Richie "Bitch Baby Tears" Tozier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
summertimeblues) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
nysalogs2018-07-11 01:11 am
summertimeblues) wrote in nysalogs2018-07-11 01:11 am
Your lips a magic world, your sky all hung with jewels (OPEN)
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!]
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!]
Always look on the bright side of
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]no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.