[ He kicks again at the door — but this time he's looking to bust it open. And if Tobias doesn't answer within about five of those kicks, he just might manage it. ]
[ Aww, plain old humans are so adorable and slow. Jan moves fast, slamming an almost-lifted leg back to the ground and throwing a hand up, making to catch that fist in his palm. Easily done, with enhanced strength and speed — which, after all, are pretty much just around to show off now and then.
And when he grins, it looks a little bit like the face a shark might make, teeth and all. ]
There's something about the combination of seeing all those ungodly teeth up close and the sudden inability to move his hand that sparks an immediate fight or flight response. A little old-fashioned panic. Beecher shows his own duller, far less impressive teeth in a flash of rage, hissing like a cat, and his free hand - the one holding his trusty shank - stabs forward and stabslower.
[ Oh yeah, he definitely sees that shank coming. And he could dodge, but he figures this asshole needs a lesson. So he stands still — he doesn't even flinch. And he only grins wider as he bleeds. ]
Shit, are you volunteering to replace all that leaking out? That's awful fuckin' sweet of you.
Fuck you, you fucking fuck! [clearly not at his most elegant, but in his defense, there's a lot happening. Like the fact that the guy he just stabbed in the gut with a three and a half inch hunk of metal hasn't so much as twitched. Beecher actually needs to look down for a moment and see the blood on the shank to verify that yes, he actually did stab Jan.
Beecher tries to twist free, his heart beating louder than he'd ever like to admit.] Get your fucking hand off me!
[ He does let go, but it comes with a shove. One hand to throw Beecher's hand back, the other solid against his chest. And then he leans in the doorway, with just enough room for someone to pass close by him to get out. ]
Dude, did you think I was fucking kidding? Get the fuck out here and come to the goddamn Bahamas with me.
[ His stomach is still bleeding out. It'll be a couple minutes before that seals, but he ignores it. ]
[he stumbles back like some newborn foal (Jan's strength is nothing to scoff at), but manages to catch himself against the bed instead of ending up on the floor. It gives him a minute to catch his breath and sort out all these new things he's learned. New Things 1 & 2: Jan's way stronger than he looks, and he needs to see a dentist like yesterday.]
Or what? What're you going to do? I mean are you shitting me, this is insane! Don't you have friends?
[that... sounded less obvious inside his head.]
...And you're getting blood all over my floor, asshole. [petulantly]
[ The demand just amuses him — until he glances down, as pointed out, at the blood dropping to the floor. Then his eyes go wide, apologetic. ]
Oh, shit, my bad! I didn't mean to get it on your floor.
[ He pulls his shirt up to a tattooed (and now bloody) stomach, swabs his fingers around in it, and turns to begin fingerpainting it on the wall. F - U - C — ]
[which is about when Beecher goes ker-snap and rushes him, because we all know how well that worked last time. He at least has a clearer goal this go-around, which is to knock away Jan's painting hand (or at least the arm attached to it)]
[ Jan laughs, but lets his hand be batted away. Of course, on the rebound of it, he makes to grab for Beecher's jaw, instead. The goal here is definitely kissyface, cheeks squeezed in and lips forced to pucker out. He's sure a blood-smeared kissyface will look great on him. ]
You knock off stabbing me and I'll leave my masterpiece on your wall unfinished, how's that?
[it has to look ridiculous, the utter, lit and shining rage in Beecher's eyes contrasted against his sudden, unwanted fish face. He remembers the last time he let someone push him around like this, treat him like a bitch. The very last time.
He tries to twist his head back enough to speak normally, biting out his words.] Fine. But you touch me like that again and next time I'm stabbing your cock.
Uh huh. [ He shoves Beecher's face back (a little less hard than he'd shoved on his hand and chest, you're welcome), and pulls his shirt back down again, wiping blood off his hand on the fabric. ]
You stab my cock, and I rip out your goddamn throat with my teeth, how's that?
[ An empty threat — there's a hex on him stopping things like that. Not that he'll ever be saying it! ]
[ He starts out the door, but pauses to make sure he's being followed. And he'd better be, he has all sorts of more annoying tricks up his sleeve if not. ]
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Not in the fucking mood! [yelled from his room, from his bed, where he was still, obstinately, trying to sleep.] Try next door!
[and that's that. ....Even if he does have his shank in hand, clenched beneath his blanket.
Old habits, you know.]
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Did I fucking ask if you were in the mood?!
[ He kicks again at the door — but this time he's looking to bust it open. And if Tobias doesn't answer within about five of those kicks, he just might manage it. ]
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When he finally does yank his door open, it's to make room for the fist flying for Jan's face] I said fuck off!
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And when he grins, it looks a little bit like the face a shark might make, teeth and all. ]
That wasn't one of the options I gave you, bro.
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There's something about the combination of seeing all those ungodly teeth up close and the sudden inability to move his hand that sparks an immediate fight or flight response. A little old-fashioned panic. Beecher shows his own duller, far less impressive teeth in a flash of rage, hissing like a cat, and his free hand - the one holding his trusty shank - stabs forward and stabslower.
If at first you don't succeed...]
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Shit, are you volunteering to replace all that leaking out? That's awful fuckin' sweet of you.
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Beecher tries to twist free, his heart beating louder than he'd ever like to admit.] Get your fucking hand off me!
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Dude, did you think I was fucking kidding? Get the fuck out here and come to the goddamn Bahamas with me.
[ His stomach is still bleeding out. It'll be a couple minutes before that seals, but he ignores it. ]
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Or what? What're you going to do? I mean are you shitting me, this is insane! Don't you have friends?
[that... sounded less obvious inside his head.]
...And you're getting blood all over my floor, asshole. [petulantly]
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Oh, shit, my bad! I didn't mean to get it on your floor.
[ He pulls his shirt up to a tattooed (and now bloody) stomach, swabs his fingers around in it, and turns to begin fingerpainting it on the wall. F - U - C — ]
I meant to get it on your wall.
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Stop that, you sick shit!
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You knock off stabbing me and I'll leave my masterpiece on your wall unfinished, how's that?
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He tries to twist his head back enough to speak normally, biting out his words.] Fine. But you touch me like that again and next time I'm stabbing your cock.
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You stab my cock, and I rip out your goddamn throat with my teeth, how's that?
[ An empty threat — there's a hex on him stopping things like that. Not that he'll ever be saying it! ]
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...Now remind me what the fuck you're even here for? To drag me to the Bahamas?
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[ He starts out the door, but pauses to make sure he's being followed. And he'd better be, he has all sorts of more annoying tricks up his sleeve if not. ]
Maybe we'll be real lucky and get Disneyland.
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I'm going to need way more information before I even pretend to think about this.