01. 21+ ONLY I write about serious topics: psychological strain, power dynamics, trauma, mental darkness, and horror. My texts can be raw and I don't sugarcoat them – they might even be triggering. If I get the impression you're too young, I will ask. On principle.

02. LOW ACTIVITY I write slow - not because I’m not interested, but because I choose my words carefully, word by word. Sometimes I need to catch the muse, to really let myself sink into the scenes - so hours, even weeks, can pass without a word.
It’s not laziness or forgetfulness; it means I actually care.
If you can’t handle that, no hard feelings - feel free to move on. But if you can? Stick around.

03. LITERARY WRITING I write only in German - because too much of my style gets lost in translation.This isn’t about word count, it’s about depth and atmosphere. Whether it’s ten lines or a hundred, I’m searching for meaning, not volume. And if you’re writing with me, you’ll have to read - properly. Between the lines, where my words truly speak.

04. CHARACTER ≠ AUTHOR My character’s cynical, prickly, and not exactly a feel-good factory. But that doesn’t reflect who I am behind the scenes. Play it cool and write with kindness, and you’ll get kindness back - no exceptions.

05. NO GODS I don’t control your character – so don’t try to control mine. No powerplay, no godmodding, no dragging around like he’s your personal plot puppet.
We’re not writing against each other. This is collaboration, not combat. Also: If your character wasn’t told something, they don’t magically know it. You might’ve read it – they haven’t.

06. NO KNIVES WITHOUT WARNING Control. Violence. Power. Psychological damage. Yes, these things exist in my writing – not for shock value, but as part of character arcs and narrative weight.
I won’t throw anything at you unannounced – but I can only respect boundaries you actually tell me about.
Say them, and I will. No questions asked.

07. VERSES & SHIPPING I don't ship just because something "vibes". I stick to one partner – no matter the verse – and I don’t do multishipping. As for verses: I’m open, but not aimless. Just because a dynamic sounds fun doesn’t mean I’ll jump on board. If you want a verse with me, bring a concept, bring substance, bring motivation. Otherwise, we stick to the main story. I’m always open to ideas and happy to build something meaningful – but not for the sake of "just doing something".

08. COMMUNICATION I put time and heart into my writing, and I genuinely appreciate real interest. If you have questions - even about things between the lines or details that aren’t directly in the text - feel free to message me.
But let’s be clear: there’s no room here for bullshit. That means no gossip, no prejudice, no homophobia, transphobia, or racism.
Respect that, and we’ll get along just fine.

09. FOLLOWING I follow blogs when something about them catches my interest – maybe it's the aesthetics, the atmosphere, or simply because something made me stop scrolling. That doesn't mean I'm silently shaking your hand for instant interaction. If you follow me back, don't feel obliged to reach out – I usually don't do that right away either. It also doesn't automatically mean "Let’s plot!" I like to read in first, get a feel for the dynamic, find a natural entry point. No pressure, no obligations. If something develops, great. If not, that's perfectly fine too.

10. YOU SURE If you've read this far, you're either genuinely interested – or just bored. I’ll take both. If you did it voluntarily, congratulations: you're now eligible for a conversation with a cynical bastard who's got more scars than sleep. So sit down. I’ll tell you a story. And yes, it’ll hurt. Between the lines, monsters wait – along with guilt and old wounds. If you want to read it, fine. If you get it, even better. If that’s what you’re here for: Welcome. Truly.

And then it was there.
Something inside him.
Something foreign.
And the echo:Protect him.
And his eyes began to flicker.

"Protect him."
Two words that made the sky sink that night - heavy with rain that never quite stopped falling.
He felt the weight on his shoulders every morning he looked into that damned mirror.
Emerald green stared back at him from the glass - like the eyes of a familiar animal gone wild.And sometimes, his senses were still there.
In the rain, thick with the scent of rusted earth and what lay beneath - blood, as if the sky itself had torn open.
They were there, where the river pulled him into its abyss, where a cold ring of despair tightened around his lungs.
The roar of the current swallowed his pulse, and only the echo of gunshots told him he might still be alive.
“R...” Jiro had said,
his voice fighting the rain
and losing.
Only his lips moved.
But then came that look - Jiro’s gaze, searing itself into his mind like a photograph burned into flesh.
A silent command, one whose weight he had yet to understand.
But he recognized the flicker in Jiro’s green eyes, the one that surfaced when something deep inside him stirred.Jiro hadn't grabbed him. There had been no struggle.
Just a push - the fingertips pressing right against his chest.
And he fell.
His heart pounded like a marathon runner collapsing just before the finish line.
The cheering went silent, leaving only stillness -
The kind of stillness that wasn’t empty, but full of lurking dark.And within it… something crept.
It reached out.
Then scratched - at first timid, then like a starving rat, only a layer of skin away from life.
A pain, sharp and insistent, burned its way into his chest.
It tore the last breath from his lungs -
Accompanied by a green surge rising from within.And then the water changed.
What once pulled at him now seemed to carry him.
Around him, emerald pearls gathered like bubbles -
like tiny beings holding him afloat.

It was different from what he’d learned in his childhood. Life was a cruel bastard, striking where least expected. A lesson that burned in his lungs, while the paternal weight on his shoulders kept him submerged. It took years to learn to breathe again - freely, amidst danger, asphalt, and crumpled manuscripts.He lived where the smoke bit the sky,
where the ground reeked of oil
and the cobblestones gleamed like gravestones at night.
In that world, he understood:
a life meant nothing. He no longer counted how often a gun was pointed at him, but it was more than handshakes. And in those moments, when steel clicked, he felt more alive than anywhere else. With one exception: when the asphalt glowed at night, tires burned, and the others vanished into smoke, he was king on a throne of gasoline and steel. His Mustang howled like a hunting beast, the speedometer trembling. Just him, the worn leather steering wheel, and the next curve - behind which awaited the feeling of absolute control over himself and death.
In the flickering light of the headlights, he saw Rowan for the first time. Rowan liked control.
And he liked people who could stand their ground.
And this king of the streets -
he was neither controlled nor compliant. He was wild. And reckless. And fire. He was friction.
And that made him interesting.
Rowan was a demon in a black suit; the streets fell silent when he stepped out of his limousine. He wore more tattoos than skin, and his gaze pierced like a rusty knife through the chest - and left a burn. He quickly understood who Rowan was, yet he gave in to the consuming tingling under his skin. Perhaps because of it.
The beginning was intoxicating. Curiosity turned into a pull -
and then it began to burn. Rowan was highly respected, and the Yakuza tolerated his new companion with knife - like glances - and the certainty that this knife would eventually slit his throat. He lived between silences that said everythingand behind doors that were never locked, but always dangerous. Where drugs boiled in dulled spoons, and violence was as commonplace as dust.
He was close enough to smell the blood and see how long it took for the rain to wash it away.

That was the bloody material for his stories. Raw and edgy. Unfiltered honesty, because he had lost his moral filter. But he paid a price, as reality pounced on him with bared teeth, tearing him apart slowly, piece by piece, down to the bare bones. The veil over Rowan thinned and disappeared like the smoke of an extinguished cigarette. Like ash, only Rowan's sick hunger for control remained, born from a childhood trauma. What once drew him to his companion now ate through him like acid. Those eyes - too alert. His movements - too free, too unbound. And his pride - unbroken. That made him dangerous. Because Rowan bled out in the face of that untamed freedom. He needed to see brought to its knees what would not bend. Rowan's longing turned into chains, words into steel, and fingers into fists. And he took what was not given. His body became the canvas of another's will. And control. But he refused to break.The streets.
The stench of burning rubber at full throttle.
The sting in his skin when he yanked the wheel- even in the depths of his own hell,
he used the fire that still burned inside him. And it burned- relentless, defiant, alive and ignited Rowan from within into a blazing inferno. One last time, Rowan held the Glock 17 to his face. One last time, he looked into the barrel, and for the first time, he didn't blink.The escape began with roaring engines and a plan from someone willing to sacrifice everything - or who had already lost it. It wasn't a walk to the gallows; he tore it away on the hood as his car sliced through the air and plunged into the depths. The impact was a black wall of pain - the price for freedom. For a rebirth.
His Alter Ego was dead. Vivat Vine!