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Oct 16, 2019 4:30 PM
yes this is a good plan
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"The internet thinks I stopped some guy from robbing a 7-11 so I have to go answer questions on Reddit or something. So they know it wasn't Nobody."

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"Is this a deep-seated distaste for 7-11s, or fondness for petty thieves?"

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"It's my name! No fucking way am I letting some other dude have it!"

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"You're marvelous," Jean observes, amused. "Would you like me to be quick about it and let you get back to work, or shall we have some fun with it?"

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"...it'd kinda suck to waste the first time, huh?"

He puts his chin in his hand.

"Didn't really let you sleep long – you up to it?"

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"Of course. Not too tired right now, really, just a little chronically sleep-deprived. ... Besides. I'm taller than you for once."

He kisses Z on the cheek.

"I'll give you a head start while I count ten. Then I'm coming to get you."

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(He makes a mental note to make Jean sleep more.)

"–gonna hunt me down?"

He scrambles out of bed and takes a few steps backwards towards the door.

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"Ten," Jean says, watching from the comfort of the bed.

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–oh, shit, this is happening.

He takes another couple of slow steps backward, then spins on his heel and sprints out the door, towards the stairs.

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"Nine!" Jean calls after, amused.

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Down the stairs – down the hall – into the kitchen –

He squeezes himself in under the sink and shuts the cabinet door behind him.

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Footsteps on the stairs.

Jean is whistling a nursery tune, walking at a measured pace; stopping to look behind curtains, under furniture.

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He swears his heartbeat is going to give him away.

He takes slow, measured breaths and stays tense, poised to move.

(What is he, a serial killer from a...okay, no, that’s hot, actually.)

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He's singing, softly, as he comes towards the kitchen.

    "Alouette, gentille aloutette,
     Alouette, je te plumerai.
     Je te plumerai la tête,
     Je te plumerai la tête.
"

A series of quick sharp thuds, as he drags his hand along the balusters, then swings on the last one to turn and come into the room.

    "Et la tête!
    
Et la tête!
     Alouette!
     Alouette!
"

Louder, closer, for a moment, as he bends to peer behind the stove, into the oven.

    "Alouette, gentille aloutette,
     Alouette, je te plumerai.
     Je te plumerai le bec,
     Je te plumerai le bec.
"

Unhurried footsteps moving the length of the room, pausing outside the pantry for long moments before he throws the door open.

    "Et le bec!
     Et le bec!

     Et la tête!
    
Et la tête!
     Alouette!
     Alouette!
"

Moving back the other direction, carelessly kicking each cabinet door on his way; they rebound and shudder in their frames.

    "Alouette, gentille aloutette."

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Thud. -- as he kicks the cabinet where Z is hidden, the sound perceptibly less hollow.

Jean's grin is audible as he finishes:

     "Alouette, je te plumerai."

Then he opens the cabinet door.

 

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His breathing gets faster and more unsteady as Jean approaches.

(Thud, thud, thud, goes his heart. It's fear without the danger – this must be what horror movies are for, for the kind of person who they still touch.)

He jolts in place, a little, with each kick, stomach dropping every time–

When Jean pulls the cabinet open he stops rubbing his thighs together and springs forward, ducking under his arm, trying to make a break for the door.

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Jean grabs at him, yanks him back -- he's caught him in a good enough grip to pull him up short, but not enough to hold onto him afterwards, and his hand slips off Z's arm almost as soon as it's there.

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He gasps, stumbles, pushes off him to run back for the door.

(Even if you get away, says the part of his mind that's really trying to escape, you're alone on an island, you can't run forever, and god he almost hopes that Jean catches him soon.)

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"Oh," Jean breathes, leaping after him, "aren't you just the cutest thing."

There's a few moments of mad dashing before he's in arm's reach of Z.

The moment he is, he takes a straight swing at him, aiming for the face.

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It catches him right in the cheek – and he's not used to holding his weight in this body, never got hit while he's this light, so it sends him sprawling against the door frame.

He tries to scramble back to his feet, head spinning.

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Jean draws back his leg and kicks him, hard, in the solar plexus, the full force of the swing behind it.

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He is directly on the ground, gasping for air.

It feels like he got hit by a car – it's amazing –

Once he catches his breath maybe he can go back to thinking about the fact that he's caught.

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In the meantime Jean will grab him by his ankles, haul him up over his shoulder without any particular care for what parts of him get dragged along the ground in the process, and deposit him unceremoniously on the kitchen island.

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He manages to catch his breath enough to speak.

"What," he asks, voice wavering slightly, "are you gonna do?"

He's still in the same state as before, half-believing that he's some horror film heroine who just got dragged out of her hiding spot, but that's not all that's coming through in his voice.

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"What a good question," Jean murmurs, running a hand possessively up the side of Z's face, before twisting it painfully tight in his hair.

"If I were really sure you could heal it, I would break your spine and rape you while you couldn't even feel it."

 

 

"Of course ... there's things that might have much of the same effect and be easier to heal."

His other hand slides down Z's stomach, between his legs.

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He’s completely soaking wet.

“No—no no don’t please don’t—”

He grinds almost involuntarily into Jean’s fingers, pulls so hard against the hand in his hair that some of it nearly comes out.

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