nysalogs | when the moon hits your eye... [Valentine's Day Date Night]

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when the moon hits your eye... [Valentine's Day Date Night]

Who: You Watanabe (

ayes) & lots of folks!
What: Valentine's Day Matchmaking: DATE NIGHT
When: The evening of February 14!
Where: Olympia
Warning(s): Some mild druglike effects, and probably some NSFW stuff in threads?

Earlier in the week-- about the night of February 12 or so-- you received a letter in the mail. Upon opening it, you found an invitation, hand-written in a sort of looping script.

Hello [YOUR NAME HERE]!
You're invited to a really great night!
On the evening of February 14, please come join us in Olympia for a special surprise!

Your friend,
You

P.S. "You" is my name. I'm not saying it's from you!

She's drawn a little smiley face on the invitation, and you may remember her from her earlier post to the network. For some of you, this invitation isn't surprising. You signed up for her party, after all. For others, though, this may come as a surprise.

[I: The Message & The Arrival]

Nevertheless, you decide to go anyway. She's listed an address in Olympia, and the night of the event, when you show up, it's a decent-sized dining hall. There are pink and red ribbons and balloons and lacy heart shapes everywhere.

You may catch sight of the young woman scurrying around, looking a little harried. Or you may just find other people who seem confused to be here. Did your name wind up in the drawing list? Did theirs? What's going on?

[II: Dinner...]

Be it as it may, you go inside. Inside, you can find more of those ribbons, and balloons, and hearts, as well as dozens of small, round tables for two, each covered in a white tablecloth and with a pair of candlesticks. Approaching the tables, you find that each seat has a small nametag, written in that same looping handwriting. They're names you may recognize: Reinhardt Wilhelm, Isabela, Mikazuki Augus, and more.

One of these names is yours. And across from you is another name. Maybe you recognize them, maybe you don't.

Either way, it's not long before someone comes by to light the candles and take your food order. You've got a date.

[III: ...and a show!]

Maybe half an hour after your meal order is taken and has been served (it's delicious, by the way) a spotlight cuts through the dim light, illuminating a small raised stage off on the side of the room. The young woman, You, is standing there, wearing a short dress that almost looks like that of a ballet dancer, her hair pinned up. She has to reach up to bring the microphone down. She's not very tall.

"Ah... um, hello? Is it on? Hi!" she says, her voice fast and a little nervous. "I'm You Watanabe, and... happy Valentine's Day! I hope you're all having a wonderful time, and maybe the person you're meeting tonight, um, I don't know, something could come out of it, I hope!"

She pauses, like she's not sure what to say. "Anyway, uh, I thought I'd perform some songs while you're eating, so listen if you want!"

You takes a breath and then steps back before gesturing to someone in the darkness, presumably who then starts a music track. She begins to sing and dance, performing a number of different songs. Some of them are sweet and slow, others a little more upbeat, and there's even one that's kind of... sensual in a rockin' way? Still, while her dance moves are well practiced and her voice pretty and clear, you get the sense that these song and dance routines were meant to be performed with way more than just one person. There should be harmonies or other parts there that are missing.

Still, there's an empty dance floor in front of the stage, and there's something catchy and almost strangely inspiring about the girl's singing-- even if this genre of music isn't your particular favorite, it's somehow encouraging. Why not ask your partner to dance?

[IV: Sin and Sweetness]

Eventually, You leaves the stage, thanking everyone, and the night continues uneventfully. As your dinner wears down, you may be drawn to a cart off to the side, piled high with desserts, pastries of all types and color. Eventually, a pair of waiters begins pushing it around from table to table. Do you want some dessert, they ask.

These pastries have been baked by your hostess, You herself, based off a book of recipes she'd found in some of the... seedier parts of the Entertainment District. There's another one of those handwritten notes in that looping script, written on thick card stock folded in two to make a simple sign:

Tonight's a night of excitement!
If you want a little help feeling romantic, try the pastries!
They'll definitely spice things up! (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

The various pastries themselves have similarly handwritten signs on them, notifying you (if a little obliquely) of some potentially interesting effects...

Strudel: "Find beauty in the world!" (For whatever reason, other people look a little more attractive.)
Baklava: "To tell them how you really feel!" (You'll feel more likely to be honest, if not overshare.)
Cannoli: "Because love needs laughter!" (Everything other people say is somehow funnier than usual.)
Cinnamon Roll: "The nose knows!" (The first person you look at smells oddly like your favorite smell.)
Blueberry Scone: "For a bit of courage!" (This will make you feel bolder, intensifying emotions you already feel.)
Mooncake: "To feel like falling in love!" (Every time you look at the first person you see, your heart beats a little faster.)
Taiyaki: "Try to see someone else differently!" (Every time you look at the first person you see, there are little sparkles around them.)

The effects themselves aren't designed to be overwhelming or all that powerful, and can be resisted with just a little effort. However, You's recipe only dealt with one effect at a time. Mixing and matching multiple pastries? Who knows what might happen...?

There are also plenty of non-magical desserts, for anyone looking to sate their sweet tooth without chancing an odd experience.

[V: Singles Mingle]

You's spent most of her time arranging the couples event, of course, but if you didn't sign up, there's still a place for you! (Or maybe your date went terribly and you're here early.) There's a bar off to the side where people are welcome to sit and drink and meet other folks.

That said, they're bringing the pastries around here, too...

[VI: Wildcard]

Didn't see a prompt here for you? Write your own! The night has plenty of dancing, food, romantic moonlight, and plenty of places you can sneak off to be alone.

((OOC: As always, please label your threads if they turn NSFW, and make sure your thread partner(s) are okay with whichever pastry effect you're getting!))

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

That's unsettling sweetness, coming from you - and when he's not even close enough to hear and comp your next drink.

[Prior did look to check.]

Bullshit, as we both know, but very romantic. I appreciate your adherence to theme.

Edited 2018-02-21 06:36 (UTC)

On the contrary! I'm being quite sincere. Look.

[ By's head tilts very slightly to the side as he considers the man. ]

Look at the way his hands move. I know you'll enjoy that, since you have a bit of a hand fetish, no? His fingers are strong. He knows what he's doing. There's grace there.

He's a bartender. If he didn't have at least a little coordination it'd be a goddamn glasswalking act back there by now.

[Prior's stubbornly refusing to countenance this with so much as a glance at the man in question - he doesn't require the pointing out of other's aesthetic delights. Strong fingers? Why, let him clutch his pearls.]

There may be something fuckable about most people, if you're desperate and can't just close your eyes, and beauty is a quality you can learn about a person if you don't see it right away. Perhaps everybody can be beautiful, to somebody. But not everybody is. Some apples are rotten from the core on out. And where did you get hand fetish from, precisely?

Observing where your eyes linger. Am I wrong?

[He curls his own hand outward with a light flourish at the wrist, and examines his nails a moment.]

Yes.

[ A shrug. ]

Then I'm wrong. Regardless. There's quite a lot of use in seeing everyone's beauty. People are always pleased to see themselves reflected in a flattering mirror.

This is an odd lecture to be directing to the choir - yes - but as I wasn't talking to him, but about him to you, the uses of flattery have their limits.

[Lets not pretend he has a horse high enough to say he never uses flattery. It's a perfectly valid means of getting what one wants, especially if what one wants is the other person. Though Prior's particular flavor of flattery usually happens to be observed and appreciated truth.

Another truth:]

As for hands, I'm far more likely to pay attention to those of someone I already like.

[So where have you seen his eyes wander, Byerly.]

Are you?

[ It's a little dangerous. Yet even so, he spreads out his hands. ]

Are mine pretty?

[Prior tilts his head: if this is the first time thinking about it, he takes the process seriously. But he knows Byerly's hands well, by now. They're elegant, long fingers with a wide span, graceful in motion.

He separates one from the other by the wrist and brings it downward, laid out for a palmist's study, any scars or rougher places exposed. The fingers of his free hand play out a pentatonic scale across the fingertips of Byerly's restrained one.]

Yes.

Poor abused things. They've had a hard go of it.

[ They are a little bit battered. The pinky is just a little crooked. But they are pretty things.

He slips his hand free, then, and grasps Prior's in turn. He holds it palm-up a long moment - and then, almost reverently, stoops down to press a deep kiss against Prior's life-line. ]

[Despite infinite resolutions made mostly for the sake of his own stupid pride, there are moments when it would be very easy to kiss Byerly again. He could take a few more bruises (and he's sure enough that would be the outcome), but can't risk Byerly knowing he's inflicting them. He's too delicate for it.

So, after a moment, he purses his lips together and tuts.]

Now don't sell yourself short. I'm sure you could still make a fine bartender.

Of course I could.

[ By only raises his head slightly. He knows that this is cruel, in a way. He was the one who drew this line. But even so, in between words, he presses a kiss to each of Prior's fingers in turn. It's the mood of the evening - it's the desire for intimacy. ]

I have impeccable taste.

Yes, I remember.

[I remember how you taste. Prior keeps his expression locked down, for once, but there's something intent in the dark of his eyes as he hooks the pad of his thumb under Byerly's chin and tips his head back. It's not to dissuade him, but he wants to see what this is.]

I hope the food at least came up to your standards, tonight, if not the company. [It's a question, and not. He's not going to risk a thing over pastries. Still, there's a pause here, left to hang. He keeps his tone light, guarded with a smile, but there's too much air between words for them to be meaningless.] ...What do I taste like?

You'll be furious if I tell you.

[ By looks up to meet Prior's eyes. His own smile is ambiguous, guarded, supremely confident - he looks as suave and as dangerously handsome as ever, with his dark eyes and neat beard and olive skin. Inside, he doesn't feel nearly as together as that - he feels nervous, tentative, skittish as a newborn horse. Aware of how precarious it is - how precarious it always is - when you feel things for someone. And, god, he feels things. ]

Like buttered groats.

[It's... not fury. This feeling in his chest that the world's slipped away somewhere and he's strung out on a high wire with no memory of how or when and why he stepped out from the safety of home. He should shuffle back, before he's gone too far. While it's still just a game, probably.

Prior's been able to recognise Byerly's games for months, for gods sakes, so why is he never sure when it comes to him? Too bad the words didn't come packaged as a limerick.

It cuts through something, anyway. Snaps a string that's been keeping his smile from curving too wide.]

Baby, we've been living together too long if I've started to taste like home.

[If it's a game, then fine. He has a hand too.]

Imagine the other way around. [Or, let him show you - leaning in, lips close enough to skim Byerly's cheek.] Hot dog carts. [A shivery sigh, then an electric whisper against his ear.] Air pollution.

[ He's not made of stone. A tingle goes down his spine at that sensual whisper in his ear, and he fights to avoid squirming. If he were a younger man, it might have made him semi-hard, though thankfully his cock is a little calmer these days. Instead, he just feels that little buzz. ]

Foul smells and generous helpings of sausage. Exactly what I want to be known for.

[ And he reaches down and puts a hand on Prior's knee, squeezing deliberately. ]

[What disappointing self-control. A little squirm at least might have let Prior feel like he'd held a few matching cards, if not a flush. He slips into something soft and southern to reply, any voice other than his own.]

Crass, too. Why you're a regular home comfort.

[He leans back, slowly, stretching the space between them bar that linking point. The lock on his expression won't quite hold but the twitch to his lips doesn't say quite what it's trying to be. And it's stupid, meaningless - aren't they tactile enough around each other as a rule? He slept curled into Byerly's side after some unrecountable nightmare not a few nights ago and it didn't feel complex. So. Maybe it's just the weight of the day.

Prior's hand rests lightly over Byerly's, fingertips dusting a pattern over the back of his hand. All right, then. A breath to collect up his questions and keep them in.]

And I know your evening's turned out a dud, but if that lawyer was just playing hard to get you're going to get me sued.

Ah. Am I worth it?

[ He looks at Prior from under his eyelashes. His hand turns over, fingers tracing over Prior's palm, feather-light. Teasingly light. ]

The loss of your considerable fortune to the wiles of the wicked lawman?

Oh, I've a disreputable man at home who drinks it all down the drain either way.

[It would seem such a careless question if Prior didn't suspect variations of what am I worth kept Byerly up at night. The touch that's so goddamned distracting feels like a magician's sleight of hand. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Well. If Byerly's ever missed what he's worth to Prior then he's an idiot.

He may well be an idiot. Both of them, even.]

But mother warned me, men are like the markets. Don't stake your investment in anyone not risking something in return.

Edited 2018-02-25 10:12 (UTC)

How oppressively capitalist.

[ Byerly's parents never warned him about anyone, man or woman. They were too caught up in their obsessions and madnesses to spare a thought for his future love live. (He wonders, sometimes, how Nadine had managed to come through neglect to find her stolid, sensible Lord Vorlightly. Always the smartest of them.) But he had been exposed to stories nevertheless - tales of knights tucking maidens' kerchiefs next to their hearts, brave soldiers riding forth to protect or to avenge their loves. Women setting their homes aflame and sitting in the fire, death before dishonor; men blindfolding themselves to defend against impure thoughts. Is it any wonder he has no fucking clue how to love someone, with those insane models?

I don't know how to love, Prior. This is the damned problem, isn't it? He craves the closeness. He needs Prior curled up against him at night, the odd tremulous fullness in his heart that comes from that tenderness. Better than sex, that tenderness. But he just wants to take it, just wants to receive. He doesn't know how to give a return. All risk, no profit. ]

Where does that leave us poor losing prospects, eh? Loveless. Tragic.

[ He smiles, and reaches out to push a lock of Prior's hair from his eyes. ]

[Oh, Prior's mother never gave out advice like the best pal in a screwball comedy, either. But the best pals in screwball comedies did, and iconic screen heroines, and queens older and wiser than him. Universal mothers, to whom all lost queer boys turn for their guiding hands.

Perhaps Byerly could have benefited from a more iconic era of cinema. Goddamn fairytales are nothing but puritan propaganda.

Prior has

had?

has loves of the kind who'll hold him through nightmares and talk him through sickness and dance him through joy. Belize never missed a day's duty. And yet when it came to cravings there's something more to it, a spot that kind of tenderness never quite hits.

That's the problem with Byerly. Even as Prior thinks this is enough there's that whisper in him that more would be nice, too. Sure, Prior loves him. Is half-way in love and maybe always will be. But. He can't love that way at one remove. Can't love, again, someone who'll endanger nothing in themselves. Risk is all love is, in the end: a gamble frozen with the dice in the air until the last.]

No, baby.

[Relenting, he leans in, curling his arms around Byerly's shoulders. He shakes that stray strand of hair right back out of place right before resting his forehead light against Byerly's.]

It leaves them with a choice.

[ Yeah. A choice. Stop leading him on. Stop flirting and touching and holding him. Shit or get off the pot, you fucking shit. That's the problem, Byerly's desire to preserve this, all this tenderness, all this goodness, all this warmth, without allowing anything more. Taking all and giving none. This is the problem. Byerly truly isn't a good man, truly is not; he's ImpSec, and that sounds so damned romantic. The spy who sacrifices himself and his honor for his homeland and for more than that. But at the end of the day, By's sole interest is the masochistic pleasure of self-sacrifice, isn't it? ]

Ah. And what choice is that?

[ His smile is easy and polished. His manner is casual and warm. He reaches out to adjust Prior's collar, and leans in against him, because he's not good enough to make the damn choice. ]

[Prior's breath, held a moment, lets out in a disappointed rush. Shit or get off the pot's about it, sure. And as unpretty as it sounds, that would have been a moment to shit.

He almost doesn't bother to answer. It wasn't supposed to be something you continue with words - they're nothing but frustration, and it's humiliating, too - and that's something Prior can't stand for for long. As soon as that smile flickers on, Prior's not even sure Byerly's capable of getting something true past his teeth. Like he doesn't know the options here.]

I hate when you pretend to be stupid with me. But it's worse when I'm supposed to play along.

[He presses a kiss to Byerly's cheek, and pulls away.]

You can stay safe, and scared, and never have anything. Or you can stop being such a goddamn coward, Byerly. Risk getting sued - who knows, maybe you'll win. It's your choice. You choose. Just don't ever ask me what you're worth when you know I'd take the risk in a minute.

[The glass is set back on the bar, it and the bottle still half full, and Prior hitches a foot on the strut to climb down.]

I think I'm ready to go.

[ It's not a recrimination when he says this - not exactly. Nor is it, exactly, harsh. But By knows where Prior spends his time. He knows where he goes up on the Nysan station. And so, a little softly, he asks: ]

Oh, I doubt you'd even like me any longer if I weren't a coward.

[ You have a type, Prior. Then he shrugs mildly. ]

I'll stay a while. See you at home.

[Not recriminatory, maybe, but there's a sting to the words that can't be anything but deliberate. Date nights with Louis. Prior dresses nice and takes a flask of something warm and tries to get something from the silent unconscious that is his ex's once impossibly busy mind. He tells himself its most ethical to test his powers on someone he's not supposed to give a shit about, but he's looking for something.

Closure. Company. It's so inconvenient when somebody fucks you over then blinks out of your existence before you can get answers.

Prior's on his feet before he replies, turning his head away a moment because it takes him longer to school his expression out of showing every damn thing he feels. Which is like a fool, half the time. When he looks back his lip's dark from being bitten.]

Well. Maybe I think I deserve somebody giving me the chance to find out, for once.

[It's not harsh, either. Tired, that's all, a little regretful. A breath, and he slides the bottle across to Byerly, painting a smile back on.]

From your fairy godmother. Share it with someone pretty.

[Then he's heading for the door. Maybe not for home, there might be something to salvage from the evening, or at least something stronger to drink to forget it. He'll get back late enough to disturb no one but the dawn chorus.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

when the moon hits your eye... [Valentine's Day Date Night]

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