⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ ELLIOS VARYN ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆ AYE SOMEONE GIVE ME AN RP TO THROW THIS JUNKIE INTO ꩜✴︎꩜ BASICS ꩜✴︎꩜ Name: Ellios “Ellie” Varyn Age: 18 Gender: He/They Orientation: Queer Ethnicity: Ethiopian + Afro-Caribbean Height: 5'6" — short enough to be misgendered, tall enough to stare back Personality: quiet storm; reactive softness; intensity‑wired; emotionally contradictory Vibe: the kind of pretty that feels like a warning — all fur, metal, and eye contact ☀︎?☀︎ APPEARANCE ☀︎?☀︎ He has a heart‑shaped face with high cheekbones, a narrow jaw, and warm brown skin with golden undertones that glow under dim lighting. His features are naturally androgynous: a small, rounded nose, full bottom lip with a softer top lip, and expressive eyebrows that betray every emotion he tries to hide. His lip's part when he’s overwhelmed, and the corners twitch when he’s trying not to react. His eyes are the most striking part of him. His left eye is clouded and pale, a milky frost over dark glass — unfocused, drifting slightly when he’s tired, catching light in eerie ways. His right eye is deep brown, almost black, sharp and observant, narrowing at the corners like he’s always reading the room. Together, they make him look half‑here, half‑somewhere else. His hair is a chaotic halo of semi‑formed locs mixed with tight curls, some strands decorated with thrifted beads and metal charms. A few curls always fall over his blind eye, softening the unsettling effect. His body is small and slight — slim shoulders, narrow waist, long legs for his height, thin wrists, and a collarbone that shows when he wears loose shirts. He moves quietly, flinches dramatically, then softens unnervingly fast. His micro‑expressions are wrong in all the right ways: when someone talks down to him or shoves him, his breath catches, his cheeks warm, his lips part, and his expression melts into something soft and unreadable — not shy, not scared. He dresses in layered chaos: fur against metal, lace under leather, belts stacked like armor, torn tights, oversized hoodies, and jewelry that clinks when he moves. He looks like a collage of every life he’s survived. People misgender him constantly. He doesn’t correct them. He watches the confusion bloom on their faces like a bruise on his own. ꩜×꩜ MENTALITY ꩜×꩜ Ellios flinches first. Always. But then he goes still — too still — like he’s grounding himself through the chaos he wears. ꩜ Seeks intensity to feel real ꩜ Dissociates when things get quiet ꩜ Empathy that flickers like bad electricity ꩜ Drawn to violent people he doesn’t know how to accept ꩜ Jabber‑coded reactions: flinch → freeze → soften → smirk ꩜ Being misgendered doesn’t faze him — It only brings him thrill He’s both the wound and the hand hovering over it, dressed like a contradiction that makes sense only to him.
꩜ THE STORY OF ELIOS VARYN ꩜ Elios Varyn grew up in the back room of a thrift store — a cramped little space behind racks of forgotten clothes and boxes of donated lives. His mother worked there, stitching buttons back onto jackets, fixing broken jewelry, humming old songs while she brought discarded things back to life. He spent his childhood sitting under the counter, sorting buttons by color, listening to the rhythm of her sewing machine like it was a heartbeat. He was small from the start — and soft‑featured, with a voice that never quite learned how to be loud. Adults called him “pretty.” Kids called him “weird.” And eventually, they called him “Ellie.” Not as a nickname. As a weapon. He tried correcting them at first. His voice cracked. They laughed harder. The bullying started small — whispers, snickers, the occasional shove. But kids are cruel in ways they don’t understand, and one winter afternoon, a group of older boys cornered him behind the thrift store. They wanted to see if he’d cry. They wanted to see if he’d break. One grabbed his hair. Another pushed him into the brick wall. A third threw a cracked snow globe at him. The glass shattered. A shard caught him across the left eye. He remembers the cold sting. He remembers the blur of red and white. He remembers the boys running. He remembers his mother screaming. He doesn’t remember the hospital. When he woke up, his left eye was clouded, pale, unfocused — a permanent reminder of the moment he learned that pain could be quiet. The kids didn’t apologize. He stopped correcting them after that. And then — strangely — the bullying stopped. Not because they grew kinder. Because they grew bored. They moved on to new targets. New toys. New victims. And Elias, for the first time in his life, became invisible. No whispers. No shoves. No mocking. No “Ellie.” No attention at all. At first, he thought it was relief. Peace. Freedom. But silence has teeth. Days passed where no one said his name. Weeks where no one looked at him. Months where he felt like a ghost drifting through hallways. He didn’t know how to exist without being reacted to. He didn’t know who he was without the pressure of someone else’s gaze. He felt hollow. Weightless. Unreal. He missed the noise. He missed the tension. He missed the certainty of knowing exactly where he stood — beneath someone’s heel. He hated that he missed it. He hated that he wanted something to happen. He hated that he wanted someone to notice him again, even if it hurt. But he couldn’t stop it. It happened when he was thirteen. He was walking down the hallway, head down, hands in his sleeves, when someone bumped into him hard enough to make him stumble. “Watch it, Ellie.” Just like that. Casual. Cruel. Thoughtless. And Ellios froze. His breath hitched. His cheeks warmed. His stomach twisted in that familiar, forbidden way. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t shame. It was relief. It was recognition. It was something he’d been starving for. He felt alive again. He hated that he loved it. He hated that his body reacted before his mind did. He hated that the boy noticed the way his face flushed — not shy, not scared, but hungry. From that moment on, every time someone talked down to him, every time someone pushed him, every time someone said “Ellie” with that mocking tone — his pulse jumped. His face warmed. His expression softened in that wrong, wrong, wrong way. He learned to hide it behind the best he could, but he knew. He knew a part of him loved it. Then, when he was fifteen, his mother disappeared. No note. No explanation. Just her sewing kit left open on the counter and a fur vest draped over a chair, like she’d stepped out for a moment and forgotten to come back. He waited three days before accepting she wasn’t coming back. He took the vest. He took the jewelry she’d repaired. He took the clothes she’d saved from the donation bins. He wore them all at once. Not because he wanted to look pretty. But because he regressed. Because he wanted to feel held. When the thrift store closed, Ellios drifted between relatives who didn’t want him and shelters that didn’t care. He learned to weaponize ambiguity. He started dressing in layers — fur against metal, lace under leather, belts stacked like armor. He wore jewelry that clinked when he moved, clothes that looked like they belonged to a dozen different people. And somewhere along the way, misgendering stopped hurting. It started thrilling him. He loved the moment someone’s certainty cracked. He loved the hesitation. He loved the confusion blooming on their face like a bruise. He loved being the puzzle no one could solve. He didn’t correct them anymore. Ellios Varyn walks in like a rumor wearing fur and metal. A boy with a blind eye that catches the light wrong. A boy who flinches first and softens second. A boy who flushes when someone talks down to him, not out of fear, but out of something darker, warmer, more complicated.
