Your lips a magic world, your sky all hung with jewels (OPEN)

[summertimeblues]

Who: Richie Tozier (summertimeblues) & whoever will have him
What: A swathe has been cut through the ol' friendship rolodex, and the world is in shambles below. Aka old man sits on regretful dock by shitty bay
When: TDM era
Where: Thesa Station, clean up planet-side, Some VR nonsense in Nadril
Warning(s): Will give them if they come up



A) Puff the Tragic Dragon

[He'd had very little to do with any of the proceedings when Ysevrai reared that molding snout. There were times when a regular guy had the stuff to stand up to insurmountable odds: this had not been one of those times. Richie's focus had been on trying to wrangle the fleeing citizens, providing what he could in relief efforts.

But no matter, he's getting his up close and personals with Smaug's great granpappy now. Richie has stood in the glow of the screen for a good five minutes, rent dumb at the mess of ripped flesh and fantasy anatmony spread on widescreen.

He'd gotten itchy after two minutes. It sounded like someone was whispering a moment ago.

And now there's an ant parade skittering over his back. Richie leaps at the sensation and rips the shirt over his head, tossing it away in frenetic alarm. He sets to swatting at his bare back immediately.]

Shit! Fuck! Get 'em off me!!


B) Pacific Rimming

[Never in his life did he imagine he would be crawling into a tin bucket, gripping controllers, and waltzing around like some space invader in the robotic shell of a person. But here he is. Look at him go!

Roughly. Very roughly, but dammit all he wants to pitch in don't he? Bumble he might, but he'll be a damn fine bumbler that did his part. A better part of the day has been spent clearing rubble, but now his sights have been set on returning Olympian statues to their former glory.

Albeit with all the body parts in new places.]

Yes yes, much better! A marked improvement. Even truer to life than usual!

[One knight is playing limbo under the amputated leg of another. The several of them have their heads placed atop their buttocks or two arms sprouting out of their necks. One man is now a horse hybrid. Another has several dogs growing out of his back. The mecha pops its metal hands on its hips, a vision of pride.]

My work here is done.


C) R.I.P. Van Winkle - Multi Option!!

[And of course, there is the necessity of using the downtime to pay respects.

Beverly just never came home. It had only been a few weeks. For less than a month he'd had her company, the relief of a friendly face from home. Then she popped back into hypersleep. He'd gone to see Sandra, wracked with despair and hoping for her calm countenance, her petite fingers to card through his hair. The orb had gone missing from the gang's apartment, and he found it upstairs next. Encased behind a second wall of glass, it was almost too chuckalicious. The best he'd managed was a wry smile.

Steve Trevor texted him about Diana disappearing, and this time for good. Not long after, he joined her. Two peas in a pod. May as well get literal about that. The pair were inseparable on soil, and it seemed they would be so in slumber, too.

Taking a route less one jaunt traveled had him crossing paths with the hall of Vorrutyers. He'd sworn aloud when he'd realized the former emperor-cum-spy had rejoined their ranks ("For fuck's sake Byerly, not you too!") and stalked off in a plume of bitter cigarette fumes.

Trapped on Thesa as they are, he finds himself returning to stasis more often than he might regularly. He can be found at any one of these former friends' feet, feeding the interactive placards helpful tidbits for the good of the general public.]

Beverly Rogan, first pick for whatever monster ails you. Killer with a slingshot and even deadlier with a yo-yo. But it's her gams that might kill a man quickest.

----

Sandra! Oh Sandy, my Sandy. Great kisser, perhaps not one for long walks on the beach. Hell of a backhand, but you'll only get the privilege if you get sucked into her marble dreamscape. Work hard and someday you too shall know the kiss of her palm.

----

Steve Trevor and Diana Prince, the wonder pair. Neither one knew what to do with a pot brownie, but what does that matter when you're prettier than a pair of diamonds in the shape of Liz Taylor's tits? Goddamn, I can't decide if I'm gonna go blind or ralph in jealousy. Save the posing for the camera why don't you? They're good folks though, they have your back no matter the cause.

----

By-By the fly guy. Likes his food no spicier than a ham sandwich. Loves kids! Best babysitter on the block, send them all his way. Responds to "Burby" in a pinch. He might come off cold, but all he really needs is a cuddle and a cup of tea. There's a teddy bear swaddled under all that goatee, just hang in there and see!


D) A Song of Ice and More Ice

[The training modules are best employed in twos. This is a lesson he's taking sore pains in learning as he futzes through trying a hand at a slipshod igloo. The work ain't easy, no siree bob, and if he spots your lumbering, heavy coated shape in the distance he'll flag you down with an S.O.S. style wave.

Visibility is dim, mind you. The snowfall has been incessant, and though it's yet to take nastier turns Richie hardly trusts the damn program to play nice.]

Oi! Over here! You wanna help me with this before we get frostbit to pieces?


E) Joker's Wildcard

[if nothing up here is nabbing at you, slip a pleasant surprise into my inbox! Ask me for a custom prompt! Or pm me and we can hash a lil something something out. Anything goes!]

Comments

There's no place like

[priorly]

[Refugees are offered free lodging in a large, crystalline building crafted from ice. Despite the coarse building material, the ice is unmelting and surprisingly well-insulated, and the beds are as warm and cozy. The rooms are, however, small. The sleeping quarters house two people, and are some cross between an igloo and a capsule hotel.]

[A large, crystalline building sounds far more impressive than the reality, which feels more like a high-rise for Eskimo. It's certainly not built to Prior's aesthetic, although time and rent prices in the Chelsea area have shown that he can do a lot with very little.

Still. Ice, really. And when he'd taken Richie's offer of sharing a place, he hadn't had living quarters quite this close in mind. At least there are two beds, as much like a conservative housewife as that makes him feel.

So far this evening he's picked a fight with the bathroom mirror's offensively heteronormative suggestion that he get a haircut, and failed to fit even the few clothes he'd brought down to the planet into his side of the closet. The whole affair isn't leaving him in the brightest of moods, although at least now he's settling in for the night, sitting on the edge of the bed draped in a lavender, Wyver-silk robe, trying to self-soothe with the careful application of cold cream to his face.

This is not to say there's nothing to complain about, or that he doesn't start as soon as Richie makes it out of the bathroom.]

I've tried to close my eyes and pretend to be overwintering at Aspen but it won't work. This feels more like sharing a dorm room at Alaska State.

[He reaches for a glass on the night stand and scowls as a robotic butler chimes in with Your medication is zero zero seven minutes overdue. Please remember to take your pills, with a large glass of water.]

And could I get a little bodily autonomy here? I know my routine.

There's no business like

[summertimeblues]

[Richie's impressions have been very much the same. He'd made the offer with his Olympian pad in mind, but then came the hike to Nadril and he'd wrung his boney old hands over the idea of almost everybody roughing it out in the Winter Wonderland, and his proposition to Prior floated to the forefront once more. Batting it back down again only seemed callous once the notion had resurfaced, even in the privacy of his own thoughts, and he'd reached out and tugged the poor bastard in before he could think much better of it.

Well, consider it a trial run then. If they didn't drive one another batty when they had to play leapfrog to make it out the door, then they never would.

Richie's finishing the last yank on his trouser buckle when Prior points out the obvious. He tuts, kicking the restroom door closed with his heel and dropping onto his own bunk with a heavy sigh.]

Or road tripping at a motel with no radiator.

[There is a distinct sniff from their mirror, who has not much respect for either guest.]

Hardly a need for one my dear, when you keep playing chimney at all hours.

Oh stuff it, you drab slab! [Richie hurls a cushion at the offender. It gives a shocked little "Ah!" and falls silent. He'd been taking his smokes outside thank you very much, but the remains stayed on his breath and he hasn't heard the end of it since they'd checked in.] What say you we vamoose and build our own igloo? One free of judging eyes and all this Big Brother hooey?

There's no I in

[priorly]

Don't break that - [Prior warns dryly, watching as Richie's projectile bounces back off the mirror's smooth surface.] Seven years bad luck. I don't know if that's concurrent with or added on to what we're currently experiencing, however it's just not worth the risk.

[He closes his eyes, pressing cream into the hollows underneath in vain hope that he'll wake in the morning full of collagen-injected vigor. Or at least looking a little less like he's been stealing secret moments to cry for at least two weeks. Goddamn Byerly Vorrutyer, not only leaving him, but leaving him too wrecked by sadness to be looked at twice by anybody else.

At least he's not alone. For all that Richie's still a familiar unknown (they have the bonds of torture between them, the bonds of being around for the first release of Toto's Africa, but lacked the real depth that comes with leisurely time spent in each other's company - these things happen, with Prior avoiding work and Richie avoiding Prior's former housemate) the familiar part means something.

So when Prior opens his eyes again he tips his head Richie's way and flutters his lashes, coquettish.]

And I am flattered that you'd want to take this little arrangement somewhere more private, but quarrying blocks is something they used to make homosexuals do in the bad old days. If you want to escape prying eyes, we can turn out the lights.

There's no crying in

[summertimeblues]

Only seven, huh? Sounds like a square deal to me. I must have shot off a rocket in a funhouse for all the bullshit I've been dealing with anyway, what's another seven?

[Prior at least looks comfortable. He's settling in with those feminine cream regimens that make Richie nostalgic for half a dozen paramours, wearing some flowing garb and generally exuding airs that belonged on Sunset Boulevard. It's all thin veneer, and you'd know it even without their voiced complaints.

He had hoped to make things easier on the guy with the invitation. Maybe he was. But it would have been much easier in Olympia. Much, much easier.

Richie tuts at the fluttering lashes and rolls his eyes.]

Fat lot of good that'll do. I bet they've got night vision on. No sin goes unwitnessed, praise Nadril! [He props up the remaining cushion and leans back. Ponders. He's looking to the ceiling when he ventures out next.]

Pry? Mind if I prod you about something a bit?

It's always sunny in

[priorly]

[There are a thousand lines about leaving the lights on while Richie prods him, and after consideration Prior selects none of them. The fun in making someone uncomfortable lasts all of thirty seconds, and when in these close quarters it's best not to tarnish a thing only recently polished. In short, he's trying not to push anything too far, not quite sure where the line between what would be taken in good humor and what might start a prickle of discomfort might be.

Straight people are tricky enough. Those aware they're not entirely such a meter rule as they once believed even more of a cautious affair. Richie, he knows, is trying. It's only reasonable he try too.

So he smiles, tugging his legs up onto the bed only to twist and stretch them over the opposite side, facing his roommate. He lifts the little jar in his hand, tilting it enticingly.]

Anything you like, chaton. And if you want me to do your feet, stretch them over here. I'm told I have the hands of a fisherwife when it comes to working out knots.

Always look on the bright side of

[summertimeblues]

[It is ripe for the picking, isn't it? He ought to have rethought his phrasing.

Richie laughs some at the offer, feet pulling up on his bed to make a tent of his knees.]

I don't know if I want you subjected to my hammer toes just yet. They've been known to put an axe in the mood on more than one occasion.

[They're ten of the many parts of himself that fit odd and ugly, ones he wishes he could file down to respectability like how you tackle your nails with an emery board. When he'd been younger his teeth had been number one on that list. Now it was his ears, his feet, the knobby ends of his bones. Maybe plump out his frame and neck and skull in exchange. He looks like someone created specifically to slip into crevices, or star in a Popeye cartoon.

All vanity aside, there is also the suggestion of too much intimacy for how delicate a topic he's about to broach on.]

If it's out of line just say so, but I've been wondering. I don't really get it, I've met and spoke to all types but I haven't gotten personal with everyone, either. Hard to when it's usually a screaming party or all business. So — do you dress in girl's clothes because you like them better, or because you think of yourself as one?

[rip my reputation, see you all on wankgate]

[priorly]

[Ritchie not only refuses the offer but goes far enough as to build a protective tower over his toes at the very suggestion. Well. Prior lifts an eyebrow and the corresponding corner of his mouth - curious, amused... something not quite either but choosing those as the most gracious response. While he's au fait with bodies and their inherent insecurities (he's draped so lavishly tonight in part because it covers the way everything looks a little too big for him; it hides the most visible traces of illness, dark bruises pressed into his skin by some invisible thumb) - there's little to other people he's squeamish about.

Earth and its infinite varieties certainly include specimens he doesn't find appealing, but few he'd quail from, certainly not on the basis of knobbly limbs and a gangly stature. There are two kinds of attractive, Prior finds: the kind that catches your eye across a crowded room and often fades from focus just as quickly, and the kind that is seen slowly, from the inside out.

One aspires, of course, to be both, but it is the latter that holds the most sway in the end.

He tilts his chin - not a nod but some acknowledgement, and tucks his own legs under him, working on his own feet instead.]

I'd imagine that depends what mood we were going for.

[And then Richie goes on, visibly cautious, and Prior's smile grows a little wider and more unreadable. Ah, that one. He draws a breath and lets the exhale run out while he considers a reply, looking down to tug at the lapels of his robe.]

Are they girl's clothes? That's odd, I thought they were mine. But why do you wear the clothes you do, Richie? [A hand lifts, immediately, to cut off any actual attempt at a reply.] Because I don't think it's really a choice. I think it's what you've been told to wear. These are boys clothes. Men don't wear lace. A real man would rather wrap himself in tree bark and barbed wire than settle for something silky against his skin. So this is what you wear, this is what's socially acceptable, this marks out your place in the world. Is it something like that?

[He goes back to smoothing cream into his feet, casual as anything.]

Well I could wear chaps and spurs and my place in the world would still be different to yours.

[summertimeblues]

[Knowing something intellectually and feeling it in the twists of your gut were two different things. His left-of-center looks never stymied him in chasing skirts. Didn't stop a few from chasing him back either. He knew better, that there were things that mattered more, and in his own partners found their flaws more invigorating than their perfections. If you took the bump out of baby's nose or gave her the extra inches she tries to take in heels, it's like some of the charm snuffs out. And really, wasn't the package only gift-wrapping anyway? All the best stuff was tucked between a person's ears.

Even so, he's never shaken the way his own reflection gives him the middle finger. Bruised ego's a bitch. Getting pummeled for his looks and his big mouth and small frame as a kid made for heavy skepticism of his personal appeal twenty-some years later.

Prior's smile turns broader and thinner than Richie'd like. He has a pricking moment of terrible regret. "I take it back!" he almost blurts. "I don't need to know! Don't sweat it! Wear the drapes for all I care, wear the Yankee's Dandy costume! I didn't mean nothing, I swears!"

He doesn't get the chance to interject. Instead he's left with reddening ears, always a sure sign of his embarrassment. They don't color him so cutely as they did the first time Prior got to his shucks and gollies, trying to goad him on board for the Vorrutyer's party over the network.]

...That's more philosophical than I was expecting. [He threads his legs together and sits sturdier upright, making certain to keep his gaze strong with Prior and not darting every which way looking for the exit sign. He's not getting told off, for fuck's sake. It's just another queasy way of thinking being pointed out. Never comfortable, but usually necessary.]

You've referred to yourself as a girl at times too. Which is part of why it's confusing, but you don't...you're not looking for the surgery. [Not a question. He knows Prior's not, it's obvious now but in a way he can't identify. There were men who got bits nipped and tucked and rearranged to come out looking like they've never touched a Y chromosome. That just didn't seem Prior's style.] Seemed more like the sentiment was the emphasis than anything to do with who you are, or aren't. Correct me if I'm wrong on that.

And you don't feel like you're trying to fit in with a different box? If things weren't so...well, if people didn't get so riled up about who loved who or whether a man wears lace and a lady puts on a tux. Would you still prefer what you do now? Is some of it rebellion, or identification, or...is this making any sense, or am I just digging myself a six foot hole?

Sounds like the latter to me.

[Richie shoots a glare at the glass asshole hanging opposite.]

Do we really need a mirror? We could spot each other for shaving, I'm sure of it.

[priorly]

I need a mirror.

[Prior gives a little coquettish roll of his shoulders in the direction of the slice of glass on the walls.]

Unless you're going to tell me I'm pretty, too.

[See also: Prior discovered the thing had a voice and is working on training it like a parrot. But there he goes, adding more obscurity to the point Richie's trying to make clear. He turns off the lightbulb grin he's flashing for the mirror and leans back on his hands, looking across at Richie - who isn't being told off, no. Prior's not offended or upset about being asked... it's refreshing, really, not to simply be written off as a stereotype. Confusion is an infinitely better state than the revulsion some people turn to when they encounter something strange and new.]

I'm not getting the surgery. [He winces just a little, and crosses his legs.] I like my cock, and I like people who like my cock, so we'd achieve little there except a smoother line in a cocktail dress. Which is something I wear rarely.

[Another pause - he's trying for... not simplicity but a coherent thread to this, and isn't certain that there is one. Why are you you isn't an easy question to parse.]

The girl-talk's partly a hangover from Drag, which I used to engage in for pleasure and profit until Lou found it too politically incorrect. But the clothes... it's not a different box. Believe me, I'm a queer creature among even queers and not particularly embraced for it. If I can't choose to pass - and I can't - why should I try? So most days I dress the way all men would if they understood style, and some days I prefer something a little more dainty. Thesedays I do it more when the rest of me feels like it's falling apart. Put on a dress, blend the fall colours just so and I can feel... powerful. Like I'm choosing something, I get to choose this. And if I'm choosing to be vulnerable, there's a strength in that, too. Does that make any sense?

[He tips his head forward, shaking it until his bangs tumble in a dark muss across his face.]

If gender was less of a meaningless, arbitary line, I'd still be this. Me. One thing on the surface and in touch with the other beneath. I first tried mother's heels on when I was four years old and I only grew into them, never out. Pretending that isn't true would be an apology. This... well. It's a fuck you.