maskormenacelogs | You are so rock & roll

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You are so rock & roll

WHO: Handsome Bob & YOU
WHERE: PICK A PLACE all prompts can be applied to any city
WHEN: MARCH
WHAT: Mostly a March catch-all but includes Bob trying to be good at his job and just... not. CR building. Potential road trip. Potential crime-y connections.
WARNINGS: Violence, fight club, ~~semi-friendly~~ savage punch ups, blood & injuries

{ 01. Workin' 9 to 5 / What a way to make a livin' | 18+ }

Bob's able to count the number of different jobs he's had one one hand (crooked pinky and all).

Sweeping the floor at his mum's best mate's hair salon didn't last long. Weekend work at Asda was a laugh right up until he got fired for racing the forklift up aisle twelve and taking out a lovingly stacked display of Heinz Baked Beans. The ones with the sausages in. Working in a factory making and packaging air fresheners for cars had given him a natural aversion to never hanging anything 'pine fresh' from the overhead mirror in any of his cars. His last job had been getaway driver for his gang, the Wild Bunch. And now he's a spokesmodel, his first and only current gig for a company trying to launch a competitor app to the well-known dating app, imPress.

It's with a belatedly regretful realisation that not only has his new employer set him up on the app to make it seem more relatable, but they've already made all his dating decisions for him. Some which aren't exactly in line with his current preferences. In fact, according to the app, he's up for dating just about anything that moves. Dressed head-to-toe in an outfit that's a lot more purposely put together than his own haphazardly casual style, he's wandering around with his usual swagger, grinning at anybody he makes eye contact with.

"Hello, you. You look friendly," he delivers charmingly, handsome smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he falls in step with the latest person who's shared more than a split-second of eye contact, comms device in hand. "How's your day going? Can I nick a couple of minutes of your time to make it even better?"

{ 02. You got a fast car / I want a ticket to anywhere | OTA }

Sometimes, there's just something relaxing about sitting in the driver's seat of a car and letting the engine rumble quietly. Pulled over and with no fixed destination in mind, Bob's playing a game on his comms device, enjoying the gentle purr of his car (it's his now, anyway) and a rare moment of feeling almost content at being on his own. His usual need to be with other people is dampened only by a long day at work and the prospect of taking the car for a spin in his very near future is making him feel better.

The past month has seemed to rush by, faster than he could have imagined, and with its steep learning curve, a strange sense of freedom he hadn't realised he'd been missing before. A fresh start hadn't ever been something that he thought he'd needed and while he still misses his family, his mates, he's found new people to bother. He smiles to himself as the thought of new friends warms him from the inside, only looks up when he clocks somebody standing right in front of his stationery car, not moving an inch. It's not like he'd planned on racing off just yet, but his eyebrows raise all the same, a slow hand reaching up to signal a wave.

{ 03. But I take care of my fam, I'm a gangster | 18+ for option a, option b (closed) }

It feels like a while since Bob's been in any kind of scrap. He'd thought Ronan might have kicked his arse for taking a lightsaber that didn't belong to him, but that didn't happen and instead he came away from that meetup feeling like he really wished it had. So it's exhilarating to feel deep in his bones that familiar sensation of danger. Of walking a fine line and not knowing how he's going to be walking away from it. From feeling the adrenaline pouring into his blood until he's almost high off it.

He's ready to walk a little more on the wild side and if he can't race anybody on the streets he'll have a friendly punch up instead. How he'd heard about this particular fight club he can't quite remember, but he's here, stripped down to his waist and ready to go.

option a.
"We avoiding the face or...?" he asks his opponent, question genuine and smile real as he rolls his shoulders in an attempt to loosen up. It doesn't really make much difference, he's a bit out of shape. Too many burgers and not enough running from the police. It's been a bit boring, honestly.

option b. - later | Closed » Kaz Brekker
Sitting on a low wall outside the seedy looking establishment he's just emerged from, Bob's holding a bag of frozen peas to one eyebrow and trying to stem the flow of blood from his split lip. Don't ask him where he got the peas from, he really doesn't know. He might look like he'd lost that fight (and maybe he did) but he's in a good mood regardless.

"'scuse me, mate," he asks the next person to walk by, trying not to come across as intimidating as he might look, shaved head and obviously having been fighting.

"You got the time by any chance?"

{ 04. Post your own }

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"I am," Matthew agrees. He takes the offered hand and shakes. "You can aim for the balls if you want, but I assure you that if you hit em it'll end badly for you."

He steps back, hands coming up in a defensive posture.

"Good luck."

The second after he's said it, he half turns and kicks, aiming for Bob's midsection. For a man his size he's uncannily quick.

There's something on the tip of his tongue - cheeky, not offensive - but he doesn't have time to get it out before there's a leg swinging towards him. He doesn't fight the look of surprise as it flashes across his face, shoulder dipping to try and catch the blow against his arm instead of his ribs. Getting winded is a bad way to start any fight and he takes the hit with the barest of grunts, brain trying to get out ahead of what to do next.

Ducking as fast as he can out of the way of a follow up and knowing he's outmatched by strength and maybe matched in speed, he realises quickly that he's going to have to land everything exactly where it's going to hurt the most. He'd shaken on no balls so those are out of the question - Bob might be a bit of a crook but he keeps his word - but they didn't agree on anything else.

He backs off a couple of steps, shaking out the arm that had taken the brunt of the blow and then lifts both fists, ready. As much as he wants to have a bit of a chat in almost any situation, he knows he needs to concentrate otherwise he's going to get fucked over and not in the fun way. Stepping in again, he feints a jab, testing to see how fast the other man can bat his fist away.

Bob is quick, but not quick enough - that fist gets swatted away easily. Matthew swings at him with his own, very nearly landing a strike. If Bob is testing him, he doesn't notice because in his arrogance he has already decided this is going to be easy.

Subconsciously, he doesn't want easy. He wants a challenge. Consciously he just wants another shallow win to feed his ego.

Matthew's arrogance makes him sloppier. The next punch he throws, he swings a bit wide, leaving too much room and time between them.

Feeling very much like the underdog, Bob doesn't let the fact he's definitely outclassed rattle him. It would be nice to win but that's not everything he's come here for. The fist comes too close for his liking, instinct and decent reaction time only just putting him a hair's breadth away from a fist to the face.

Shifting his weight as he realises the other man has swung wide, he doesn't even bother trying to swing up for his throat and aims his fist instead at the only place he knows he can reliably reach with their height difference without putting himself at a serious disadvantage. He drives his fist up towards the other man's solar plexus, hoping to whatever fucking higher power he doesn't believe in that it lands so he can get some breathing space.

Bob's hit lands perfectly - Matthew exhales all of his breath, choking silently. He stumbles back, gets his fists up, and when he can breathe again he grins in spite of his watering eye.

"Okay, good one," he says. He shakes his head. He'd underestimated Bob, and that was a mistake he didn't intend to repeat.

Matthew doesn't feint, but comes straight for Bob, punches short and hard, aiming for the face first and the torso second.

"Ta, mate," Bob manages to get out with a grin before the tall bloke is bearing down on him. He thinks, belatedly, that maybe he should have gone for the balls after all - he's not expecting a free pass like that again. Both punches land, the first splitting his lip and the second catching him in the ribs he'd been trying to protect earlier.

Stumbling sideways and having to scramble up from the floor again, he spits blood red saliva from his mouth with enough manners to turn his head first and wipes the back of his hand across his lips. With an aching side and his breath running ragged, when he grins again, his teeth are stained red.

Drawing his fists up to protect himself, he takes to watching the other man like a hawk, eyes fixing on the muscles in the other man's neck to try and read when he's going to move. But Bob doesn't wait this time, instead decides that if he's going to go down, he might as well step up as a more active participant. Launching himself from where he is, he runs full pelt at the other man and only side-steps and ducks at the last moment to try and get behind him to deliver a swift punch to a kidney.

First blood is always so satisfying. There's something about the sight that just makes his heart soar.

Matthew sees Bob coming and he tenses, ready. It's the height discrepancy that works in Bob's favour - Matthew isn't surprised by the step, but as he starts to swing he realises Bob has ducked and so his strike just sails over his head. Bob's fist slams home solidly, a burst of pain so bright it's nauseating.

Matthew keeps turning, leg sweeping to hook Bob's ankle and knock him off balance. As the other man stumbles, Matthew swings again, one-two, and presses forward. He fully intends to knock Bob down.

It feels good, landing a blow, knowing that his gamble paid off if only temporarily. Being on the receiving end feels less good, though Bob keeps hold of that moment even as he stumbles and gets caught up in the retaliation. The pain is acute, but he's already on the floor, ear ringing where one of those swings had clouted him in the side of the head.

Instinctively pulling his arms up to try and protect his already swimming head, he tries to roll away, sure that there will be a savage follow up unless he moves his arse quickly enough to not catch the brunt of it.

Bob isn't wrong - Matthew descends upon him with a single-minded and nearly mechanical brutality. If it wasn't for the glint of savage pleasure in his one good eye, it would be tempting to think that Matthew was something like the Terminator and not a man.

He stomps the space where Bob had been just a moment before, twisting to instead kick at the other's side. If Bob doesn't regain his feet, he may very well just try to kick him to death if the referee doesn't intervene.

"Fuck," is all that manages to escape his mouth ahead of a forced rush of air as the other man's foot connects with his side. The pain blossoms instantly, Bob winded and turning on to his good side so he can at least try to shield himself with his arms. The next booted foot to swing in he grabs at with his hands, still struggling to catch his breath but knowing it's this or actual broken bones and a trip to hospital.

Using every fibre of strength he's got left in his upper body, he yanks the man's foot towards him, leaning in and twisting at the same time to try and clamp his teeth as hard as he can just above the other man's achilles. He might earn a punch in the head for it but he knows how to fight dirty, and right now it's all he's got left to lean on.

Of all the retaliation he was expecting, getting bitten was nowhere on the list.

"Fuck!" Matthew shouts. He stumbles and falls, hitting the ground hard. He kicks at Bob's head with the leg not currently clamped in his teeth.

If Bob had the energy left he might try and scramble on top of the other man to at least attempt to pin him down, even temporarily, so he's got a chance of not getting his arse kicked more. But he doesn't, the foot of the other leg - the one he's not holding - swings round and connects with the side of his head, and suddenly he's mostly done.

Jaw unclamping and body flopping back on to the hard floor, he shakes his head, dizzy and eyes unfocused as he holds a hand up.

"Out. 'm out," he concedes, vision swimming and nausea amping up until he's mostly just trying to concentrate on not throwing up.

For a moment, Matthew considers continuing. Just... beating the guy to death. Why? Just because.

But instead he grabs Bob's hand and hauls him up.

"You did good," he says with a grin. "You got my ankle hard, I might need fucking stitches."

Not expecting to be hauled up on to his feet, Bob nods woozily, manages an exhaled laugh and bends over again, hands resting on his thighs as he tries to get his breath back. He's not aching too much yet, the adrenaline from the fight still coursing through his blood stream, masking for now the myriad of injuries he has no doubt he's picked up from this. But he doesn't regret it. First time in what feels like too long he's felt anything remotely close to amped up.

"Fuck, yeah sorry, mate. Didn't know what else to do," he says mostly to the floor before gingerly straightening up and glancing up at the taller man.

"You're a fucking beast." He wants to ask where the other man learned to fight like that, but he's still working hard on both breathing and not losing the contents of his stomach.

"It's cool." As if Bob had just bumped into him, not tried to bite a chunk out of his leg. Matthew knows he'll have to disinfect it quickly - human mouths are disgusting.

He claps Bob on the shoulder. "I am," he agrees. "Once we get cleaned up, if you're not concussed I'll buy you a beer." That's a big if.

"Yeah, yeah," comes the slightly distracted reply from Bob, not that he's not delighted to get invited out for a beer, but he's still trying to stop seeing two of everything. It's a tall order when his brain feels like it's been ricocheting off the insides of his skull like a ball in a pinball machine.

"Might need to take you up on that another night, fella," he finally adds, screwing his eyes shut and rubbing at them with sore fists. Whatever Bob is, he's not a sore loser. He'll be following through on that offer of a beer when he feels less like a human punchbag.

"What's your name, anyway?" The bloke might have already told him but, if he has, that information got knocked out of his skull. Probably a few braincells with it.

Head trauma and liquor doesn't mix - Matthew knows that well enough. He nods and limps for the edge of the ring.

"Matthew Callahan," he says. "Threshold. You come find me later and I'll buy you a drink." He laughs.

"Good luck with the head."

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You are so rock & roll

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