Chapter Text
You barely catch your breath, wiping a triumphant grin across your face, while Jean Loo—Lil Crapper himself—paces back and forth, muttering under his breath like some toilet-themed rapper caught in defeat. (heh.) You just wiped the floor with Jean Loo at his own demand for a crap battle. It’s clear that Jean Loo isn’t taking it so well.
“Well, well,” he huffs, waving a hand dramatically. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, you didn’t just win because of sheer talent, okay? Jean Loo wasn’t even trying his hardest.”
You snicker, crossing your arms. “Sure, sure. That’s what they all say right before admitting I’m amazing.”
Jean Loo’s eyes narrow, and he stomps one foot, clearly trying to salvage some shred of dignity. “Jean Loo says: don’t let this ego inflate too much. Or Lil Crapper might have to—” he pauses for effect, pointing at you—“drop another verse to crush you again.”
You laugh, leaning back against the counter. “I’m shaking in my boots, really.”
His lips twitch, as if he’s trying to smile but failing. He can’t help himself. He’s taken in the flush of your cheeks, the way your lashes brush against them when you giggle, and the warmth in your laugh. There’s something about the way you look in that moment—soft, teasing, undeniably charming—that makes his chest tighten and his usual over-the-top persona waver. He clears his throat and mutters under his breath, assuming you won’t understand:
“Tu as un joli visage… vraiment joli.”
(You have a pretty face… really pretty.)
Your eyes widen only slightly before a slow smirk spreads across your face. You walk towards him, leaning in, as you respond smoothly in French.
“Tu trouves mon visage mignon ? Je suis flatté, Jean Loo.”
(You think my face is cute? I’m flattered, Jean Loo.)
Jean Loo freezes mid-step, his jaw dropping just a fraction. Then he stumbles, muttering in a strangled, panicked French.
“Tu… tu parles français ?!”
(You… you speak French?!)
His usual confident bravado crumbles, replaced with a deep blush that climbs all the way to his ears and forehead. His hands flap awkwardly at his sides, and he stammers over his words like a rapper who forgot his own lyrics.
“Je… Jean Loo… Lil… Lil Crapper… euh… eh bien… je… je…”
You can’t hold it in. A soft giggle escapes your lips, and Jean Loo’s flustered expression makes it impossible to stop. He’s sputtering, muttering, and completely undone, all because you mirrored his own words back at him.
Finally, he glares—half annoyed, half embarrassed—but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a tiny acknowledgment of defeat.
“You… you got lucky,” he says, switching back to English, voice low. “Jean Loo doesn’t just… let someone get inside his head like that.”
You step closer, inches away from his face. You decide to tease but gently. “I wouldn’t call it luck, Jean Loo. Call it… skill.”
His blush deepens, and his eyes dart away, pretending to inspect the floor. But you catch the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. For all his Lil Crapper bravado, he’s impressed—and maybe, just maybe, a little flustered by your unexpected charm.
“You… I mean…” he stammers again, before finally giving up and muttering, “Jean Loo… okay… Jean Loo admits… you’re… good. Very good.”
You grin, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know. But don’t worry, Lil Crapper, I’ll still go easy on you next time.”
Jean Loo groans, leaning back dramatically like he’s been crushed by some unseen weight. “Jean Loo… can’t believe this. Defeated… by you… and in French, no less.”
You giggle, ruffling his hair lightly. “Better luck next time, Jean Loo.”
He groans again, muttering French under his breath, but you catch the words with a grin:
“C… c’est… c’est trop pour Jean Loo…”
(I… this… this is too much for Jean Loo…)
You laugh softly, shaking your head. For all his posturing, Jean Loo is undeniably flustered, and you secretly enjoy that the tiniest slip of language turned the tables so effortlessly.
As he finally slumps onto the porcelain toilet behind him, pretending to sulk but sneaking glances at you, you can’t help but feel the warmth in the room—funny, chaotic, and a little… soft. Even the Lil Crapper has a side that melts when caught off-guard, and for now, that’s more than enough.