah's presence. "you all good?"

leah reached for alessia's hand, slipping her fingers effortlessly between hers with ease, "yeah, just had something to take care of."

alessia raised an eyebrow, curious but also didn't push. instead making a mental note to ask later on. "that right?"

"yep, all sorted though. don't worry, love"

you rushed back to leah and alessia having said goodbye to your friends, as you were already mid-sentence. "did you see when i almost scored mama? i kicked it so hard!"

leah grinned, the tension easing from her shoulders just at the sound of your voice as she ruffled your hair, "i saw, you were brilliant today, you little superstar!"

and as the three of them walked off the field, you chattering away, alessia leaning in close as leah anchored them to her side — harrison being left stood alone in his own thoughts by the sideline .

watching what it looked like when someone actually showed up.

[aashidoodles]

What about Shiguang kissing each other in greeting on autopilot even though they're not officially dating yet?

This timeline of Link Click has morphed completely from a mystery thriller to a slice of life romcom

Thanks for the prompt! ♡

[untoldstar]

yanderes who make you the exception.

Grumpy yandere who’s always glaring at other people and everyone too scared to even approach him. Who’s always rolling his eyes and grumbling when you accuse him of being a softy on the inside but his arguments don’t hold up when he gently pets your head when you doze off on his shoulder, or when you lean down to pick up something you dropped under the table and his palm covers the edge to protect your head from bumping into it.

Grumpy yandere who holds you as you cry over another guy, scolding you and saying “I told you so” he acts like this was expected and that you should have known better but his hand flexes and slightly trembles as he tries to contain his anger.

The next day you you see angry red marks covering his knuckles and a strange text from your ex where he apologizes profusely.

You haven’t changed your mind. He is a softie on the inside but he’s still terrifying….

Serial killer yandere who’s out spilling blood in the dead of night. He comes back home with the screams of his victims still ringing in his head, slowly cracking the bedroom door open to not wake you up, it’s actually a scary sight. A tall dark looming figure lingering around the doorframe. It would scare you if you weren’t used to this by now.

You sit up and reach over to turn on the small lamp on your bedside table. You take one look at him and narrow your eyes, shoving the blanket off your body and making your way over to him, you lightly smack him on his shoulder and his entire body slumps, looking like a kicked puppy “You got blood on your shirt again?! I told you to be careful! and what’s this? Oh my- what happened to your hand?!” you scold him and he pouts; moving closer to sneak his arms around your waist and burry his face in your neck “I’m sorry darling..” he murmurs “I’ll be more careful I promise. Please don’t be angry with me..” He plants soft kisses on your neck and you relent, sighing and rolling your eyes “Fine. Go take a shower. I’m gonna stay up for a while longer.”

This ruthless killer who can crush someone skull with his bare hands can’t bare to make you angry.

He might be the most terrifying thing someone could encounter on the streets but at home, all he wants is to have your attention, your touch, everything you have to offer.

Popular yandere who’s always so fucking perfect. Perfect smile, perfect words, perfect manners. He always had to act perfect but around you…he could just be him. You didn’t expect anything of him. When he’s around you he feels like he’s completely undone. All the restraints that kept him in check all this time completely gone.

He loves you. He loves you so much. He likes that he’s a nervous stuttering mess around you. That you call him cute when he’s too drunk to say a coherent sentence. That you look at him with those understanding eyes and gently caress his hand when he confides in you about his pressure, all that his family expects of him. What the public expects of him. If it were anyone else they would have told him “how good he has it” or that “he shouldn’t complain so much because some people have it worse”.

You listen. You treat him like he’s an actual human. He’s addicted to how he feels when he’s with you and if anyone gets in his way he might just burn it all to the ground. The cars, the mansions, the expensive clothes, all the connections he made. Just to stay in your embrace.

He doesn’t care if everyone leaves his side. They never meant anything to him. As long as you stay by his side he’s the happiest man ever.

Ex soldier yandere who’s seen so much pain in his life. Who’s experienced so much loss and so much hurt he can’t even feel anymore. He spends most of his time drinking and being a complete and total ass to anyone who approaches him. It annoys him that people can be all smiles and giggles when there’s nothing to smile about. That’s just how life is.

And you annoyed him most of all. You approached him one evening while he was drinking in that one dark corner of the bar and something about you made him tick. You had such a bright gleam in your eye and you looked so innocent approaching him out of everyone in that damn bar. As if you actually believed there’d be good in him.

He hated it.

He was meaner than usual that day. He’d usually throw a gruff “leave me alone.” and it’d get the job done but for some reason you pressed all his buttons when you barely even did anything. He figured it didn’t matter as long as it got the job done and it did. You left with your shoulders slumped a pout on your face and he was alone once again.

Except you returned the next day and the day after that and every other day. It unnerved him so much he decided to switch to another bar. So there he was drinking alone in another gloomy bar in a similar dark corner. Everything is exactly how it should be.

Except..it wasn’t. Something felt wrong. A nagging feeling in his chest, something he hasn’t felt before. He looked at the empty chair besides him and your absence gutted him. So he gulped down the last of his drink and made his way back to his old bar where he found you sitting in his usual spot with random man sitting too close besides you, not hiding his intentions at all. And you..you were sad. You were throwing polite smiles at the man but he could tell by your eyes that you were sad.

Did you really have that look on your face because he didn’t show up?

For some reason the thought of him being the one to bring you such sadness made his heart ache. Another thing he hasn’t felt in a long time.

So he pursed his lips and made his way to you, and from his peripherals he noticed how you straightened up and your face lit up as soon as you saw him but he kept his eyes on the man sitting besides you.

He roughly smacks a hand on his shoulder making him jump in his seat “She’s with me. Get your ass out of my chair.” The man narrowed his eyes ready to spit out a reply but ended up pursing his lips and getting up quietly after taking a look at his size. One thing that hasn’t changed about him after going to war is his build. Something that comes in handy in situations like this.

He plops down in his chair with a sigh and gestures to the bartender to get him his usual. You readjust in your seat and flash him a smile “you’re here!” He throws you a glance “Of course I’m here why wouldn’t I be.” you shrug and look down bashfully “I dunno I thought I freaked you out and made you switch to another bar.” He smile softly. You nearly did “No..no. I’m here.” And he’s not leaving you ever again. You nod and start your usual ramblings of your day. He guessed that was the official moment you became his ‘drinking buddy’ as you called your self.

He thought you were annoying at first. You just wouldn’t stop talking. Telling him about your day when he didn’t even ask. But slowly he started looking forward to hearing your voice. It became the only thing that got him through his bleak days. You became the one who got him through all of his darkness. Like a tiny crack of light that slowly get bigger and bigger until it’s all he could see. You wormed your way into his heart.

His short grunts turned into him comfortably talking to you and the soft smile he’d usually hide behind his glass glass turned into grins. He was smiling so damn much round you. Something he hasn’t done in years. And neither of you noticed the side long stares the bartended and some of the regulars exchanged as they witness this change in him. He’s gotten a reputation of being this grumpy man who’s always drunk and glares at anyone who even talks to him until you came along and suddenly he’s gone soft on you.

Only you of course.

His sunshine. His beautiful darling who’ll make it all better.

You made him alive again. You made him feel again. And he’ll be damned if you ever try to leave his side.

me when “I hate everyone except you”:

[5dbuckbox]

could I mayhaps be fed some Rendoc? Platonic or not, I’m not picky! Assuming you like, y’know support the ship and- *Dies from embarrassment*

DONT HAVE TO TELL ME TWICE !!!

here you go anon !!!

i dont normally make ship art but that doesn't mean i'm normal about them not at all

[chiptrillino]

Dunno if it has been requested but no.66?

( ID in ALT text) i honestly didn't expect somone to still ask about these hahah

[creativepromptsforwriting]

can we please have some prompts for a sunshine parent + grumpy child dynamic?

Sunshine parent + grumpy child dynamic

The sunshine parent plans a nice day out, doing something they know the child will love, even if they are acting grumpy.

When the child comes home and is even more grumpy then usually, the parent drops everything to prepare their favourite food.

The child does not want to do anything, so their parent decides to built a pillow fort around them.

The child does not want to be on this vacation, but their parent's enthusiasm is slowly starting to win them over.

While the parent and the child are quite different, they are still a good team.

It's family game night, and neither parent nor child seem to be competitive at first. But that changes throughout the evening.

They embark on a road trip together and learn how to have a good time together.

The child does not want to show too much excitement, but their parent actually got them the perfect gift.

The parent has been working for months on their child's birthday party. Since they seemed grumpy the last few weeks, this party needs to be perfect.

Hope you like them! :)

- Jana

[rakiah]

TWST ask!

Is lady Ruggie taller than Ruggie sir? Since, female hyenas are, larger than males.

OF COURSE 🩷

[maspers]

I understand why they couldn't bring him back, but let's be honest a version of Leverage Redemption with Nate still around would have been an absolute joy to watch.

He'd take one look at Breanna and be like "who's this sassy lost child?" And he'd roll with it but he'd also just completely and possibly deliberately fail to explain ANYTHING to her. Breanna would call Hardison like every other day to complain about how Nate is a complete disaster of a man and Hardison would be like "Yes, I know, we all know, welcome to the club".

Meanwhile Harry Wilson would manage to spend the bulk of the season being even more confused than he already was in canon. Like. That's Nathan Ford??? I know about Nathan Ford, he was a legendary insurance agent! He went rogue and became one of the most successful criminals in the business! How is he A COMPLETE MESS??? Nate for his part is at first very untrusting of Harry and spends the first few episodes subtly manipulating the poor man into unnecessarily weird situations just to see what he'll do. Sophie chides Nate for being mean.

The schemes get changed, naturally, since Sophie is perfectly fine with letting Nate continue to be all Mastermindy, and the end result is very bizarre season that follows the same plot beats as the Canon one but in an inexplicably different way.

To make matters worse, when you have Nate around inevitably Maggie and Sterling show up (Sterling is oozing villainous enthusiasm at the chance to match wits with Nate and a slightly new Leverage Team, Maggie on the other hand does not want to be here but has accepted this is just a recurring part of her life now) and both of them arrive at the worst possible moment for everyone (except possibly Nate, who planned for this). Breanna immediately starts complaining about the sexual tension between Nate and Sterling, causing Hardison and Maggie to bust out laughing. There's a nonzero chance Harry ends up low key flirting with Maggie since Sophie's with Nate here, but it never goes anywhere.

Naturally the Mastermind Job gets significantly more bizarre than it already was. Everyone gives Nate a hard time over it. EVERYONE. The man never catches a break for the entire thing. They don't even let him run the con, partially because they're a bit mad but mostly just to troll him. Eliot grabs Nate and shakes him sternly at least once. Actually probably many times, throughout the season, as things get weirder.

Harry leaves at the end of Redemption Season 1 and Nate just nods knowingly and instructs Hardison to open a betting pool for how long it will be before Harry comes back. Parker wins, successful guessing it down to the exact day. Eliot accuses her of cheating.

Then in Redemption Season 2 Tara Cole shows up and everything gets worse.

[grumpytheunicorn]

Spreading yellow Donnie on toast

Buttered Toast

[enwoso]

we are the champions | alessia russo x child!reader x leah williamson

the highly anticipated one:) and a one long fic as people wanted. may do another one with the homecoming we’ll see

grumpy masterlist

the final whistle blew like a bullet through the lisbon sky.

arsenal women were champions of europe. for the second time.

alessia dropped to her knees on the pitch, emotion swallowing her whole. around her, the world turned gold, white and red, confetti blasting from cannons, teammates screaming, flares lighting up the estádio da luz in a halo of red and white.

they had done it. they had actually done it.

leah was the first to reach alessia, grabbing her in a bear hug, burying her face in her neck.

"we've actually done it," leah whispered, half-laughing through tears, the words feeling weird coming from her lips. "like we are actually european champions, less. what is life"

alessia laughed, clinging back as she placed a kiss to leah's cheek. "i don't think it's going to feel real for a few weeks."

leah smiled, eyes not leaving alessia's. the stadium behind them beginning to feel quieter, as if it was empty.

"i love you, less" leah whispered as she leaned i, slowly, like she wanted to give alessia the time to stop her — though they should have with the amount of camera fleeing around them but they both know they wouldn't. not in this moment.

leah's hand found alessia's waist, grounding them for a second while the other brushed gently against alessia's jaw, thumb tracing the curve of her cheek.

their lips meeting in a kiss that was soft and steady, unhurried. leah kissed her like she was trying to tell her everything she felt but couldn't say all at once.

alessia melted into it, her fingers curling into the back of leah's jersey - not because of heat or urgency but because of everything underneath it. love. relief. the quiet certainty that they were exactly where they were meant to be.

as they pulled apart, foreheads touching as they stood smiling like idiots. their joy was interrupted by beth sliming into them like a human bowling ball, as caitlin followed in pursuit the two laughing and whistling widely.

not far behind was kyra and steph dancing as katie was stood ruling the fans up as they chanted louder with each wave of the arms.

and somewhere between all the chaos and celebration, alessia's eyes searched for her person, other than leah.

and then—there.

by the touchline, just behind the led boards and camera flashes, was a tiny figure in an arsenal shirt with matching shorts and socks.

you. just five years old. face painted with red and white stripes that your nonna had done this morning, your curls bouncing, big blue eyes wide with glee. on your back: RUSSO 23 in thick black letters.

you'd been waiting for the chance to see your mummy, having not seen her properly since she left for the flight to lisbon on friday, hugging her one last time before she left you with your grandparents.

and now here you were, bouncing in place, fists pumping in the air like you'd won the trophy yourself.

"MUMMY!" you shrieked. alessia was on her feet and running before she even knew it. you launched yourself forward like a cannonball, nearly knocking your mummy over with the sheer force of her hug.

"i saw you get you m-medal," you gasped. "and- and you got to touch the shiny thing"

alessia laughed as she corrected you gently telling you that the 'shiny thing' was the trophy, before kissing your face over and over. "you watched the whole time?"

"i only blinked for snacks! but i saw everything!"

leah arrived moments later having been pulled to do a short press interview, smiling so brightly it hurt. leah pressed a kiss to alessia's temple and ruffled your hair as you hugged your mama.

"rumour has it you led chants in the stands," leah said as you nodded proudly. "well at least that's what uncle gio is spreading."

"i did!" you nodded proudly. "also had to make sure nonna and uncle g were cheering loud enough!'"

alessia blinked before a chuckle escaped her lips, the scene playing in her head so vividly. "good, you keep them in check lovie."

the three of you barely had time to breathe before beth reappeared, chloe in tow, both of them wielding medals like party favors.

"there she is! wondered when tiny was gonna make an appearance!" chloe smiled as she ruffled your hair, the winger placing herself between leah and alessia.

you beamed and held your arms up dramatically. "auntie lolo!" as chloe took you from your mums arms you giving chloe a warm hug.

"alright, tiny," katie shouted from across the pitch, charging toward them with a wild grin and the champions league trophy hoisted above the irish girls' head. "let's keep the cheers goin'!"

before anyone could react, katie kelt down, hoisted you onto her shoulders, and took off in a jog toward the centre circle, yelling like she was leading a viking raid.

leah's hand went to her head. "she's on katie's shoulders. should we be worried?"

"probably. but katie will keep her safe," alessia smirked. "and anyways lovie is basically built for chaos."

from halfway across the pitch, katie shouted, "CHLOE! YOU'RE ON VOCALS!"

chloe, never one to miss a chance to celebrate— ran after the two of you , waving her arms like a conductor. "let's GO!"

suddenly the lisbon night filled with voices — well, mostly shouting and off-key singing — as you, katie, and chloe launched into the loudest, most off-beat rendition of sweet caroline the stadium had ever heard.

"SO GOOD! SO GOOD!"

"MEATBALL LINE!" you yelled instead of 'sweet caroline'

katie didn't blink before joining in. "YES, MEATBALL LINE!"

"STINA STINA STINA STINA STINA" chloe chanted as the song changed, the fans joining in as stina was pushed forwards by the girls.

"BLACKSTENIUS!" you and katie responded continued the chant both hands in the air.

"SHE SCORES THE GOALS!"

"she scored the gooooaaalllls!" you screamed, arms in the air

alessia was bent over with laughter and awe watching you have so much fun. "oh my god. she's high on sugar and glory." leah was already making a mental note to pre-warn your teachers about the post-title behaviour for the next time she dropped you off.

the performance ended in classic mccabe fashion: a dramatic twirl that nearly sent chloe crashing, a fake mic drop with the match ball, and you collapsing in theatrical fashion onto the turf where all the confetti was, giggling and yelling, "THANK YOU LISBON!"

katie knelt down and gently lowered you off her shoulders. "you alright, tiny?"

you nodded, cheeks flushed as the confetti covered you as it tickled your bare legs "when i grow up, i'm gonna be a footballer and a singer and also be you."

katie grinned and saluted you. "you can stick around kiddo!"

the team gathered for photos, pulling you into every single one like you had made the final assist.

you held the trophy with alessia and leah, getting the perfect photos which would litter christmas cards for years to come as you inspected the trophy, "mummy! this would be the perfect for my coco pops!" you pointed at the trophy which in the middle was bowl shaped.

alessia laughed as she ruffled your hair, your innocence being too cute. "i- i think it's little too big to keep in the kitchen cupboard, don't you?"

you frowned slightly but the thought was long forgotten as your name was being called by beth, you rushing after her as you managed to steal her medal and make kyra give you a piggyback as steph braided ribbons into your curls as beth stole her medal back.

but eventually, the stadium lights began to dim and fans started to drift away. but on the pitch, under the lingering lisbon stars, the russo-williamson family found a pocket of quiet.

you had flopped into your mummy's lap, shoes long gone, holding your mummy's medal like it was excalibur.

"you tired now, angel?" leah asked softly, as you lay your head in her lap, your legs stretching onto your mummy's the bottom of your socks stained green.

"mm-hmm," you yawned. "but 'm not gonna sleep."

"no?"

"i gotta remember everything so i can tell everyone at school that my mummy and mama won the champions league and i sang on tv and auntie katie nearly head butting the wall."

"but i didn't though-" katie yelled from ten feet away. "i was sliding as a champion should!"

"you would have if leah hadn't have been in the way" kyra added helpfully. you giggled, eyes fluttering closed as leah stroked your hair.

"m' gonna show them all my medal and say, 'this was from my mummy and also 'm famous now.'”

leah smiled, reaching for alessia's hand. their fingers intertwined, their medals glinting in the soft lights.

"we did it," alessia whispered the words still feeling so weird coming from their lips.

leah looked at alessia. then at you. then back at the now-empty stands that had roared for them just hours ago. "yeah," she said. "we really did."

a trophy. a daughter. a dream come true. and, of course — one unforgettable performance of meatball line.

⸻

the party was already in full swing when the lift doors opened to the rooftop venue.

lisbon sparkled below them like a dream wrapped in gold foil. music pulsed through the warm night air, the city celebrating with them, as though it too had been part of arsenal's historic win.

inside, the team were already letting loose — champagne flying, dj spinning early 2000s bangers, medals clinking like party jewellery. the champions league trophy sat proudly on a plinth, already kissed, cradled and used as a makeshift hat.

alessia stepped into the chaos with you on her hip, changed into pyjamas except you insisted on wearing your arsenal shirt. leah followed, holding three drinks and already tipsy enough to be doing finger guns at nobody in particular.

"alright," leah grinned, "who's ready to celebrate like champions?"

"MUMMY!" you gasped, pointing at the dance floor. "katie's got the trophy and she's using it like a guitar!"

"she's had one drink and decided she's freddie mercury," alessia muttered although she couldn't stop the smile on her lips from appearing.

you were off your mummy's hip in seconds, beelining to the centre of the chaos where chloe, beth and kyra were trying to teach manu the macarena. katie was indeed shredding the air guitar solo with the champions league trophy and yelling "what the hell, what the helly" every ten seconds.

alessia and leah made their way to a quieter corner where their families had gathered. hug after hug. proud tears. leah's mum handed them both drinks like she'd been preparing for this moment since the group stages.

"champion's league winner," alessia's dad, mario said for the third time. "so proud of you less.”

"hope to never hear the end of it," gio chimed in, grinning at his sister. "might have to buy her a crown next."

leah laughed, draping herself across alessia's shoulder. "please do. i'll get her to wear it to breakfast."

a few drinks later, you had turned into the unofficial dj mascot — bouncing with beth and chloe, singing along to every song you didn't know the words to with absolute conviction.

but eventually, you took a break and plopped yourself down in a giant beanbag near the edge of the terrace — curly hair wild, cheeks pink, arsenal medal which was your mummy's swinging around your neck like a gold dinner plate.

your uncle gio dropping down beside you with a packet of crisps and a smirk. you both watched the dance floor as your mummy and beth attempted a tiktok routine, failing gloriously. leah was waving her medal like a lasso as katie was dancing with the trophy in one hand and a cocktail in the other like it was her child.

"they look a bit silly, don't they?" gio said in a stage whisper.

you giggled into your fries. "mummy's doing the wrong arms. and auntie bethy is singing at the wrong time"

"they look like baby giraffes trying to moonwalk," gio nodded. "but with glitter."

"mama was dancing earlier and said 'oof my hips' like she was old."

"that's because she is," gio winked jokingly as you stopped mid drink of your juice.

you gasped like he'd committed treason. "mama is not! she just creaks a little."

the two of you carried on watching as chloe attempted to pick up kyra for no apparent reason and immediately stumble into a table. "this party's wild," you declared wisely.

"this party," gio said, "is what happens when you give medals to people with work hard all season long."

"i like it."

"me too. but i think mummy has just tried to conga with a sandwich."

you both clinked juice boxes like critics at a cabaret. you leaned your head onto your uncle gio's shoulder for a second and said, "i think i'm famous now."

"oh, no question," he said. "you're already trending. probably."

but even chaos has its limits. by around half eleven, levitating blasted through the speakers again, and you — not one to be left out of a final banger — launched yourself back into the dance floor for one more spin.

one jump. two twirls. a victorious hop. and then, mid-wiggle, you slowly... lowered yourself to the floor, curled into a cushion, and fell completely, utterly asleep.

face down. arms flopped out. medal still around your neck, one croc on, one croc long gone. just out cold, right next to the trophy stand, as if you'd clocked off from being a legend.

"she's down!" beth called. "star of the show has left the building!"

alessia was already on her way, laughing as she bent to pick you up. "alright, little dancer. time to cash in your medal and sleep like a champ."

you didn't even stir. just let out a tiny sigh and snuggled into your mummy's arms like you'd done it all — lifted the trophy, saved the day, sang sweet caroline, and roasted everyone in the room.

leah joined the two of you on the quieter part of the terrace. someone on the way handed her a blanket, which alessia has draped over you and alessia as you sat on a cushioned bench under fairy lights.

"you good?" leah asked, curling beside them.

"i'm knackered," alessia said. "but happy. she's had the best night ever."

"she was the best part of my night," leah said. "even when she called you a noodle."

alessia groaned. "that's gio's fault."

"but she's not wrong though." they both laughed, gazing down at you, their whole world— cheeks rosy, medal slipping sideways around your neck, dreaming gold.

lisbon glittered around the three of you. music still played, but softer now. the team still swirled in celebration. but here, in this little pocket of peace, everything felt still.

⸻

the terminal smelled like coffee and regret.

leah leaned against a check-in kiosk wearing sunglasses indoors and holding a bottle of orange lucozade like it contained the secrets of the universe.

her medal was still around her neck, her hair a little messy in a bun, and her voice about three octaves lower than usual.

next to her, alessia looked like she'd lost a fight with this morning and had accepted her fate. she wore an arsenal hoodie two sizes too big (possibly leah's) hair scraped into a messy bun, and the unmistakable glaze of someone running on two hours' sleep and a cocktail made by chloe in a the trophy.

but in alessia's arms: you, dead silent, wide-eyed, and attached to your mummy like a sleepy koala bear. your curls were a mess, alessia doing your hair on the bus into a bun as you were dressed in a fresh pair of pyjamas

"she won't let me put her down," alessia whispered hoarsely, shifting the you slightly in her arms. "i tried once. she just screamed 'no mummy forever' and latched onto my neck like a vampire."

leah snorted and then winced. "ow. laughing hurts."

you turned your head. "no laughing. only snuggling." a beat passed. then leah felt a soft tug at her sleeve. you reached for her with both arms. "mummy switch. i want mama now."

so the handoff began — slow-motion, careful, like passing a bag of eggs, you now firmly climbing onto leah's front, arms wrapped around your mama like a human scarf. alessia groaned and rubbed her shoulder.

"my child is a barnacle."

"you're her whole world," Leah said.

"she's a twenty-kilo world with sharp elbows."

around them, the rest of the arsenal squad began to emerge from the coach in clumps — zombies in various forms of hangover and tiredness, herded by a very tired club staff who looked one bad joke away from quitting football forever.

beth walked past muttering, "i need paracetamol, sunglasses, and god," holding a water bottle like it owed her money.

steph and caitlin were quietly arguing about whether they'd packed their chargers. kyra was just standing in the middle of the airport hood up and sunglasses on, like she'd either forgotten how to go about life or she was just stood up asleep.

katie stumbled toward sunglasses tightly on her face, carrying the trophy, a neck pillow and backpack across her shoulder. "i swear i had a suitcase," she said to no one in particular, instead just to anyone who would listen.

"you left it on the bus," chloe mumbled behind her, chewing gum and wearing two pairs of sunglasses stacked like goggles.

katie turned. "do i at least have my passport?"

chloe checked her pocket. "i think you gave it to the trophy." no one questioned that.

"alright, alright," on of the staff member called out, clapping their hands. "let's move, champions. you're elite athletes, not a hen do in dublin."

"speak for yourself," katie said, and immediately tripped over a suitcase.

you, still clinging to leah like a sleepy tree frog, blinked slowly and whispered, "why everyone broken?"

"cause we had fun," alessia whispered, gently tucking a curl behind your ear.

"too much fun?"

"never but just enough."

they eventually made it through security, where you refused to go through the metal detector without one of your mums. the airport security just sighed. it ended in leah carrying you through like a small, suspiciously sparkly handbag.

at the gate, the squad collapsed into chairs like a deck of cards thrown on the floor. headphones in. hoods up. sunglasses on. nobody speaking above a whisper.

the champions league trophy was in its own seat, secured with a seatbelt and guarded by beth like it was a newborn baby.

you finally agreed to sit across both your mummy's and mama's laps like a bridge — head on one, feet on the other — eyes half-closed.

alessia pressed a kiss to your forehead. "tired now, lovie?"

you nodded slowly. "my legs feel like noodles."

"you and me both angel," your mama murmured, gently squeezing your little foot.

across the aisle, katie was asleep on caitlin's shoulder, clutching a bag of crisps like a teddy bear. kyra had fallen asleep mid-text with her phone resting on her face.

and somewhere near the back, alessia exhaled, one arm wrapped around you, the other tucked into leah's. the flight hadn't even taken off, and already, she felt the weight of it all hit her.

the trophy. the dancing. the singing. the way you had shouted "we're the champions" into katie's ear while sitting on her shoulders. the way leah had held her hand the whole walk to the hotel, the two of them laughing at nothing.

it had been magic. and now, in the grey haze of the morning after, there was just this:

a team of sleepy champions. a tiny medal-wearing daughter. and the soft, breathy sound of the people she loved most breathing beside her.

"less?" leah murmured, half-asleep already.

"yeah?"

"if she falls asleep again on me and drools, i'm not moving."

"she's already drooling," alessia whispered gently.

you grunted. "i can hear you." and then promptly fell asleep again — cheeks smushed against leah's hoodie, medal gently clinking, safe within arms reach.

lisbon was behind them. the trophy was theirs. the memories were golden. and the hangovers?

totally worth it.

[tacobacoyeet]

Patrick x reader where it’s kinda grumpy x sunshine where at first Patrick is so annoyed by reader because reader is a bundle of joy but as time goes on he starts to fall in love with her and then maybe something happens but they end up living happily ever after anyways

sunrise | patrick zweig x reader

a/n: patrick zweig my shayla :( thank you this was such a lovely request!!!!

warnings: ??? alcohol mention? one or two curse words? not proofread!

Patrick Zweig is not doing well.

Everyone knows it. The commentators circle around it like vultures, calling it a "rough patch" or a "mental hurdle," like saying it gently makes it less humiliating. But the truth is, Patrick is spiraling.

He's been crashing ever since the season turned sour and never stopped. No wins. No headlines that didn’t sting. No place to call his own for more than a week. Motel rooms and borrowed couches. A bag that holds too much grief and not enough clean clothes. Sometimes he wakes up and has to remind himself what city he’s even in.

There’s no control left. Not in his grip, not in his breath, not in the way he wakes up every morning with the same memory looped behind his eyes: Tashi kicking him out, Art not looking back, his name echoing in an empty room.

He hates himself for still caring. Hates how much space they both take up in his chest. He thought anger would save him. It doesn’t. It just keeps him awake at night.

He doesn’t want to be known as the guy who used to be good. The kid who won the juniors and became a failure. The guy who let it all slip. And yet, every time he steps onto the court, he feels smaller. Shrinking under the weight of what he used to be.

He hasn’t won a match in weeks.

He hasn’t looked anyone in the eye in just as long.

But then...

It starts with your laugh.

Not the first time he hears it, no. That time, you’re across the coffee shop with your back turned to him, mid-conversation with someone who doesn’t matter—because all he notices is the way your laugh cuts through the room like sunlight through a fogged-up window. Sharp. Warm. Relentless.

Patrick looks up from his phone and hates the sound of it. Hates how it slices through the air like it’s got permission to reach the parts of him he’s tried to deaden. It’s the kind of laugh that reminds him what it was like to feel light—careless, once. And God, does he hate that it still lands. That it finds its way in.

By the time he meets you officially, he's already decided you're too much. Too loud, too bright, too everything. You talk too fast, you smile too easily, you compliment strangers in line and tip too much and bring your own reusable straw. He loathes people who try too hard to be liked, and you do it effortlessly.

But you keep showing up.

You're always in his space somehow. In line ahead of him, sitting at the corner table he likes, talking to his coach’s assistant like you’ve known him for years. Laughing too loud during his interviews. Leaving your water bottle on his side of the bench, like it's yours just as much as it's his.

Eventually, someone introduces you. A bright-eyed, bushy-tailed new hire. In town for the season, touring with the ATP media team, apparently.

You say something about capturing "emotion in motion" and Patrick already wants to scream.

You call him “champ” the first time you bump into him outside the venue. He raises an eyebrow. “Bit generous, don’t you think?”

You just shrug. “Fake it till we make it.”

The next time he sees you, it’s raining.

You’re sitting under the patio awning of that café across from the practice courts—the one with the crooked yellow chairs and chipped espresso mugs—and you’re talking to someone with your whole face. Patrick doesn’t understand how people do that. All that smiling. All that eye contact.

You spot him. Of course you do. You wave him over like you’ve been waiting for him all day.

He pretends he doesn’t see you. He keeps walking. But the next morning, there’s a cappuccino waiting for him on the counter of the media lounge, his last name spelled right, foam in the shape of a little leaf.

No note. No explanation.

He drinks it anyway.

He tells himself it’s just coffee, despite the fact that the next day, when it's there again, he forgets to be annoyed.

But he doesn’t walk away. Not then. Not when he should.

And when he sees you again—alone this time, sitting on the floor of the media lounge with your back against the vending machine and a lollipop in your mouth—he finally speaks.

“Why do you keep doing that?”

You look up like you knew he’d ask eventually. “Doing what?”

“That,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “The coffee. The... cheerleader act.”

You blink at him. “Would you prefer I told you you suck and the whole world hates you?”

He stares.

You shrug. “I can do that too. You suck. The whole world hates you. Also, you smell like yesterday’s socks.”

He snorts before he can stop himself. It comes out sharp and unwilling.

Your grin widens. “There he is.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“No,” you say, “but I think you need it anyway.”

The next morning, he finds you outside the practice courts with your shoes off and your ankles up on the railing like you're sunbathing on a damn yacht. You're eating a croissant with your fingers, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"You know you're not allowed to sit here, right?" he says, more annoyed than curious.

You squint up at him, then take a deliberately slow bite. "Then call security."

He should. He really should. Instead, he rolls his eyes and keeps walking. You call after him: "Cappuccino with cinnamon again today, yeah?"

He mutters something unintelligible. You take it as a yes.

Later, when you drop it off beside him at the locker room door, you don’t say a word. Just tap twice on the frame, leave the cup, and go.

He drinks it while it’s still hot.

And when someone asks why he’s smiling that afternoon—barely, faintly, a twitch more than anything—he lies. Says he isn’t.

---

He expects you to get bored of him eventually. Everyone does. That’s the pattern—he pushes, they pull away. He says too little or too much, and they leave.

But you don’t.

You start bringing him snacks—random things. Trail mix. A banana taped with a sticky note that says “eat me or perish.” A protein bar you claim tastes like cardboard but is “great for mood regulation.”

He doesn’t laugh. Not at first. But he stops throwing them out.

You start sitting beside him during press conferences, off to the side, scribbling something in a notebook he can never quite see. One time he leans over and asks what you’re writing.

You blink at him. “A poem.”

He snorts. “What, about me?”

You tilt your head. “Would that be so crazy?”

He doesn’t answer. But he spends the rest of the afternoon wondering what rhymes with asshole.

He thinks you’ll grow tired of playing games with someone who never plays back. But every time he shows up, you’re already there. Smiling like he’s worth it.

You start keeping a mental tally of how many times he glares at you in a day. Three is average. Five is a personal best. Once he glares at you for a full five seconds without blinking, and you clap like he’s just landed a dismount.

He mutters, “You’re insufferable.”

You beam. “I’ve been called worse.”

He doesn’t understand you. Doesn’t understand how someone so full of light hasn’t been snuffed out by the world yet. You wear joy like armor, and it pisses him off. Not because it’s fake, but because it isn’t.

He sees you talking to a player who just lost a brutal match. You’re crouched beside him, one hand on his knee, saying something Patrick can’t hear—but he sees the way the guy breathes easier after. He sees the way you absorb the sadness and never show the strain.

You are not sunshine. You are the damn sun. And it’s blinding.

“Do you ever turn off?” he asks one day, mid-warmup, sweat already clinging to his back.

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Wouldn’t you miss me if I did?”

You start teasing him just to get a reaction.

When he scowls at his locker: "You know, if you smile too hard, your face might crack."

When he swears at a bad call during practice: "Wow, the ball has feelings too, you know."

When he winces mid-match: "Should I kiss it better or call a medic?"

He rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he hasn’t given himself a migraine. But the thing is—he stops snapping. Stops shutting down. Starts sighing instead, muttering under his breath, giving you just enough to keep going.

One day, he actually asks you something. Not snide. Not sarcastic. Just quiet:

"How do you stay so... not miserable?"

You blink at him, surprised.

"I don’t know. I guess I just decided a long time ago that if I was going to survive the world, I might as well like being alive in it."

He stares at you like you’ve said something in a different language.

Later that night, he lies awake and thinks about how you looked when you said it. How your voice didn’t tremble. How you didn’t look like you were trying to prove anything.

He doesn’t get it. But he’s starting to want to.

It happens slowly. Stupidly. A slow leak of resistance until he's letting you in without realizing he left the door unlocked.

One morning, he shows up early. The sun’s not even up, dew still clinging to the bleachers, and you’re already there—hood up, legs crossed, sipping iced coffee like it’s not fifty degrees outside.

He sits beside you without a word. You don’t look surprised.

“You’re early,” you murmur.

“You’re always here.”

You shrug. “Sometimes the world is quiet enough to hear yourself think at this hour.”

He huffs a dry laugh. “That sounds horrifying.”

You smile at your coffee lid. “Maybe. But sometimes I like what I hear.”

He doesn’t respond. But his knee brushes yours and he doesn’t move it.

That night, you send him a photo you took—just the two of your shadows on the concrete, stretched out and long from the low sun. No caption.

He stares at it for ten full minutes.

Then saves it to his phone.

It builds after that. Little things. Invisible stitches he can’t remember letting you thread through him. Moments that shouldn’t matter but linger like fingerprints on glass—smudged and undeniable. You’re everywhere now. In his routines. In his quiet. In his goddamn bloodstream.

You fix the tag on his shirt one morning without asking. He flinches, but you don’t pull away.

He brings you a coffee once. Doesn’t say a word when he hands it to you, but it’s your order down to the extra shot and oat milk.

One afternoon, it rains hard enough to cancel practice. You find him loitering in the hallway, staring out the window like it’s offended him. You offer to drive him to his shitty motel—just a casual thing, a favor.

He says yes, because he can't afford gas right now, anyway. That's the only reason.

In the car, the silence stretches but doesn’t strain. You play some ridiculous radio station, nothing but boybands and bubble pop, and you sing like you mean it. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t join in. But he doesn’t tell you to stop, either.

You’re at a red light when it happens.

You turn to say something—something dumb, probably—and you catch him looking at you.

Really looking.

His expression doesn’t shift. He’s still. Still and dark and unreadable. But the air gets heavier.

"Patrick?" you whisper, like if you say his name too loud, you'll blow him way.

He leans forward a little—just a little—and then pulls back like he’s touched something hot.

“Light’s green,” he mutters.

You drive.

Neither of you says anything the rest of the way.

It shifts after that.

Not immediately, but enough for you to notice. He starts showing up a little later. Stops meeting your eyes as easily. The coffees stop. So do the texts. That photo of your shadows? Still saved. Still unopened.

You try to ask. Only once. Lightly. Carefully. You say, "You good?"

He says, "I'm fine."

You know he’s lying. But he’s always been good at that.

What you don’t expect is for him to snap a week later. You find him after another loss, shoulders tense, expression carved from stone. You hand him a towel. He throws it.

"I don’t need a fucking babysitter," he says, voice low and mean.

You blink, stunned. "I didn’t—"

"You think if you smile at me long enough, I’ll magically stop sucking? Newsflash! I’ve always been like this. I’ve always been this. You just didn’t see it."

You open your mouth. Close it.

He shakes his head and looks away, like he's disgusted with himself. Or with you. You can’t tell.

"Just... stop," he mutters.

So you do.

No more coffees. No more morning greetings. No more lollipops or playlists or sticky notes.

You don’t stop caring. You just stop making it easy to see.

He notices in the silence.

In the way his mornings stretch too long now, too quiet. In the empty side of the bench where your coffee used to sit. In the lack of your humming echoing through the halls. No more sticky notes. No jokes mid-interview. No shadow stretching next to his.

It’s pathetic, how fast the absence takes up space.

He loses another match. And this time, no one meets him at the locker room door.

No you.

Just the echo of everything he didn’t say when he had the chance.

That night, he drinks alone. His phone burns a hole in his pocket. He scrolls through your messages—there aren’t many—but each one is a goddamn spark. Each one a moment he didn’t deserve.

He almost texts. Doesn’t.

Almost calls. Doesn’t.

Instead, he goes back to the hotel, looks in the mirror, and says, out loud, "You fucking idiot."

Because he is.

And for the first time in weeks, he wants to stop being one.

His breaking point comes the next day.

He wakes up late. Misses breakfast. Loses a set in practice to a player ten years younger who doesn’t even break a sweat. His racquet slips on match point. He hears someone snicker in the stands. He doesn’t know if it’s about him, but it doesn’t matter. He feels flayed open, raw and rotten underneath.

He goes back to the locker room and punches the wall. Doesn’t break anything except his pride.

His coach tells him to take the rest of the day off. Patrick doesn't argue. He leaves, heart thudding too hard, jaw locked like it'll shatter if he lets it go.

He ends up at your apartment without thinking. He doesn’t remember driving there. Doesn’t remember deciding to show up at all.

But then he’s standing at your door. Knuckles raised. Breathing uneven.

When you open it, you're in an oversized tee and no shoes, eyes wide like you were mid-laugh before the knock interrupted.

You don’t say anything.

He looks at you like he’s run out of ways to pretend he doesn’t care.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You blink. It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him say those words.

“For what?”

He swallows hard. “For being cruel when I was scared. For pushing you away because I didn’t know how not to need you.”

A long pause.

You tilt your head. “And now?”

His voice breaks a little. Just a little.

"I need you anyway."

You don’t move. Not at first.

You just look at him—really look. At the way his shoulders are hunched like he’s bracing for impact. At the quiet panic under his words. At the boy beneath the fury.

Then you step aside.

“Come in.”

He does.

You close the door behind him and the silence settles like dust. He doesn’t sit. Just stands in the middle of your apartment like he’s not sure he belongs in rooms like this anymore. Rooms that are warm. Lived in. Safe.

You walk past him, head to the kitchen, and flick the kettle on without saying a word.

He watches your back. The curve of your shoulders. The ease of your movements. He thinks he might cry.

When you hand him the mug a few minutes later, hands brushing like you can somehow transfer your warmth to him. He doesn’t thank you. But he holds it like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

You lean against the counter. “Why now?”

He swallows. “Because I lost everything that ever mattered to me. And I thought that meant I didn’t deserve anything good.”

“And now?”

He looks up. Meets your eyes.

"It doesn't feel good. Especially when it's my fault."

You set your mug down and cross the space between you without hesitation.

Your arms wrap around his middle like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He stiffens at first, because of course he does, but then you feel it: the slow, painful melt. The way his hands come up like he doesn’t trust them, one resting on your back, the other tangling gently in your shirt.

He buries his face in your neck. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

You hold him for a long time.

When you finally pull back, his eyes are glassy, rimmed in something quiet and cracking.

“I’m not good at this,” he murmurs.

“You don’t have to be,” you reply. “You just have to try.”

---

It’s two weeks before his next match.

You don’t say anything about it. You just show up to practice like you always used to, dragging a lawn chair to the edge of the court, sipping coffee like you never stopped.

He doesn’t say anything either. But the first time your eyes meet across the net, he doesn’t look away.

The win doesn’t come easy. Three sets. A tiebreaker. Sweat and grit and every bone in his body screaming. But he wins.

And the second the match point lands—his chest heaving, the roar of the crowd crashing like surf in his ears—his gaze tears away from the blur of court and racket and sweat. Instinct cuts through exhaustion, and he searches. Not for the scoreboard. Not for a camera. Not even for air.

He looks for you.

And there you are. Leaning over the railing. Laughing.

That laugh. The sound of it cuts straight through the roar, through the lights, through the ache in his bones. You're not sunshine, he thinks. You're the sun—steady and searing, ever-present. And for once, he’s not afraid of burning.

Later, you find each other outside the stadium, tucked away behind a row of vendor tents, where the buzz of the crowd fades to a low, distant hum.

He’s still in his kit, sweat drying against his skin, hair damp and curling at the edges. His hands are shaking slightly. He doesn’t know if it’s adrenaline or something else.

You don’t say anything at first.

Just step in. Press your forehead to his. Let your fingers curl into the hem of his shirt.

He exhales, slow and shaky. “Did you see me?”

You nod. “Every second.”

He closes his eyes.

“Feels different,” he whispers. “Winning. With you there.”

You tilt his chin up with one hand. “Good different?”

His smile is small. Soft. “Best I’ve ever felt.”

And then you kiss him.

It’s not fireworks. Not at first. It’s grounding. Steady. A homecoming. A sigh through the chest. And when he kisses you back, it’s with everything he didn’t know how to give until now.

When you finally pull away, he presses his lips to your temple.

“Don’t leave,” he says.

You smile. “Only if you promise to buy my coffee.”

He laughs into your skin. “Deal.”

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @kharwreck @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl

[mcflymemes]

PROMPTS FOR THE GRUMPY VS SUNSHINE TROPE *  assorted dialogue for that great dynamic between a guarded character and a warmer character, adjust as necessary

GRUMPY CHARACTER

do you ever stop smiling?

life sucks. get over it.

no one ever listens to me. at least, not until you showed up.

i didn't ask for your opinion.

there are more important things i should be dealing with.

i don't talk about my feelings with anyone.

that was a little uncalled for.

i didn't mean to talk your ear off.

i work better on my own.

what did you say to them to get them to listen?

i don't want to talk to you. in fact, i don't want to talk to anyone.

can you just leave me alone?

i never said i would help you.

you can't just talk your way out of problems.

everything was fine until you showed up.

now if you'll excuse me, i have better things to do.

what's so great about this place, anyway?

my opinion doesn't matter anyway.

i don't have time for "fun."

i just want to get this done and go home.

that's never been up to me to decide.

do you stick your head into everyone's business, or just mine?

if it's all the same to you, i'd prefer to be alone.

no one asked you to get involved.

i don't have a choice. it's my duty.

you're interrupting me again.

can we talk about this another time?

you've been listening to me talk for an hour now.

how do you stay so positive all the time?

i'm perfectly content just the way i am, thank you very much.

can't you see they're taking advantage of you?

SUNSHINE CHARACTER

i wish you would just listen to what i have to say.

i have to try and stay positive. it's the only way we get through this.

nothing good can come from constant negativity.

i believe in myself because no one else will.

i've seen what happens when the bad outweighs the good.

we just have to stay strong.

you never know what someone is going through.

i am capable of more than you give me credit for.

i don't think you're a bad person.

there's so much more to life than this.

you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

have you tried being nice to them?

a compliment goes a long way.

i choose to be kind.

i just don't see the point in staying silent.

i'm just trying to look out for you.

there's no need to be rude.

we could work together as a team. did you ever think about that?

if you need my help, i'm here for you.

you should smile more often.

i wish you would just be yourself.

for what it's worth, i like who you are now.

we don't have to fight all the time.

being soft is not a weakness.

i want to make this work between us.

despite all that, i'm still here for you.

if you ever want to talk, i'm here to listen.

you're not as bad as you make yourself seem.

i've never seen you that way.

i've come to care about you.

[sunday-bug]

Request: Bucky Barnes just being a grump in the morning.

Oh absolutely-we love a grumpy Bucky.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x girlfriend reader

Word Count: 0.4k

Content: no warnings

“Outta coffee?” He grumbles, letting the last few grounds fall into the filter of the coffee pot. “Lovely.”

“It’s on my list today, love,” you remind him, pointing to the grocery list on the refrigerator.

“Hmph,” he groans, opening the fridge and taking out a carton of orange juice. He’s in pajama pants and a robe, untied and open, showing off his bare chest. He pours a glass of orange juice, downing it quickly and wiping his chin. His hair is sticking up in all directions and there’s lines on his face and chest from where he was tangled in bedsheets. You can’t help but chuckle at the unruly sight of him.

His brow furrows as he looks at you, “What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” you say, holding back a giggle as you get your shoes from the closet.

“Where are you going?” He whines, wiping sleep from his eyes.

“Honey, I have to get a few groceries, remember?” You put on your jacket and smile at him sweetly.

“You’re just gonna leave me here with no coffee?” He rummages through the cabinets, leaving the doors open as he goes. “No cereal… no, no… there’s no peanut butter?” His shoulders sink beneath his robe and his head hangs. 

“There’s bread,” you offer. “Make some toast. I’m going to get more of your favorites, okay?” 

He shuffles over to you with sad puppy eyes. “Will you wait for me to shower so I can come with you?”

You sigh and laugh, welcoming him into your arms. “Sure, baby, but make it a quick one.”

He nods and hurries to the bathroom. You hear the shower start and the curtain shuffle as he gets in. “I’m out of shampoo!” He yells.

“I know!” You sing-song back to him. “On the list!” You walk to the bathroom and peek your head in. “Just use my shampoo for now.”

“It’s… pink,” he groans. “And says it smells like freesia. Whatever that is.”

“Use it, Bucky,” you warn him.

“Fine,” he gripes, and you hear him start to lather it through his hair. 

“And before I hear you whine about it, we are out of mouthwash. But guess what? It’s on my list!” You shut the bathroom door behind you and sigh.

Bucky walks out of the bathroom, towel draped around his waist, wet hair spiked with beads of water. 

“Doll?” He leans against the open doorway.

“Hmm?” 

“I’m sorry… for being a grump this morning. Thank you for keeping track of stuff when we run out. I don’t know what I’d do without ya.”

“Well, for starters, your hair would smell like freesia everyday,” you quip.

He groans again, but smiles, giving you a wink, “I love ya.”

“I love you, too, my grumpy man.”

Taglist:

@ruexj283

@sebastianstan0813

[hitwiththefandomz]

I love imagining your BENT turtles after finding out Donnie's ages.

On one hand, Leo would be whining to Donnie about Raph and Mikey being mean to him, since Donnie is technically the oldest.

On the other hand, Raph treats Donnie like the baby and like he's still tiny, because in his mind he is, and yells at anyone that so much as looks at him wrong.

And Mikey just watches it all in mild amusement.

Their dynamic is definitely a fun one! Totally agree that after talking about ages they would all change how they interact with each other a bit

Also the B.E.N.T turtles are not mine - they’re owned by @butterfilledpockets and I just doodle them because I love the AU ε-(´∀｀; )