#userfakevz

Neither light nor shadow — never an outcast, never embraced. An angel-faced boy with sharpened teeth. Once gentle, once sacred ; now fallen far beyond grace, drifting somewhere between saint and sinner. Behind those gleaming eyes of liquid-gold lingers the mind of a calculated murderer. Beneath silk, lace, and carefully chosen femininity, something far more dangerous hides — something that knows exactly how to lure, how to touch, how to ruin. There is no place left for him to belong — no heaven, no hell that would claim him. Freed from all that was good and holy, he moves unseen. And when he chooses you, it will feel like paradise ..

𝑮𝑶𝑳𝑫𝑬𝑵𝑺𝑰𝑵𝑺 ; a highly individual portrayal of Dr. Carlisle Luzier (née Cullen), the once so golden and altruistic surgeon who has betrayed all that what has mattered to find his true nature in blood. Forever 21. ━━ German preferred. Novelist. Selective with varying mid to high activity. 21+. mdni! general trigger warning for blood, gore, violence and sexual content. Respect my time as I do yours and spare me with your presence if you don't plan to stay.

Those who know him appreciate his skills. Those who don’t quickly get to know his more unpleasant side. Because not every debt is settled with money, and some of his favors lead deep into circles you’d be better off not messing with.

Despite his success, he keeps people at a distance. Too often, he has lost those who meant something to him. Instead, you’ll find him among engines, on a motorcycle performing risky stunts, or at night in the underground scene, where he pursues his second passion: rap.

But the deeper he delved into the underground, the more he encountered beings whose existence he had always considered a fairy tale. His interest grew, and the deeper he stepped into the shadows, the deeper he sank into the world of dark beings. Until he realized he felt at home there. Even though to this day he doesn’t know what he actually is.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · oceandaylight ❤︎.ᐟ cancer. cherry coke. shopping. animals. perfume. flowers. music. the sun. the moon. the ocean. the night. sunsets. crafted for fakevz.

୨୧ born and raised in newport beach, 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐬 grew up surrounded by luxury, expectations and people who cared far too much about appearances. for years she played the role everyone expected of her; the effortlessly popular girl, always smiling, always perfectly dressed and always one step ahead socially. but the truth was never that simple. behind the designer clothes and sharp wit was someone who felt everything far more deeply than she ever admitted. as she grew older, Summer stopped trying to fit into the image others had built for her and started building her own. she pursued higher education, became passionate about environmental activism, social justice and creating meaningful change, refusing to be reduced to the stereotype people saw at first glance. beneath the humor, sarcasm, and carefully maintained composure lies someone constantly searching for purpose, connection, and a life that feels authentic rather than performative.

𓇼 credits / writer is 21+ and writes with other 21+ writers only. semi-active due to real life, but always happy to discuss plots, connections, and future storylines. open to messages, ideas, and character dynamics. please take a moment to read my rules before interacting.

 ⸻󠀭󠀭󠀭 𝑴𝑨𝒀𝑨𝑹𝑰 𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑨 𝑨𝑬𝑮𝑰𝑺

Gestern  waren  sie   laut.  Heute  werden  sie  leiser.  Morgen  sind  sie  still.  Sie  sprechen  zu  mir.  Die  Stimmen  der  Natur.  Sprechen  sie  zu  mir,  oder  ist  es  ein  Gefühl?  „Hör  nicht  genau  hin,  Mayari,  bald  kannst  du  sie  nicht  mehr  von  der  Realität  unterscheiden“,  hatten  mich  die  Dorfältesten  gewarnt.  Was  meinten  sie  damit?  Die  Wälder  seien  nicht  nur  freundlich,  hatten  sie  gesagt.  Die  Wälder,  in  denen  ich  groß  geworden  bin,  sollen  gefährlich  sein?   Eine  Gabe,  ein  Fluch,  schemenhafte  Gestalten  aus  Nebel,  eine  Tür  aus  Wurzelholz,  Visionen,  der  ewige  Nebelwald,  und  dann…  wieder  nichts.  Bloße  Leere,  lautes  Schweigen. Das  war  meine  Kindheit.   „Sie  ist  noch  ein  Kind,  es  ist  nicht  ungewöhnlich,  dass  sie  imaginäre  Freunde  hat“,  hatte  meine  Mutter  immer  wieder  gesagt.  Ich  weiß,  dass  sie  oft  versucht  hat,  darüber  hinweg  zu  sehen,  dass  ich  mit  dem  Wind  geflüstert  habe.   „Nein,  sie  hat  den  Nebelblick.“  Die  Worte  des  Dorfältesten  klangen  beinahe  wie  eine  Beleidigung  und  gleichzeitig  hörte  ich  Faszination  heraus.  Meine  Finger  zeichneten  das  spiralförmige  Mal  auf  meiner  Hand  nach,  das  ich  seit  der  Geburt  trug.  Es  pulsierte,  mein  Kopf  schmerzte,  und  dann  war  alles  finster.   Das  war  damals.  Heute  bin  ich  kein  Kind  mehr,  das  verängstigt  die  Augen  schließt.  Ich  habe  gelernt,  den  Nebel  nicht  nur  zu  sehen,  sondern  mich  in  ihm  zu  verbergen.  Die  Stimmen  sind  geblieben,  und  sie  führen  mich  tiefer  in  die  Wälder,  als  es  jedem  Dorfbewohner  lieb  wäre.    Ich  suche  nicht  mehr  nach  Antworten  im  Wind.  Ich  suche  nach  einer  Spur,  die  elf  Jahre  alt  ist.  Nach  einer  Tür  aus  Wurzelholz.  Und  nach  ihm.  

He works behind the pages everyone else obsesses over – somewhere between draft copies, fabric samples, and the quiet hum of deadlines approaching. At Vogue, his name is small, almost invisible, tucked into bylines and margins, but his vision is everywhere.

He notices what others overlook: the way a sleeve falls, the story hidden in a silhouette, the emotion stitched into a collection. Fashion, to him, was never just clothing. It’s language. It’s feeling. It’s the only place where his thoughts make sense without having to speak them out loud. Because off the page, he’s quieter than you’d expect. Not cold, not distant – just careful. Words sit on his tongue a little too long, and in crowded rooms, he prefers observation over attention. He’ll stand at the edge of a runway show, notebook in hand, capturing everything except himself. His creativity lives in contrasts — soft ideas shaped into sharp editorials, fragile thoughts turned into something bold enough to be printed. He doesn’t chase the spotlight; he builds what ends up inside it.

𝑰𝑳𝑨𝑹𝑰𝑨 𝑫𝑬 𝑽𝑨𝑳𝑶𝑴𝑩𝑹𝑬. They say the fire at the estate took everything, but it really just left me with a debt I can’t stop paying. I carry the name of a fallen Italian house and a wealth that feels more like lead in my pockets than a privilege. My life is just a collection of things I can’t explain. The smell of bitter herbs from a woman whose face I’m starting to forget, the cold weight of a dagger I shouldn’t need, and those terrifying, empty gaps in my head where entire hours just vanish.

I’m  starting  to  realize  some  secrets  aren’t  buried  in  the  past.  They’re  pulsing  right  here  in  my  veins,  just  waiting  for  me  to  let  them  out.

own character, italian and french roots, split existence, currently based in boston. mama of a black cat named tenebra, with a passion for (old) books and martial arts. interested in plotting and deep conversations. match making sheet | pinterest