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PROMPTS BASED ON WEIRD SHIT ME & MY BF HAVE SAID TO EACH OTHER

" you think the itsy bitsy spider gave a fuck about the rain ? NO. it climbed the spout again. lock in twin. "

" i'm going to have to shit so bad later. "

" he was right, i am a weenie hut jr. "

" my constitution is a 1 because i get tummy aches. "

" can i get smooches on the skibidi toilet ? "

" i'm letting you get away with being this gay because it's pride month. "

" will thy maiden match milord's freak ? "

" what in the hillbilly yeehaw john deer tractor confederate flag is goin on. "

" i kissed you because your breath smells like pumpkin & it smells nice. "

" the fatter the ass, the kinder you are. "

" i believed i was a little german boy. "

" cardi b once said ' broke bitches don't deserve no pussy ' & i live by that. "

" RIP [NAME], THIS IS WHERE THEY DIE. IN THE FROZEN AISLE OF VONS. "

" he's so hot & then wonders why he attracts all these people ??? stop being a whore. "

" for lack of better words, i'm so silly. "

" yeah he's a murderer, he eats people, but look how cute he is right now. "

" devastated. i knew this man was a bottom yet here i am. "

" ayo, i bet his dick is huge. "

" it's okay, trauma makes you hot, baby girl. "

" i was not having a baja blast, but that’s all in the baja past. "

" he's GAY, harold. "

" listen, she's a freak, but only because she knows how to love with her WHOLE PUSSY. "

" bro not to sound like a middle aged white woman but this shit is breathtaking. "

" i kiss all my homies goodnight, that's my ninja way. "

" i have no bedtime, i am god. "

" i love you, say it back. "

" nah bb u fine as hell, just the way you ate them 9 tacos surprised me. "

" life update : the voices are getting louder. "

" imagine having beef with me. i'm just a funny jokester. a silly little guy. you're gonna have beef with a silly little guy ? for shame. "

[offdxty]

&. 𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐬 (𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬?) 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

(  various  dialogue  prompts  to  send  to  your  worst  enemy  (affectionate).  feel  free  to  change  how  you  seem  fit.  )

❛ oh great, it's you again. ❜

❛ you? kill me? that's funny. ❜

❛ for being someone you hate, i'm sure on your mind a lot. ❜

❛ you're the last person i wanted to see, actually. ❜

❛ do us both a favor. stay away from me. ❜

❛ you really are an asshole, you know that? ❜

❛ i'm the asshole? what does that make you then? ❜

❛ sometimes i think you must hate me. ❜

❛ i thought you said you never wanted to see me again. ❜

❛ if you want me to go, then you have to tell me to leave. ❜

❛ well, someone's cranky today. ❜

❛ well, someone needs to shut the fuck up. ❜

❛ just stay out of my way. ❜

❛ of all the idiots in the world, i'm stuck with you. ❜

❛ what is it you want this time? ❜

❛ sometimes i wonder if you're in love with me. ❜

❛ do you honestly think this is easy for me? ❜

❛ why would i ever want to be friends with you? ❜

❛ can we please just talk? ❜

❛ there is nothing for us to talk about. ❜

❛ you can yell at me later. just let me help you. ❜

❛ touch me, and you're dead. ❜

❛ oh, so now you care? ❜

❛ there is something deeply wrong with you. ❜

❛ i know i'm the last person you probably want to see, but... ❜

❛ you don't think we could be friends, do you? ❜

❛ i'm tired of fighting against you. ❜

❛ don't pretend you give a shit about me. ❜

❛ you're an idiot, but... i trust you. ❜

❛ oh, don't be cute. ❜

❛ wait, did you just say that i'm cute? ❜

❛ we're not good for each other. ❜

❛ if i say yes, will you shut up? ❜

❛ don't you have to be stupid somewhere else? ❜

❛ maybe we should kiss just to break the tension. ❜

❛ i'm sorry i can't turn off my feelings as easily as you. ❜

❛ maybe there's a universe out there where we're friends. ❜

❛ how can you be so smart yet so dumb at the same time? ❜

❛ don't think this changes anything between us. ❜

❛ you look ridiculous in that outfit, by the way. ❜

❛ if you die, i'll kill you. ❜

❛ is that a challenge? ❜

❛ ah, so you're not heartless after all. ❜

❛ i don't think i've ever seen you smile. ❜

❛ you never cared about me, so why now? ❜

❛ why didn't you kill me when you had the chance? ❜

❛ i don't even remember why we started fighting. ❜

❛ i don't have time for distractions right now. ❜

❛ you're not as bad as everyone says you are. ❜

❛ enemies make the best lovers, you know. ❜

[offdxty]

Outfit appreciation - Oscar Isaac as Abel Morales in A Most Violent Year Costume design by Kasia Walicka-Maimone

[offdxty]

About: Abel Morales

Name: Abel Morales Age: 43 Sex: Cis Male Species: Human Sexuality: Heterosexual Repressed Homosexual Height: 5'8'' Hair color: Black with a hint of grey Eye Color: Dark Brown [Pictures] [About] [Musings] [Audivisual (music)]

About:

Born in Guatemala City, Abel immigrated to the US at 18 years old. The abrupt change in culture and society did not stop him from turning into a successful man, however, but quite the opposite, just as hoped; Now living the American Dream, he's the owner of Standard Oil - a successful, independent fuel and heating oil supplier. Having started out decades ago as a simple truck driver for said company, he'd married the mob-connected boss’s daughter, Anna, after which he'd then bought the entire business and made it his own. Despite that, he's never wanted to become a gangster himself - or to be connected to the mafia in any way. Living a rather lavish lifestyle in a modernist house in Westchester, he's the father of three daughters, owns a dog, and displays his success by always being well and fancy dressed (except when he's out to go on his almost-daily run through the city down to the suburbans, where he prefers more simple attire). Having managed to push his company through a very rough time in 1981 - buying a patch of land that almost caused him to go bankrupt while being subjected to a variety of crimes (trucks and fuel stolen, drivers been injured) as well as having charges pressed against his company (a 14-count indictment on everything from fraud to tax evasion) at the very same time - Morales is now back on track and Standard Oil stronger than ever. With him owning the newly disclosed land (worth 2,5 million USD), he now imports a great amount of fuel, more than most of his competitors, which allows him to reside somewhere at the top of the metaphorical food chain of the heating oil industry. To do this, he, unfortunately, had to take some more-or-less legal approaches to reach his goal, however - forcing him to take a step away from his own morals, becoming more of a gangster than what feels comfortable to him. As said, many would consider him to live the American Dream; A Latino immigrant having turned into one of the most successful company owners in the eighties - many dream of it, few ever manage to get where Morales is at the moment. ... Yet he struggles with some personal life matters, despite claiming not to. Being married with kids, he loves his wife, of course - that's how it's meant to be, and that's what the perfect American family is supposed to look like... ...But sometimes, some part of him keeps poking and prodding at vulnerable insides - a sexuality pushed to the side and away in favor for being successful and powerful, causing desires and deep wishes to be ignored, happiness to turn into something bitter and hopeless as time passes.

"When it feels scary to jump, that is exactly when you jump, otherwise you end up staying in the same place your whole life, and that I can't do."

Verses:

Verses will be individually made to fit to a desired plot/situation. Abel is a rather versatile character who can fit into a variety of plots/AU verses and storylines.

• The general main Verse: Is set after the movie (A Most Violent Year). In 1982, Abel is still the owner of a now even more successful heating oil company called Standard Oil. He lives in his lavish house together with his wife, his three daughters and his dog. Despite claiming that everything is going well and great, he is secretly struggling with his sexuality - something he managed to push away for a long time, but the older he gets, the more complicated it becomes.

• Alternate main Verse: Set within a more 'modern' timeline (e.g. the year 2025). The rest remains the same (Abel is a very successful company owner, married with kids, but secretly struggles with his sexuality).

[offdxty]

OSCAR ISAAC as William Tell THE CARD COUNTER (2021) dir. Paul Schrader

[offdxty]

You ever feel grief for the person you could’ve been if none of this ever happened to you?

[offdxty]

Commitment is one way to call it - obsession is another, punishment a third, with comfort being the thing that holds everything together. Will's former lifestyle can easily be described using those four words only, and all of them would be equally correct while being entirely different at the same time.

A blink, a hum, another look thrown at Danny - who's now leaning against the wall, nonchalant.

William's going to be here for years, he's aware of that - it cannot hurt to have a conversation every once in a while, even he is going to allow himself to have such. Yes, even with someone who's giving him certain kinds of vibes; In the end, all of them are here because they did something drastic, something inhumane, after all.

"...William, but you can call me Will." Here he is, introducing himself. "What was it that made you approach me? My deck of cards?"

Curious, a brow arched as said cards continue to flick back and forth betwen his nimble fingers.

The sun gleamed down. Prisoners milled, some tucked into conversation, others roaming, their shadows stretched behind them. There was distant birdsong echoing off the high prison walls. A reminder of a world outside; a place they were not allowed.

Danny squinted at the wisps of clouds suspended in the sky. One reminded him of a lung, that conical slab of meat.

"What image do you see?" his designated therapist had asked on their second session 1655 days ago. She held up an image card of abstract ink splatters. "Death." "Could you be more specific?" "Death holding His scythe. Might be an omen." She'd terminated the session early. Something about the gleam in his eyes as he'd muttered those words. The way he'd observed her like a piece of meat to be carved up like a Thanksgiving meal.

He blinked the spots from his eyes, remnants of bright sunlight, and pivoted his attention to Will.

"Twelve to fourteen hours. That's commitment." He pressed a shoulder to the brick wall and leaned. "Name's Danny."

[offdxty]

There are a lot of interesting things happening all of a sudden - things that catch William's attention, have him look back at her as soon as she's pushing those poker chips closer for a second time.

However, her insistence isn't what's truly fascinating about it all - but rather the whole thing that happens after, an interaction between her and the barkeeper, serving her a glass of Whiskey; While that guy is talking to her, using actual words to express what he won't do for her, the lady is... well.

Not speaking. Not a single syllable leaves her mouth, gestures following instead, and despite the lack of a spoken language, it's easy to understand that she wonders about the fact that her drink is less than half-full. That, by the way, is another little detail that has Will's brows knit, head tilting as he shifts a bit to face her better - taking in the sight of that barkeeper telling her no, she cannot have the glass filled to the top, wondering why she's so persistent about it.

Frustration sets in on both sides as dark eyes continue to watch, to take in the sight, with money being slapped onto the counter moments after. Too much money that is, even for that rather expensive kind of Whiskey she's going to enjoy there - or, well, not enjoy, as shown mere seconds after in the wrinkle of her nose, the squint to her eyes, disgust shaking her body from the very core.

... And Will begins to put some pieces together there, allows another moment to pass, thoughtful; Blinking, his attention is on the barkeeper again---

"...You owe her change.", is what he says finally, voice flat, firm. It takes said barkeeper a moment to even understand what he means - and he throws a rather confused expression at him, to which William arches a brow, expectant. "---You gonna tell me you think she gave that bill to you out of generosity? She obviously doesn't know how much it is, so get a move on and be a decent guy."

A hint of a threat, perhaps, but wrapped into something formal - something not necessarily unkind, yet pushing at the edges; He's not asking that man nicely here - Will's speaking out a command, military-style.

It works out, has said barkeeper folding to the pressure; He mumbles out a few words of what might be an apology, an explanation, but honestly, William gives a flying fuck. His piercing, yet lidded gaze remains lingering on that fella until he's putting money back on top of the counter, pushing it toward the woman who's clearly struggling to speak, to articulate herself with words, and might be inexperienced in some ways. The barkeeper apologizes to her as well, his whole demeanor changed to something akin to a dog with its tail tucked in, before he turns around to hurry away and serve other customers...

"...That is definitely yours. You handed him too much money."

A nod toward that money, with Will's gaze now focusing back on the lady who's so deeply displeased with him - his expression softens a bit, but there's an obvious glint of curiosity lingering within dark brown irises now.

He isn't too sure if she's even understanding him - seemingly having been unable to truly get what that asshole-bartender had tried to tell her minutes ago - but he wants to treat her like anyone else despite wondering what exactly is going on here.

---She's certainly a foreigner, of asian descent; Is that why she's struggling...?

"You also bought yourself a quite strong kind of Whiskey there."

Eyes on her glass, then back on her features - a simple gesture without using his actual hands.

"---Not sure if you can, or should, handle that one. It requires a bit of an...sophisticated taste."

Despite his confusion towards her actions, he is…amused. He does not understand why she is unhappy, but he still laughs quietly on the inside about it. Her scowl deepens.

Yours, he says, expecting her to take the discs back. Instead, she shakes her head. Pushes the pile of them even closer to him. Insistent. Refusing to accept something she did not fairly win.

It would be different if he had been doubting himself and his cards, back at the table. But he had believed himself to have the better hand. He had believed he would win—maybe he would have—if he had continued to play, and instead he stopped playing altogether. For no reason but to let her win.

She refuses to accept that.

The compliments he gives, that she does not understand, seem to be sincere, but that does not make her appreciate them more, given the context in which they are given.

Her attention is taken away from him when the man behind the counter returns and sets a glass in front of her. A glass that barely has anything in it. It is not even half full. Her displeased frown morphs into one of confusion, eyes darting back up to the drink-maker and down again. There is barely more in her glass than there is in her opponent’s.

She taps the lip of the glass, before placing her finger against the side of it, only as high as the liquid in it. Then, she slides her finger up to the top, giving the drink-maker a meaningful look.

No, his body and voice respond. Her brows pull together. He says no to giving her a full drink? Cass does not understand. Not when others at this counter have full drinks in their hands. She taps near the top of the glass again, a bit more insistently, but the man only argues with her. Gets annoyed, frustrated. Looks at her and speaks to her in a tone of voice that means he thinks she is stupid.

Her jaw tightens. Those near them have begun to pay attention. She does not want attention.

Fine. She will accept the not-full drink, then. Places one of the money slips from her pocket onto the counter and hopes it is enough. Given the surprise and satisfaction she receives from the man in return, it is.

Not worth it, she decides the moment she takes a gulp. Cass pulls a face, nose wrinkling as the liquid burns its way down her throat. It is only years of conditioning to not make a sound that keeps her from coughing. It is like drinking fire. She stares at the cup in her hand for a moment in shock and disgust, before casting the man beside her a disbelieving look. Why in the world would he want to drink something like that?

[offdxty]

Part of Will really wants to feel annoyed by this - the fact that another guy has claimed a space so close to him, is now trying to chat him up - but shit, the much bigger part of him is actually unable to let that sensation come to fruition---

---Simply because he's cute with his big brown doe-eyes, with that smile sticking to his full lips as he tells about his friend, the fact that he's coming here rather often, introduces himself as Robbie; Damn, even that babbling of his is kind of adorable, and he truly is handsome on top of it all. Young, energetic, a little awkward...

Doesn't help that he's Will's type. Doesn't help at all.

God, he should feel ashamed because of this - that he, a 44 year old, is currently having some sort of intense reaction to someone who could be his kid, if one were to set out the facts in a real brutal way. Robbie is certainly of legal age, possibly a university student, but... well, probably half Will's age nevertheless. And yet said Robbie is definitely eyeing him up in return, in one way or another; Perhaps that's just how he behaves, with his gaze so intense and open - but there still is something sticking to it that has a piece of Will want to preen a little at the attention he receives...

Which is precisely why he sits up a bit more straight after a moment passes, squaring his shoulders and pushing his chest out as his own attention flicks back and forth between the club, his drink and the other.

"---Wander around, meet new people, huh." A hum, something akin to a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his own mouth as Will takes it in, inhales, exhales, unable to keep his gaze away from the other - looks at him again, allows dark eyes to rest for longer on the kid's appearance.

Bronze skin, dark hair, pretty teeth, not too skinny, long lashes. God.

"So, why aren't you goin' with your friend then and meet some ladies as well? Much more interesting than speaking to me, I promise."

A blink, that somewhat-barely-there smile persisting...

"...Well, it's nice to meet you, Robbie. You can call me Will." ... "Y'know, people usually don't bring their drinks with 'em when visiting a club, just saying."

A bit of a playful jab at the fact that Robbie is, indeed, just sitting there and clutching his water bottle. ---Why is Will even bringing it up? Shit, here he is now, chatting back at that young man...

Dark eyes on his own, and Robbie felt it in his chest on his next inhale. Oh, his type was definitely kicking him in the ass tonight, that was for certain. Looking to the older man — his lidded gaze, his no-nonsense expression. Salt and pepper hair slicked back so nicely. . . a whole silver fox as some might call it. That's exactly what this man was, and Robbie was kind of falling for it a little too quickly for a man with no alcohol in his system. Maybe he needed to order some. Swallowing roughly when the other spoke, he had a moment to wonder if maybe he was pushing his luck here. They guy, for lack of better words — did not seem interested at all. Voice low, flat almost. Uninterested might be a good way to describe it. Yet something tickled at the back of Robbie's throat. That incessant need to keep talking. So he licked plush lips, then laughed a little as he looked down at himself. He certainly didn't fit in, that was a pretty good observation to have. "That easy to spot on me, huh? I mean, I come here often, actually? With a friend — this is more his scene than mine, though. He goes off to flirt with the ladies and I just, uhm. Just wander around. Meet new people." The last bit spoken with those puppy-dog eyes back on the other man. Maybe wondering if he was so lucky as to make acquaintances with him in some manner.

"I'm, uh — Robbie, by the way. Not that you gotta give me your info back but, you know. Since we're talking a lil' bit here, I thought. . . why not." It was awkward in the way any fresh out of college student might be — even if Robbie wasn't that fresh from school. A few years. He wondered if it was obvious, how much of a thing he had for the man before him. Tried to keep the glances subtle but might just be failing at that. His rambling most likely didn't help his case either.

[offdxty]

Kane doesn't want any of this to happen.

He does not want to follow, does not want to go somewhere else, does not want to leave their van behind; What if someone's going to find it while they're stuck at the station, rummaging around, possibly stealing things, even?

---He's about to open his mouth and to protest - to ask for a moment of time - but Arthur's moving, and he's holding onto his hand; Fingers intertwined, his grip is firm, and it signals Kane that it is best for them to comply - to follow, to be cooperative, even if the thing as a whole doesn't sit well with the both of them.

As opposed to Arthur, though, Kane does glance at him one more time as he falls into a step next to his lover, bottom lip sucked between his teeth, nostrils flaring as a breath is exhaled. Two trucks are waiting for them, both engines running, ready to go elsewhere---

"...Would you please follow me.", the woman speaks up once they've reached both of those cars - her gaze, however, is focused entirely on Arthur, accompanied by a nod of her head. "You're coming with me. Your partner..." A brief glance at Kane, "...Will be going with my colleague."

A heartbeat passes and Kane feels something cold run through his veins - it tastes like dread, bitter and thick, has him swallow as they come to a halt, unable to keep his brows from knitting ever so gently at the demand they're bring presented with. Perhaps he shouldn't speak up about it - keep his mouth shut - but he just cannot help himself, inhales, then exhales---

"...Why do you need to separate us?" His voice is calm and gentle as he speaks, yet a hint of urgency does exist within those syllables, "We're not going to cause any trouble." Both the woman and the man are now looking at him, allowing a second of silence to pass before the guy is the one to answer this time.

"It's a safety measure, standard protocol." He sounds less than amused, a little rough at the edges, albeit putting effort in to sound as polite as he possibly can. "While we do not expect you to be dangerous, we have to follow said protocol at all times."

---Kane almost feels like that man is trying to lecture him, in an odd way; Oh, he hates the way that gaze rests on him, has Kane's own darken significantly, even though he's trying hard to remain as unreadable as he possibly can.

"It allows us to respond quicker to any possible... ---incidents that could happen, in theory." The woman adds then, careful yet firm, her gaze flicking back over to Arthur, trying to reason with him. "The ride back to the station won't take too long - just about ten minutes."

A blink, with Kane swallowing - and, again, he glances at his partner, gives that hand a bit of a squeeze he hopes comes across as a silent question of sorts, an urgent inquiry; I hate this, I am uncomfortable, I am afraid.

What if this is going to go wrong in all the damn possible ways? What if he'll end up back at te facility...?

Arthur didn’t glance at Kane - he couldn’t afford to. Even the smallest flicker of concern could be something read, used against him, and the last thing he needed was to give these people more leverage. 

His breath was quiet as he gently breathed in, his posture straightening in deliberation, his expression measured and patient.

“If this is standard procedure, then I’d like to know what we’re walking into,” he answered. “Will we be free to leave, afterward? Or is this an open-ended arrangement?” 

The woman shifted as the question landed against her, clearly uncomfortable. “Like I said. It won’t take long.” 

Arthur’s lips twitched, almost looking like something close to a smile. “That’s not an answer.” 

There was a faint tension that rippled through the group. Boots shifted in the mud, the truck’s engine whined softly, indicating that a man was seated in the driver’s seat and toying with his foot on the gas. The man’s eyes narrowed, his folded arms dropping to his sides. 

“We’re not looking for trouble,” he claimed. “You’re coming with us for just a moment. Questions.” 

Arthur’s jaw worked for a moment, his gaze shifting between the others. He wanted to resist more; wanted to suggest taking time to go through the van, just to get everything locked up properly. It would make it look as if they were hiding things, however - which, of course, they weren’t. 

His jaw shifted again, teeth biting down against his tongue. He inhaled slowly, giving a gentle squeeze to Kane’s hand; and then he nodded once. 

“Alright,” he agreed; calm enough to pass for innocent. “We’ll come with you.” 

The woman gave a small nod, stepping back toward the truck. The man gestured for them to follow, an invitation that only felt like an order; Arthur followed, but held Kane’s hand the entire time. 

[offdxty]

---Will is about to finally act out on those thoughts he's had for a while now - lifts his glass, plans to pour the remainder of that Whiskey down his throat so he's got a proper reason to make his way out of here - when someone takes a seat right next to him, even though the bar itself offers more empty seats a bit further away.

And yeah, Will's commenting on it silently, inside his mind - wonders why the other didn't just choose one of the seats to the right - and it only gives him another reason to pull through; Whatever this is, he isn't up for it - he's too old, shouldn't be here to begin with---

You don't look like you're a very big fan of bars, either.

A blink, an exhale, and Will turns his head to glance at the unknown one; Dark eyes on equally as dark, but much wider ones, the connection causing him to stop mid-motion, drink hovering in the air. Much younger than expected is what comes to his mind first - a guy who's barely scratching the age of twenty-five, if even that, with soft but sculpted features, dark brows, dark hair, a clean-shaven jawline, full lips; He's clutching a water bottle of all things, as if it's giving him comfort in the same way a stuffed animal would...

He's gorgeous.

---Will swallows, feeling a little caught all of a sudden - something sheepish sticking to his gaze - before he clears his throat, turns his head back around, glances at that glass of Whiskey that's still hovering in front of his own face. An inhale, a moment of consideration, then he takes a much smaller sip than planned before placing it back down onto the bar.

That idea to leave? Still there, of course. And Will should do precisely that - disappear, go somewhere else - but he remains seated instead, allows another breath to escape him as he looks back at the other one, meeting that puppy-stare for a second time...

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

"...Yeah." Tone flat, a small pause following, not as suave as people would probably expect him to be. He clears his throat once again, awkwardly so, eyes on his own fingers now - still curled around the glass sitting there, almost empty. "---Of clubs. Not really one to ...frequent those."

A nod, tongue trailing against the roof of his mouth. Another swallow, and he cannot stop himself from taking another peek at that young man...

"...You do look a little... out of place as well."

Just a comment being made, and Will knows he's attempting to make conversation here; Fuck, he shouldn't. Yet here he is.

Robbie had to wonder why he always let Jack drag him to these sorts of places. . . Maybe it had a whole lot to do with the fact the other man was, truly -- his only friend. The only person that the biology student had any interest in hanging out with. Even if, well -- he never really got to hang out with the other when they came to the clubs. He'd actually be lucky if Jack spent a solid ten minutes with him before getting dragged away by all the ladies around. Robbie never understood it, really. Maybe he just wasn't much a ladies man like his friend. No, not at all, whether he told anyone the details on that or not. Just like most nights when goaded along -- Jack had left him within that ten minute period he got when first showing up. Wandered off with two girls calling out for 'Jacky'. God, he really was not the type to be in these sorts of places at all. . . No, he must stick out like a soar thumb, cradling his water bottle in hopes it would give him some silent strength. He never liked drinking, which was funny considering he came to any club Jack decided they were going to that week. Winding up taking a seat at the bar in a space mostly empty -- besides one man. Older, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Robbie hated it, but the first thing he noticed was how attractive the other was. Jack would make fun if his 'type' all the time, but really could he be blamed? There was no reason to start conversation here. They guy looked like he'd rather not be bothered but it seemed Robbie's brain to mouth filter wasn't exactly in working order that night.

"You don't look like you're a very big fan of bars, either." Like extending a hand metaphorically. The younger of the two looking on with those puppy-dog eyes. A smile on his lips, one that was just a hint awkward as he kept that bottle held tightly between his hands.

[offdxty]

Will has watched, and met, lots of men - and women too, but mostly men - before, and during, the time he'd spent within the deepest shithole one could ever sink into; The military itself isn't the pit of it, not at all, but said hole he'd moved further and further into with the seconds, hours, days, months passing - allowed himself to consider, to take on, to become - had certainly been the metaphorical rock-bottom of one's entire existence, barely anything worse coming after; He'd seen, he'd witnessed, he'd acted... and the second he spots that wide smile on the other's face - D. Johnson, his name tag says - he knows what it is made of, because of his expert knowledge.

No details, obviously. No real insights. Just a gut feeling, a sensation, a knife cutting itself through his chest, his intestines, each knuckle of his fingers. He's seen that smile before, has watched it stretching across sweaty faces; Dark eyes continue to linger on the man next to him for a little while before they fall away again, gazing at his digits shuffle the deck, mixing it all up in what appears to be a motion happening at random.

"Poker. Black Jack." They're both in prison now, him and Johnson, and there's no need to try and separate himself from the cruelty of the world, the other - especially not since he's been there before, went straight back into it because of... circumstances.

He would do it all over again.

"Used to play 12 to 14 hours a day - each day, every day. Visited many Casinos, one after another." Just a statement, a piece of information, nothing else - similar to the piece of information the guy has given to him mere moments ago, spoke about his father, that they used to play from time to time.

"Having a mean poker face is the first step to success. ---You were onto something."

Will is still shuffling his cards, over and over and over again - there seemingly is no real purpose behind it, he's just handling them for the sake of... doing something, honestly. They comfort him, a constant in his life he's allowed himself to have. His gaze stays away from the one who'd approached him, lidded and focused on those cards...

Why today, he thinks to himself, but doesn't speak out loud.

Day 1683, the day of change. Subtle, indifferent, a mere step out of a line he'd transcribed for himself in the metaphorical sand. To stand here adjacent a stranger holding a deck of cards. A stranger with his own set of choices that brought him to this place. ( Danny imagined cracking him open. Were his insides red, too? )

"My father liked to play Poker." Carl Johnson and his Sunday Poker nights with the boys. A young Danny was not permitted at those gatherings. But some evenings, when work had not kept the senior Johnson out late, he would deal a hand to his young son at the kitchen table and teach him the importance of apathy. "Sometimes he'd play with me; I was always better at chess, but I had a mean Poker face."

He flashed a smile, cunning and bright. Less practiced than before—there was an edge of cruelty to it, unintentional, a mere byproduct of 1,683 days of incarceration. ( There was no need to mask here. )

"What's your preferred game?"

Day 1683 and Danny Johnson dared to make a friend.

[offdxty]

Plotted starter @odditymuse because we are so insane man (it's my fault oops not sorry)

Will's not one to visit clubs. He isn't one to visit bars, either - not really.

He plays Poker and Black Jack. Travels. ...Well, most of the time, that is; He isn't traveling right now, nor is he playing Poker or Black Jack.

...He's at a club, and it's her fault.

You need to get out for once, she'd said to him, used that one gaze on him that always makes him give in, at some point. Listen, it will be good for you to see something else for once. I know you're not believing in redemption, all of that... but trust me, having a drink and listening to music - possibly finding someone to spend some time with - isn't going to hurt you, nor is it going to set you on fire or something.

A deep inhale of air, a roll of dark eyes; Will didn't want to, is too old for things like these, yet he'd allowed Linda to drag him all the way to this... whatever this place is called. He didn't even really look at the sign, just followed her inside and regretted all of his life choices the second he'd been met with the sound of music and the smell of sweat, booze, cologne, perfume...

Despite it all, he'd taken a seat at the bar, and here he is now - sipping his Whiskey, heavy-lidded eyes trailing along his surroundings; The music isn't that loud over here at least, and the few flirt-attempts he'd been subjected to so far he'd been able to deflect with his perfectly trained resting-bitch-ease that clings to him at all times.

...Maybe he should just go, leave, do anything else. Linda's hanging out with her friends, seems to have a good time somewhere across the club, so... she wouldn't notice if Will were to just... vanish.

Another deep inhale, another sip of his drink.

---Why did he allow himself to let her pull his ass into this club again? Sure, the music isn't too bad, he's heard worse, but it's loud and the air is a bit too thick for his liking, and the bartender is eyeing him with that certain kind of sympathy-stare; It's awkward, he should really just get up and leave...

[offdxty]

@mxlevolence sent in:

Day 1683 out of eternity. He wasn't keeping count, though. ( Those etchings in his notebook was his countdown to Death, not freedom. The latter was unattainable in five consecutive life sentences plus an additional 150 years. Unless he was immortal. And he was not. ) It was his allotted Outside Time. Where, dressed in his orange jumpsuit, he would stand and glare at the too-bright sky, wishing it were dark outside. But day 1683 was different. Today he ventured from his spot on the outskirts, close to the stone facade of the prison building, and flitted toward an equally lone figure, William Tillich. Danny gestured to the pack of cards in Tillich's hands with a jut of his chin. "Gambler or magician?"

As opposed to most of his fellow inmates, Will seems to enjoy the time he's spending in here, inside this well-known prison; Everything is the same each and every single day: Same toothbrush, same toothpaste, same bed, same farts, same shoes, same window, same floor, same ceiling, same sink, same toilet, same toilet paper, same smell, same air.

Blank. Uneventful. Restrictive. Ouright boring, nerve-wracking in a way, sense-dulling. Most wish for some kind of distraction, for a change in pace, a new sight, a new sensation that will help them to feel alive again...

---To him, it's comforting. It sates something inside Will, a deep urge that eats away on his bones day after day of his tired existence. He likes it, to have the same toothbrush and the same bed, to stand at the same wall at the same spot whenever they're led outside; Part of him even wished the sky would stay the same, just to dull his life even further.

He deserves this. Will has always deserved it, will always deserve it.

Said comfort lies within punishment. The prison-therapist calls his behavior an 'expression of deep-set PTSD'; Will does not really think about it, just keeps flicking his cards back and forth between his fingers...

Until he's being interrupted, that is.

...He doesn't want to be interrupted. It's a change of pace, and he didn't ask for it to happen.

"...Gambler." Yet he does offer this answer to the other, a man he's seen before but never really spoken to; Voice soft and steady, his eyes remain lidded and focused on his task at hand - continuing to flick Cards from one hand to the other, then the other way around. Back and forth, back and forth.

---He peeks up at that guy for a moment then, once a few seconds of silence have passed - but his dark eyes fall away almost immediately; The sun's too bright, he hates having to squint against it.

[offdxty]

OSCAR ISAAC behind the scenes of Annihilation

[offdxty]

To Will's subtle surprise, he did notice it - the fact that the young lady didn't seem to be too happy about her win the second he'd given it to her, as if not quite understanding what has been happening. ---Or, as if not having expected him to even pull off the move in the first place; Whatever it might be, he's not focusing on it too much anymore, just slides into his seat at the bar with a soft sigh escaping him, attention away from the previous game.

That's how he's doing it, has always done it - play, win or lose, and let go. Sometimes Will mulls it over - his win, his loss - to try and find any possible flaws either connected to his own game or the one of his opponents, but he rarely does that anymore nowadays. He's good at Poker, good at Black Jack, and the act of counting cards does not necessarily require for an amazing strategy to be connected to it, after all.

So here he is now, enjoying his Whiskey. Well, as much as he allows himself to enjoy, that is; It burns on his tongue, inside his throat, and that sensation might be what he's truly after - the subtle discomfort of something so sharp and strong combined with the comfort of booze, an edge to something nice.

---He's only realizing what's happening next to him when that woman from before has already claimed her own seat, seemingly having managed to snatch it away from another woman who's less than amused about a possible chance having been taken from her. Not that Will would've given her any to begin with; She's not his type, he can tell just by sparing her a single glance, before his dark eyes focus on the much younger one he's met just mere moments ago.

A blink, a set of dark brows lifting as he watches her practically slamming those chips onto the counter - accompanied by a huff that's almost as sharp as the blade of a knife would be, her own eyes seemingly trying to cut him in half. They're met with a mixture of confusion and a hint of astonishment, perhaps - but then the bartender interrupts her quite impressive display, inquires about her choice of drink.

---And Will, brows know knitted along his forehead, the crease between them deepening, stares at the chips before brown irises are on her, watching the lady struggling for a moment - as if he's unsure what to even do here, interesting... - before she's seemingly deciding on getting the same drink he's currently nursing himself.

It's incredibly odd to see, to watch that moment of utter self-confidence being replaced by the exact opposite. So suave, yet so surprisingly confused by a simple question...

...Just for that stern gaze to then return, trying - once again - to drill itself straight through Will. She appears deeply displeased, almost offended...

...And he looks back at her, features softening somewhat, but firm nevertheless. Maybe there's even a hint of amusement appearing on the curve of a brow there, mixed into all the what-the-fuck and the-hell-is-going-on that's racing back and forth inside his mind. He blinks once, twice, then tilts his head and shifts a bit on his seat to regard her better...

"...They're yours." A nod at the poker chips - The ones Will had left behind mere moments ago. "I gave them up."

...Is that the reason why she seems to be so angry with him? That he... let her win?

Huh.

"You played very well." Just to make that clear. "That gaze of yours? Sends chills down people's spines. Quite an aggressive poker-face you got."

A hum, with Will arching a brow as he takes another sip of his Whiskey - just continuing to look at her for a moment longer before his gaze trails away, focusing on another point for now.

"As said - you can keep those chips. Was a good game."

He does not read her, not like she does him, but somehow, the man knows she’s lying as well. She can see it in his eyes, in the way he considers her challenge. He looks at her cards as if he knows what they are. Part of her wonders if he does.

But then he puts his cards down and stands. He ends the game. He lets her win.

Cass does not like that.

There may not be any condescension in the action, in the way he moves. No indication that he sees her as a little girl unable to win on her own, but it still rankles. It rankles all the more when all she sees from him is respect, good job, I concede.

In the League of Assassins, there is no letting others win. There is no baring of throats, unless one wants theirs slit. Fights are to the death, outside of training—sometimes even then—and while she may not like it, it is still how part of her thinks. To have this man roll over and lose so willingly…she does not appreciate it and she does not understand. Not when the condescension is strangely missing.

Huffing in annoyance, she collects her plastic discs, keeping his from this latest round separate. A nod of thanks is given to the card-giver, before she leaves the table with her head held high, much to the irritation of those around her. They hate that she wins. That she does so while she is young.

She ignores it.

Instead, Cass goes searching for the man. She is trained in many things—tracking is only one of them. This man is not hiding, which makes him all the more easy to find.

A tall counter with stools, a man behind it amongst bottles of different coloured liquids, people either standing or sitting with drinks in their hands. She finds him there, with his own drink. There is an empty stool beside him.

Perfect.

She smoothly slides into it before another woman gets the chance to. Ignores the dirty look and snapped words. Chooses to focus all of her attention on the man instead. Cass scowls at him to make her unhappiness known, before placing his forfeited plastic discs sharply on the counter with a bit of a clatter, right beside his drink, and huffs again. She does not enjoy this sort of winning. It does not make the game good.

She is not given a chance to do more than that, however, as the man behind the counter appears before them and asks her something. Expects her to tell him something. What? he says, and Cass is forced to blink at him blankly. Wrongfooted and unsure of how to respond. Quickly, she assesses her surroundings again.

Everyone here has a drink, he has shelves upon shelves of liquid behind him, he asks her what?—she assumes that must be it. Not knowing what anything actually is, or how to ask for something she might recognize, she points at the forfeiting man’s drink (after a brief moment of internalized panic). She is relieved when the man behind the counter leaves, presumably to fetch her one.

Then it’s back to scowling at her former-opponent.

[offdxty]

Thera gets comfortable, takes a seat, tells him what to get; Ah yes, the good kind of Whiskey. Not necessarily the most expensive one, but it's got that special flavor to it - and memories stick to said taste, fond moments they've shared out there in the wild while sitting around a campfire, playing cards...

"---Good choice. Just a sec, be right back." A wink, a smile, and Santi is off to fetch them the desired drinks. He's on good-buddy-terms with the owner of this bar, so even if said Whiskey weren't being displayed on the menu as an official item of sorts, he'd still get his hands on it in some way.

"...Caught yourself a lady?" Of course he's being greeted in that kind of way, as soon as Santiago's close enough to lean across the counter; A chuckle, a snort, a handshake and a brief pat of firm shoulders - Alberto's always been a bit of a cheeky one, and of course he's picking up on the fact that his friend's having a woman visit his establishment---

"---Tranquilo, compañero. Es solo una amiga. Una vieja compañera de trabajo, por así decirlo." With a grin stretching across his lips, Santo shakes his head - then orders them their drinks, hips cocked as he does. "A surprise-visit of sorts. Not planned at all! Y'know, one of those once-in-a-lifetime-things were two pals happen to travel across the world and end up at the same place... without ever bringing it up to one another."

"Ah, that's what we call fate, my friend." Alberto's pouring the drinks with ease, then hands them both over to Garcia, a certain kind of glint lingering within his eyes. "...You gonna grab it by the throat when it presents itself---"

"...Prefer to not grab things by the throat, actually." A chuckle, a nod, then he excuses himself and makes his way back to where Thera is already waiting for him; Offering another one of his charming smiles, he's putting her drink down first, then follows with his own before taking a seat on his chair moments after with a sigh escaping him.

His knees are making that old-people-noise as he does, to which Santiago lets out an amused sound, accompanied by a lift of a brow.

"---Hah, that key-bowl fits me, at least - heard that? The sound of a body turnin' old - knees still fucked up. Perhaps it isn't that bad for me to do the whole settle-thing, once and for all. ...Should start putting up paintings on the walls and shit..."

A hum, another wink, before a second exhale follows - and Santi shifts a bit, gets comfortable too, one arm on top of the table, fingers curled around his drink, while the other hand comes to a rest on his thigh - nonchalant.

Then, a more measured look, a blink---

"Damn, still can't believe you're actually here. Didn't expect my evening to turn out the way it currently does; Not complaining, by the way - far from it."

It's certainly a 'holy shit' moment, the quick thump-thump under her ribs as a sea of strangers suddenly parts - and just as quickly fades away to background noise, grey same lit by recognition, a light in their midst. Her eyes roam over Santi's face - a few more years but those self-same eyes, that same stubble that from memory is around 'day 2' since last shave.

Same eyes, same smile. Talking like they just parted yesterday. Thera doesn't think there's a huge, stupid grin on her face just yet, but one's definitely on the way.

The bubble of laughter that's been growing beneath her throat breaks free, warm delight that won't be kept down - partly at what he's saying, mostly at the plain fact that here they are. And please, Lady Bright, let this time be just the happy coincidence it seems, and not a precursor to something else. That thought appears, sighs and is tucked away, as always. Right now it doesn't matter a damn; the evening just jumped from a six to a ten, and she's going to enjoy it.

"Oh, Santi - !" False horror, a fake gasp easily given away by her overacting, "A key bowl?" Ah, and there's the stupid grin, she can feel it this time, catching the streetlight as they walk. "That's awful ... but hey," A sidelong look, "bright side. It kept you still long enough for me to catch up!"

The bar he leads her to is hidden in its way, not for any great secret but to keep the wandering crowds passing by; a corner the locals can keep for themselves rather than any fly-by-nights. It's on that note that Thera's careful to mind her manners. If anything the quiet of the alley is a relief to her, too, but she's still a visitor. She smiles and nods at any eye contact, but doesn't put herself forward unless spoken to, or Pope makes an introduction.

Curious looks follow them as they sit down, perhaps a glance or two is exchanged, but otherwise own-businesses are minded, too. Thera settles on one of the chairs, the simplicity of it all doing nothing so much as helping her relax. "Whiskey," She says, and at least two-thirds of the grin is back. "The one we used to drink, if they've got it."