- Local time
- Today 1:20 PM
- Messages
- 95
- Age
- 34
So, here is a warning: This pairing delves into narrative bigotry and sensitive topics.
Hello, you can call me Candelo, and I've been roleplaying for 20 some years. I hail from a sunny island on the Caribbean and was lucky to find cool people to roleplay with. Hopefully this idea here will lure in some more cool people.
I enjoy writing about hand holding, romance and the power of love. I also seem to like messing with that a whole lot, to test the limits of love, to throw drama into a slow burning romance and even have an ugly plot crashing down on our characters. I am looking forward to find a roleplay partner where we can breathe life into two characters, stack the odds against them and see how they come out, at the other end.
This setting I imagine it to be something Sci-Fi, mixed with Fantasy and Cyberpunk themes. A dirty city called Zhoron, rife with corruption and power, poverty and luxury. The characters in question are neighbors, an androgynous elven exotic dancer and a dangerous and stoic spacer of human descent.
I would like for us to chart a short plotline, perhaps a starting point and a possible ending. I don't intend this to be an overtly long roleplay, might take a few 10-20 pages worth of replies on these forums.
The characters themselves aren't set entirely in stone, but here is what came out in a dash of inspiration.
I am looking forward to exploring the relationship between these two characters, or characters along these lines and how they would advance their relationship. I expect a slow burn romance, laden with drama and perhaps sprinkled with a bit of action. I can play either character in this one, slight preference for The Spacer.
Hello, you can call me Candelo, and I've been roleplaying for 20 some years. I hail from a sunny island on the Caribbean and was lucky to find cool people to roleplay with. Hopefully this idea here will lure in some more cool people.
I enjoy writing about hand holding, romance and the power of love. I also seem to like messing with that a whole lot, to test the limits of love, to throw drama into a slow burning romance and even have an ugly plot crashing down on our characters. I am looking forward to find a roleplay partner where we can breathe life into two characters, stack the odds against them and see how they come out, at the other end.
This setting I imagine it to be something Sci-Fi, mixed with Fantasy and Cyberpunk themes. A dirty city called Zhoron, rife with corruption and power, poverty and luxury. The characters in question are neighbors, an androgynous elven exotic dancer and a dangerous and stoic spacer of human descent.
I would like for us to chart a short plotline, perhaps a starting point and a possible ending. I don't intend this to be an overtly long roleplay, might take a few 10-20 pages worth of replies on these forums.
The characters themselves aren't set entirely in stone, but here is what came out in a dash of inspiration.
Vaerindyl moved through the world like a song that lingered long after it ended, something soft, but sharp, catchy, but unsettling. He didn't just enter a room; he slipped into it, like smoke curling through the cracks, sweet and dangerous all at once. Zhoron's cold, grimy streets hadn't worn him down like they had everyone else. Instead, he thrived in the city's undercurrent of secrets and the hollow spaces people left when they tried too hard to be something they weren't.
He was beautiful, no way around it. Not in a delicate, glass-fragile sort of way, but in the kind of beauty that left people wondering why they were still staring. Long, silky black hair spilled over his shoulders, often half-tied with ribbons that looked accidental but never were. His face was all sharp angles and soft edges, high cheekbones, a delicate jawline, and those piercing green eyes that seemed to shimmer with a thousand unspoken things. He painted himself in contrasts, his elven blood giving him a natural grace, but his expression always just a little too knowing, too devilish, to be innocent.
Vaerindyl's frame teetered on that fine line between androgyny and something far more intentional. He was slender, his limbs long and fluid, his hips carrying a sway that he didn't try to hide. Clothing? Always a statement. Sometimes it was oversized sweaters that dipped too low at the collar, sometimes it was mesh and leather, cut close to the skin, daring anyone to comment. At Vesper, the nightclub where he worked, there was no subtlety. He owned the stage, every curve, every line of his body, using it like a weapon, turning desire and discomfort into power. But in the dull light of the apartment halls or in the hazy flicker of neon outside corner stores, there was something softer under the polish. Something almost… lonely.
He lived for the push and pull. For the tension. Vaerindyl wasn't the kind of person who let emotions bloom quietly; he yanked them out, raw and exposed. He liked seeing people fluster, liked watching cracks form in facades, enjoyed toeing the lines that others drew in the sand. With Armando, it was the perfect game, here was a man built of iron walls and stony silences, and Vaerindyl was all too eager to see what it would take to chip them away. He didn't expect to win, not really. The thrill was in the trying.
But he wasn't heartless.
Underneath the teasing, under the way he curved his voice into lilts and let his fingers linger a second too long, there was something else, something brittle. Zhoron wasn't kind to dreamers, and Vaerindyl had been one once. Before the stage lights and the whiskey-laced tips. Before the dropped-out classes and the nights where he swore he could dance forever if it meant forgetting how heavy the city felt when he stopped.
Vesper gave him the stage, the lights, the heat of hundreds of eyes that didn't see him, not really, but saw what they wanted. And he was fine with that. He could mold himself into anyone, into anything. But here, in the flickering hallways of South Zhoron Apartments, there wasn't a stage. Just crumbling walls, a neighbor who refused to look too long, and a game Vaerindyl couldn't quite figure out if he was winning or losing.
He thrived on that uncertainty.
But there were moments, quiet, fragile ones, when he sat on his tiny apartment balcony, sipping wine, the sounds of the city muffled in the distance, and he wondered how much of this was performance and how much was just… him. Those were the nights when he'd leave the door ajar on purpose, knowing Armando was probably out there, somewhere, maybe catching a glimpse. It wasn't about seduction, not really. It was about being seen, the kind of seeing that stripped away all the layers and left him bare.
And maybe, just maybe, he wanted someone to look past the show and still stick around.
Even if it was just a neighbor who insisted on pretending he didn't care.
He was beautiful, no way around it. Not in a delicate, glass-fragile sort of way, but in the kind of beauty that left people wondering why they were still staring. Long, silky black hair spilled over his shoulders, often half-tied with ribbons that looked accidental but never were. His face was all sharp angles and soft edges, high cheekbones, a delicate jawline, and those piercing green eyes that seemed to shimmer with a thousand unspoken things. He painted himself in contrasts, his elven blood giving him a natural grace, but his expression always just a little too knowing, too devilish, to be innocent.
Vaerindyl's frame teetered on that fine line between androgyny and something far more intentional. He was slender, his limbs long and fluid, his hips carrying a sway that he didn't try to hide. Clothing? Always a statement. Sometimes it was oversized sweaters that dipped too low at the collar, sometimes it was mesh and leather, cut close to the skin, daring anyone to comment. At Vesper, the nightclub where he worked, there was no subtlety. He owned the stage, every curve, every line of his body, using it like a weapon, turning desire and discomfort into power. But in the dull light of the apartment halls or in the hazy flicker of neon outside corner stores, there was something softer under the polish. Something almost… lonely.
He lived for the push and pull. For the tension. Vaerindyl wasn't the kind of person who let emotions bloom quietly; he yanked them out, raw and exposed. He liked seeing people fluster, liked watching cracks form in facades, enjoyed toeing the lines that others drew in the sand. With Armando, it was the perfect game, here was a man built of iron walls and stony silences, and Vaerindyl was all too eager to see what it would take to chip them away. He didn't expect to win, not really. The thrill was in the trying.
But he wasn't heartless.
Underneath the teasing, under the way he curved his voice into lilts and let his fingers linger a second too long, there was something else, something brittle. Zhoron wasn't kind to dreamers, and Vaerindyl had been one once. Before the stage lights and the whiskey-laced tips. Before the dropped-out classes and the nights where he swore he could dance forever if it meant forgetting how heavy the city felt when he stopped.
Vesper gave him the stage, the lights, the heat of hundreds of eyes that didn't see him, not really, but saw what they wanted. And he was fine with that. He could mold himself into anyone, into anything. But here, in the flickering hallways of South Zhoron Apartments, there wasn't a stage. Just crumbling walls, a neighbor who refused to look too long, and a game Vaerindyl couldn't quite figure out if he was winning or losing.
He thrived on that uncertainty.
But there were moments, quiet, fragile ones, when he sat on his tiny apartment balcony, sipping wine, the sounds of the city muffled in the distance, and he wondered how much of this was performance and how much was just… him. Those were the nights when he'd leave the door ajar on purpose, knowing Armando was probably out there, somewhere, maybe catching a glimpse. It wasn't about seduction, not really. It was about being seen, the kind of seeing that stripped away all the layers and left him bare.
And maybe, just maybe, he wanted someone to look past the show and still stick around.
Even if it was just a neighbor who insisted on pretending he didn't care.
Armando Guerra moved through the world with the quiet, unshakable weight of a man who had seen too much and felt too little. He didn't rush, didn't linger. He simply was, a presence, solid and immovable, like the hull of a ship cutting through the void. Zhoron wasn't his home, not really. It was just another stop between the long silences of deep space and the docking stations that all blurred together after a while. He didn't get attached. He didn't put down roots. He existed where he needed to, did what had to be done, and kept moving.
He was tall, strong in a way that spoke of function rather than vanity. Every inch of him carried the weight of someone who had spent years in ships too small and jobs too dangerous to be careless. His skin was a dark olive, weathered by time, his hair clipped down to the barest shadow of modesty, his facial here the only extravagance he allowed himself. There was no excess to him. No waste. His face, angular and severe, rarely gave anything away, his amber eyes heavy-lidded, almost lazy, but always watching. Always measuring.
He wasn't unkind, but kindness wasn't the first thing people noticed about him. He spoke in short sentences, sometimes just a grunt or a nod, his voice low and even, the kind of tone that left little room for argument. Not harsh, not aggressive, just final. He didn't need to raise his voice to command a room, and he never needed to explain himself twice. That was something the younger spacers learned fast.
Zhoron was different from the places he usually ended up. It was louder, dirtier, needier, full of people clawing at something, whether it was money, status, or just a little more time. He didn't belong here. He knew that from the moment he stepped into the South Zhoron Apartments, the walls thin enough to hear the city bleeding through them. He never complained, never cared. A room was a room. A place to sleep between jobs.
Then there was him.
Vaerindyl.
The neighbor he hadn't expected to become a problem.
The first time Armando saw him, really saw him, was a mistake. A glance in the hallway, a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, and then that realization. The too-long stare, the sharp inhale he caught before he could stop it. Vaerindyl had noticed. Had smirked. Had let the moment stretch just a second too long before sauntering past like he hadn't just set something in Armando's gut on edge.
It pissed him off, mostly because it meant something had gotten to him.
Vaerindyl liked that. Lived for it. Pushed at the edges of Armando's restraint like a cat toying with a closed door, just to see how far it would give. But Armando was a spacer. He knew how to endure. How to sit in the silence of a pressurized cabin and let time wear away at whatever discomfort clawed at him.
He wasn't going to snap.
Not for some teasing, sharp-eyed elf with too much confidence and not enough self-preservation.
Except Vaerindyl wasn't just that. That was the problem. He was a game Armando wasn't playing but somehow still caught up in. A slow-burn tension that didn't go away even when he ignored it. It wasn't about attraction, it wasn't. He knew his type, knew what he wanted, and it sure as hell wasn't some dancer from a place like Vesper, all neon-lit illusions and whispered temptations.
But Armando didn't bite.
He told himself it was because he didn't want to. He wasn't into that, guys like Vaerindyl, all showy and slippery, weren't his type. Armando was strictly into women. Always had been. Always would be. But that didn't explain why his gaze sometimes drifted a second too long when Vaerindyl walked past in something too tight, too sheer, hips swaying like he was dancing even when he wasn't.
Still, Armando had plans. Zhoron was a stepping stone, not a home. He was here to make the last few connections he needed, move the last few shipments, and then disappear to somewhere quieter, richer. A life where he didn't have to watch his back at every turn. He had enough credits stashed away to start thinking about something permanent, somewhere out of the reach of scavengers, bounty hunters, and old enemies. A quiet life.
And yet, the city had its hooks in him.
Some nights, he'd step onto his balcony, arms crossed, eyes scanning the city below, and find Vaerindyl there, half-draped in shadows, wine glass between his fingers, watching him. Not saying a word. Not smirking. Just watching.
Like he was waiting.
Armando didn't know what for.
And maybe that's what bothered him most.
He was tall, strong in a way that spoke of function rather than vanity. Every inch of him carried the weight of someone who had spent years in ships too small and jobs too dangerous to be careless. His skin was a dark olive, weathered by time, his hair clipped down to the barest shadow of modesty, his facial here the only extravagance he allowed himself. There was no excess to him. No waste. His face, angular and severe, rarely gave anything away, his amber eyes heavy-lidded, almost lazy, but always watching. Always measuring.
He wasn't unkind, but kindness wasn't the first thing people noticed about him. He spoke in short sentences, sometimes just a grunt or a nod, his voice low and even, the kind of tone that left little room for argument. Not harsh, not aggressive, just final. He didn't need to raise his voice to command a room, and he never needed to explain himself twice. That was something the younger spacers learned fast.
Zhoron was different from the places he usually ended up. It was louder, dirtier, needier, full of people clawing at something, whether it was money, status, or just a little more time. He didn't belong here. He knew that from the moment he stepped into the South Zhoron Apartments, the walls thin enough to hear the city bleeding through them. He never complained, never cared. A room was a room. A place to sleep between jobs.
Then there was him.
Vaerindyl.
The neighbor he hadn't expected to become a problem.
The first time Armando saw him, really saw him, was a mistake. A glance in the hallway, a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, and then that realization. The too-long stare, the sharp inhale he caught before he could stop it. Vaerindyl had noticed. Had smirked. Had let the moment stretch just a second too long before sauntering past like he hadn't just set something in Armando's gut on edge.
It pissed him off, mostly because it meant something had gotten to him.
Vaerindyl liked that. Lived for it. Pushed at the edges of Armando's restraint like a cat toying with a closed door, just to see how far it would give. But Armando was a spacer. He knew how to endure. How to sit in the silence of a pressurized cabin and let time wear away at whatever discomfort clawed at him.
He wasn't going to snap.
Not for some teasing, sharp-eyed elf with too much confidence and not enough self-preservation.
Except Vaerindyl wasn't just that. That was the problem. He was a game Armando wasn't playing but somehow still caught up in. A slow-burn tension that didn't go away even when he ignored it. It wasn't about attraction, it wasn't. He knew his type, knew what he wanted, and it sure as hell wasn't some dancer from a place like Vesper, all neon-lit illusions and whispered temptations.
But Armando didn't bite.
He told himself it was because he didn't want to. He wasn't into that, guys like Vaerindyl, all showy and slippery, weren't his type. Armando was strictly into women. Always had been. Always would be. But that didn't explain why his gaze sometimes drifted a second too long when Vaerindyl walked past in something too tight, too sheer, hips swaying like he was dancing even when he wasn't.
Still, Armando had plans. Zhoron was a stepping stone, not a home. He was here to make the last few connections he needed, move the last few shipments, and then disappear to somewhere quieter, richer. A life where he didn't have to watch his back at every turn. He had enough credits stashed away to start thinking about something permanent, somewhere out of the reach of scavengers, bounty hunters, and old enemies. A quiet life.
And yet, the city had its hooks in him.
Some nights, he'd step onto his balcony, arms crossed, eyes scanning the city below, and find Vaerindyl there, half-draped in shadows, wine glass between his fingers, watching him. Not saying a word. Not smirking. Just watching.
Like he was waiting.
Armando didn't know what for.
And maybe that's what bothered him most.
I am looking forward to exploring the relationship between these two characters, or characters along these lines and how they would advance their relationship. I expect a slow burn romance, laden with drama and perhaps sprinkled with a bit of action. I can play either character in this one, slight preference for The Spacer.