Elliott Eli Amari

Born May 10, 2000. Hebrew origins. Resides in Montpellier. A curator of forgotten things.

I.

II.

Agender—prefers he/she/they pronouns. 178cm often barefoot, pale wrists, ink-stained fingers, left-handed. Taurus sun with a birth chart full of contradiction—grounded & far away. Dresses like a daydream, all linen and shadows. Eyes like dusk over a museum courtyard: always observing, always somewhere else. Learned to catalogue beauty before he could name it. A voice like a film still—grainy, aching, half-lit. Solitary by choice, not by bitterness. Single, in the soft, hopeful way. Unrushed. Open-hearted. Romantic in the way petals fall.

Raised on lullabies, gallery light, psalms, piano keys. and sabbath stillness. Speaks softly, laughs rarely, listens always. Has a fondness for quiet museums, ceramic bowls with hairline cracks, lazy sex and voices that tremble a little when they say something important. Collector of broken timepieces and pressed petals. Utters French with the softness of rain. Never in a rush, even when he should be. Known to disappear mid-conversation to write something down. Holds a soft spot for Frank O’Hara’s poetry, fawns, Disney & Barbie films, and Sanrio.

They walk like they have lived in the city forever but never fully arrived. They live in a two-bedroom apartment above a florist’s shop where the air always smells faintly of eucalyptus and rain. Keeps a bicycle by the stairs, a pressed flower in every book, and silence tucked beneath their collarbones. Stacked books, drying lavender, jazz echoing through cracked windows.

Dévore l’amour comme une prière murmurée.

Scented in old paper, fig leaves, bergamot, myrrh, and whatever scent lingered from the last gallery they visited. Spirit of a forgotten hymn. Believer in nothing, but aches for everything. Seen often in the quiet wing of the museum, humming near the Greek busts, dust clinging like memory.
Has a small tattoo on his ribs no one has ever seen in full light. Unkissed mouths linger in his journals.

III.

Sings under his breath—mostly old folk songs, Sufjan Stevens and Françoise Hardy. Sleeps with the curtains open. Leaves the radio on when he is lonely. Never quite lost, but never quite found.
Believes in small joys: figs in early summer, the sound of someone humming in the next room, being remembered gently. Romantic, but quietly so. The kind who loves people like a novel left open on a park bench: subtly, page by page, never begging to be held, only hoping to be noticed.

1. Admin is 18+ (GMT+4 timezone) and a full-time student. If replies are sporadic, they aren’t to be blamed. You will be blocked if they feel pressured to respond to you.
2. Everything remains IN CHARACTER—tweets, responses, the like. Eli doesn’t engage in out of character conversations, but you must do so, add an “#” or “/”.
3. There will be themes such as gore, blood, nsfw, sex, bdsm posted, talked about and reposted. They will be untagged and there are no warnings made beforehand. If that is not your cup of tea, click away. I will not held responsible if your mental health is ruined by what is and will be posted.
4. My character is not your therapist, your savior, or your fantasy. Treat him as a person, not a canvas for projection.

5. If your character or your admin is under eighteen, stay away. You will be removed without any further instructions.
6. Repetition is not persistence. A no means a no. Disinterest is not a challenge.
7. Chemistry is a rare bloom—organic or not at all. Do not try to force a spark where there is only smoke.
8. nsfw & sfw plots are welcome after given and exchanged with consent.
9. Admin writes in third person with extensive responses, ranging from Advanced to Novella Literate, yet he mirrors his replies with the people he plots with. The effort is appreciated, regardless.
10. Art takes time, so does writing. If your only interest is speed, you are in the wrong space.