bakerstreet | otherwordly.

( m/m preferred for shipping, ota for gen.

antephialtic — something that protects against nightmares.
diaphanous — light, translucent, and delicate.
deliquio — a failure, lack, or want of something.

but more than open to others! )

i. apricate
ii. flagitious
iii. excoriate
iv. eonian
v. provide your own!

((OOC: No shipping or smut but open to everything else))

1) Excoriate: (v.) To chafe and abrade painfully, as by an inescapable restraint

2) Exanimate: (adj.) Once but no longer alive

3) Collogue: (v.) To wheedle or flatter; to confer in secret

4) Friable: (adj.) Easily broken into pieces or reduced to nothing

5) Wildcard! Bring your own word and we'll work something out.

1. Serein- the fine, light rain that falls from a clear sky at sunset, or in the early hours of night. evening serenity.

2. Numinous- describing an experience that makes you fearful yet fascinated- awed yet attracted- the powerful, overwhelming experience of being overwhelmed and inspired.

3. Nemesism- frustration, anger, and aggression directed inward, towards oneself and one's way of living.

4. Querencia- a place from which one's strength is drawn, where one feels at home; the place where you are your most authentic self.

b'shert
(yiddish, noun) — lit. "destiny"; referring to the seeking of a person who will complement you and whom you will complement perfectly.

saudade
(portuguese, noun) — a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant, or that has been loved and then lost; "the love that remains".

fanaa
(urdu, noun) — destruction of the self; "destroyed in love".

meraki
(greek, noun) — the soul, creativity or love put into something; the essence of yourself that is put into your work.

cafuné
(portuguese, noun) — running your fingers through the hair of someone you love.

Or bring your own!

appetence
(n.) - an eager desire, an instinctive inclination; an attraction or a natural bond.

[ When Jean Louis had asked him to come as his date, Elio had been left momentarily speechless. The kind of speechless where you end up pouring too much maple syrup on your yoghurt, offsetting the acidity balance completely. Elio hadn’t arrived in Luxembourg with any expectation or inclination to embark on Jean Louis’ work life at all. He’d thought he’d relax in his apartment, play his piano, go for some walks, rent a bike maybe. If he was feeling adventurous. Touch himself a whole lot. Instead the other man had told him he could suit him up if he wanted, it wouldn’t be a problem, the red carpet was mostly just a place to arrive. It’s just - Elio has never walked a red carpet in his life.

Well, he has now, of course, sweating profusely the entire way, feeling awkward as fuck. Next to Jean Louis who took it all in stride, smiling. Smiling so half the moisture Elio was excreting had to be pure goo.

He’s survived the auction, too, managing by sheer willpower not to ask Jean Louis to buy him the antique piano stool on bidding, though it was red-upholstered and from 1889, the dinner which was only half as intimidating as it had sounded upon hearing about it and now, mingling, partying, more alike the sponsored events Elio has attended before in the classical music circles he does partake in sometimes. By necessity.

Jean Louis is staying close, introducing him to people before they stop by to greet them and thus, Elio has got an acceptable grasp of the social elite in Luxembourg, all gathered at the fancy Four Seasons hotel and conference hall, opposite end of the city. He likes listening to Jean Louis talk to these people. He likes seeing him in his element.

Even if Elio feels quite honestly out of his own. He tightens his grip around his champagne flute, sipping it to do something - with his hand, his mouth. They’re standing off to the side for the time being, a moment’s pause.

Elio swallows, clears his throat. ]

I’ve played at parties like this, back in Paris.

[ Meaning, never been a guest. Before now. ]

[ Under regular circumstances, he would've been bored, preferably out of existence, very early on with the night's proceedings. When Alex Wagner and Théodore Dupont decided to host a charity auction to celebrate the end of Toussaint, they'd managed to rope about a dozen other businesses and private investors into it (Madame Dupont is basically considered a beacon amongst the rich elite; incidentally, when she chose to put her vote and her influence behind Liberté rather than the CDP a couple of years ago, it caused quite the ruckus). Consequently, the event is well attended and planned out to near-perfection, with the dining and the party in the evening affording them all a lot more privacy than the auction.

The press had pretty much tried to devour Elio when they'd arrived before the auction, though. Who can blame them? He'd certainly like to eat him - more and more, even, as the evening progresses. People are overall enamoured by him, that's plainly obvious; he's an artist and a performer, at that, and he'll be on the lists, now, going forwards. In a figurative just as much (if not more) as a literal sense. He's also been visibly nervous about the whole affair, going into it straight-backed and sweating away simultaneously and it's hard not to find him irresistible when you think about it, isn't it?

Just look at him, dealing with all this shit.

Just because...

Glancing sideways at him, Jean Louis flattens one hand against the small of his back. It's not like anyone will care; if he isn't trying to hide it, obviously it isn't worth much as gossip in any case. ]

You aren't too comfortable.

[ Pause. He sips his champagne and adds, just for the sake of transparency: ]

Not that any of them can tell.

Edited 2021-12-30 18:51 (UTC)

[ He smiles, half-soft and half-apologetic, even if Jean Louis is kindly implying that he’s the only one who can tell that his nerves are acting up. If Jean Louis can, even if they’re bonded and even if he’s the only one here who’s had Elio fall apart on his tongue, there’re bound to be a few others who can look through his glamor, too. Not that Elio minds, not as such. Jean Louis is still the only one he’d fuck, after all. The rest will be gone by midnight, a right hoard of Cinderellas. He sips his champagne again, glances sideways at Jean Louis who’s supporting him with a hand on the small of his back.

It’s strong and unyielding and Jean Louis hasn’t once let him wobble his way forward alone. Elio feels safe with him, even here. So he manages a small huff, an even smaller shrug and turns towards him slightly, looking at him over the rim of his glass. ]

I look better seated at a piano, that’s all.

[ He’s in Armani tonight, because that is what Jean Louis had easy access to, supposedly. Elio has worn sponsored suits before, everything from D&G to Burberry, but Armani is such a classic look and Elio feels like he isn’t quite worthy. He thinks about himself, seventeen and running barefoot through his mother’s orchard, dusty toes. Then, he thinks about looking at himself at the tailors, floor to ceiling mirror, and realizing he’s 30+ now. He’s an adult, he does adult things like wearing Armani at high society functions with his date, the Foreign Minister who, by the way, also looks remarkable in a tux. Adult things like thinking about blowjobs when he should be trying to remember what the brunette is called who’s heading their way.

Jean Louis mentioned her earlier. Marie-something, no, it’s gone. All he remembers is the tempo indication for the beginning of the Tempest sonata (largo) and the taste of the other man’s mouth.

None of these things are helpful, but Jean Louis is, of course. That’s the point. ]

[ He smiles faintly and looks away, catching Marie-Claude's gaze as she heads in their direction. She gives him a small nod, courteous but not as an invitation, clearly otherwise engaged. You always know, with her. Well, or she might be artfully escaping from her father. That part is hard to tell, with how that lofty facade of hers seems to persist throughout pretty much every possible scenario. Have to admire that level of consistency. ]

I disagree.

[ He steps a little closer, just to feel that bump of hip against hip, the increase in heat and proximity. Around them, people drift from one social constellation to the next and the next and it almost feels as if they're somehow momentarily exempt, him and Elio, like they're watching from their own little private bubble, not exactly present. It's a good feeling. As if they've managed to claim their own space, even here. ]

This look - [ He looks him over blatantly, from head to toe and back up, lingering over his front a little because that suit jacket looks fantastic on him, emphasising his long lines perfectly, even making him seem taller than he is. ] - is just new. It makes you look different.

[ Another sip. He tilts his head slightly. ]

No doubt, in time...

[... in time, what? He stops. Trails off. The other man has made him no promises - he certainly can't expect him to agree to any repeat performances and he can't make him, either, he's got nothing to bargain with and no strings to pull. So instead, he just stares at Elio, his look veering dangerously close to deer-in-headlight-territory whilst he leaves the silence between them as it is, full of unspoken implications.

Fuck, he spews bullshit for a living. ]

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