Grumpy LJ will always have some kind of hold on me, I love thinking that his oddly painted black smile would curve downwards so exaggeratedly that you’d just HAVE to notice it.
He makes sure of that.
He’d look so overdramtified with his facial features too—like someone took a marker and redrew his face in the saddest expression possible.
LJ is the type to sigh so loud and try his hardest to get someone to ask him what's wrong so he can whine about literally anything.
He’d sigh so loud. Long, theatrical, drawn-out exhales that sound like the world is ending. To him, it might be, but it really isn’t.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Over and over until you grit your teeth and grunt out a “what, Jack?”.
He’s perking up when you ask before he sighs, dramatically draping himself over you.
“You haven’t been paying attention to meeee,” he’d whine out, terribly pouty and trying to be babied. Spoiler; it isn’t working.
“I’m working,” you’d try to say as you move what you’re working on off your lap to not have it crushed under his weight when he decides he needs to be the center of all your attention.
“You’re ALWAYS working..!”
“Jack,”
“Sugarrr…!” he’d continue, face buried at the side of your leg where it meets your hip, making sure his nose doesn’t stab you as his long arms wrap around your body so that his clawed fingers wrap around you to keep you there. “I was in that dusty old box for sooooo long, I’m YEARNING! You can’t ignore me like this!”
“You haven't been in your box in forever,” you’d protest, glaring at him as he interrupts your very important work. “And you’re not ‘yearning’, you’re attention seeking.”
He tilts his head up just enough for one black eye to peek at you, that painted grin twitching faintly. “It’s the same thing, isn’t it, sugar?”
“It is not even directly–Jack, get off me.”
If you manage to push him off, he’ll pout and sulk dramatically like his whole heart shattered. It didn’t, but you’d think it did with how he’s huffing and puffing and trying to act like he’ll burst out crying if you don’t him back up on you, glancing at you every few seconds to see if you’re feeling guilty yet.
I’d imagine if he's feeling particularly stubborn, he’ll trap you with his arms, pointed nose poking out over your shoulder, complaining about how “mean” you are, and that you should love him more because what if he gets stuck in that dreadful old box again? You’d surely regret being so mean, won’t you?
