Fuck Off.

"The grasshopper should not threaten the master."

"You're gonna fucking get it."

Cue the eye roll. “Ugh, you’re disgustin.”

"Disgustingly hot."

“Fuck yes. Choose your weapon, grasshopper.”

"I'll choose my fists an' use 'em on you if you call me fucking grasshopper again."

"…—That a yes?"

"Ain't a no."

"Don’ ge’ a big fuckin’ head, either."

Cue the dirty snickering. "Already there."

"You’re bein’ a twat," she snickers.

"Right, so basically we’re gonna find some shit to fuck up with my sword and throwing stars."

"...................................." He's questioning why Steve even has a sword.

"Don’ be li’ tha’, Big Bad."

    "Big Bad. Damn right."

      "No fuckin' chick flick moments." He's only saying that to mask his blushing.

"Watch me never use my fuckin' amazing - and I mean really fucking amazing - singing talents in fron'a you ever again."

"Is this revenge for no’ lettin’ you go another round?"

"I'm trying to tell you how I feel about you through the medium of fucking song, so shut the fuck up, yeah?"

        ”I’s three am.”

     "AND I WOULD WALK 500 MILES, AND I WOULD WALK 500 MORE.~"

"You could, I dunno, kiss me."

"You ain't pregnant, nothing's changed, nothing to say."

      "Nothin' else to say."