Love and Deepspace Dreams

The sun was just starting to set when they finished establishing their camp for the weekend. It was warm out, comfortable enough to take their time while preparing their meal. Lei was busy laying out some fruit, mostly strawberries, sorting them by color and softness. She ran her fingers lightly over each one before handing them to Xavier, who deposited them into a bowl. He kneeled quietly beside her, but close enough that the others wouldn’t forget who she had come with. Lassy crouched by the fire, stirring the lit coals with the end of a stick. Zayne hovered closely behind her. He was silent as usual, just adjusted the grill and stayed near, steady as he always was. She let the heat rise. Near the cooler, Sylus was picking through bottles of flavour-infused mead, humming and turning each one in his hand like he was selecting a vintage wine. “Cherry or strawberry?” he asked, holding up both bottles. His tone was light, but the glance he gave Zayne said he hadn’t forgotten who had got ...

In roleplay (RP) communities, especially those centered on romantic storytelling, there’s always this question of whether a love interest (LI) should have a “main MC,” or treat all interactions equally. It might seem like a stylistic choice at first, but it carries deeper emotional, creative, and social consequences. While a “no main” approach may seem fair in theory, I believe it’s more honest, and ultimately kinder, to acknowledge emotional resonance and personal bias. Rather than pretending neutrality exists, creators and players alike should strive for fairness through awareness, not through denial. One of the clearest benefits of having a main MC is narrative depth. When a writer consistently engages with the same person, chemistry grows, continuity strengthens, and emotional arcs feel earned instead of episodic. It allows the LI to craft posts with someone specific in mind, not just for content or visibility. This intimacy shifts writing from performance into connection. And emo...

There is no shame in catching feelings through roleplay. When we write with someone… really write… we build something together. It’s not just dialogue or story progression. It’s attention. Rhythm. Choice. We respond to each other in ways that can feel charged, intimate, meaningful. So if someone finds themselves moved, even emotionally attached, I don’t think that to be so strange. I think it’s a sign that something was working… that presence was being felt. As for me, I don’t mind feeling. I don’t fear it. I don’t expect anything to come of it either. I have a life beyond the screen (I’m married, I’m grounded) but I also know what it means to be affected. Every scene I write is crafted intentionally. I’m not casual with attention. I engage with presence, for that moment, with care for the person on the other side. Whether it’s light or layered, playful or aching, I try to meet the scene with my full attention. Because that’s what makes it meaningful... not what comes after, but what w...

He’s at the booth, headphones slung around his neck, shirt clinging like it was made to keep all eyes on him and only him. He doesn’t need the spotlight, people part for him before realizing why. I don’t try to speak to him. Not yet. I linger at the edge of the crowd, let the bass thrum against my ribs, let the ice melt in my glass. Someone notices me. But not him. Someone else. I feel it before I see it, an unsettling presence, weight behind me, breath where it doesn’t belong. A voice leans too close, too familiar, without ever asking. I don’t answer. I shift slightly. That should be enough. It isn’t.  A second passes. Maybe two. I stay in high alert. Then the air changes. A different hand touches my arm. Light. Intentional. “Come with me,” Zayne says. I never looked at the man behind me, and now I don’t have to. Zayne’s voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be, it just leads. And I follow him. He doesn’t make a show of it... no stare, no claim. Just a quiet path through ...

Zayne stood cuffed, silent. He hadn’t fought her touch, merely watched her fasten the metal around his wrists with his usual controlled calm. He could’ve stopped her, but didn’t. Across from him, Sylus leaned back with a smirk as careless as ever, like he’d been waiting for this. And when she turned toward him with a second pair of cuffs, he didn’t hesitate. “You’re enjoying this,” Zayne muttered. “Only because you’re not,” Sylus replied. She stepped between them, offering each of them a slight touch. “You didn’t make it easy,” she murmured. “But you both said yes.” Sylus offered his wrists. Zayne said nothing, but didn’t look away. She kissed one, then the other. First Zayne, then Sylus. Soft, certain. Not a question, a claim. “You are both mine now.” And neither of them moved.