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@giftiaa 

This is inconvenient. Usually he wouldn’t stop with his necessities only to ponder at useless thoughts such like this one, but it’s... kind of unavoidable. Still, even if he doesn’t like to - he has to approach someone in order to satisfy his curiosity. 

He has heard about currencies, but he really doesn’t have much to spare. Only a bit he has "borrowed” from dead bodies (be it from his own hand or that they were just left in the darkest corners of this place - he likes those). 

“Hey, girl,” He calls out at the girl passing by, his tone can’t quite sound polite, but he tries to not scare her with his usual demanding tone, “How much do I need to buy some meat in that butcher shop? I’m running outta food and it smells... quite nice.”

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I’ve kept this blog quite quiet for a long time, I apologize. I’ve been dealing with some sort of personal problems and demons for quite a while, but I think I should ask again. 

If you wanna plot with Heat, ask is always open. Bear in mind he’s really the aggressive / violent type — also I should mention he’s a cannibal. Though I’ve been toning it down since his arrival confused him greatly and he has wandering in the weirdest places around. 

However, I can try writing some random stuff - can’t promise it’d be super interesting, but I will try. So either way you can like this for a starter - I’ll cap it at 3.

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hirusekimaiden:

It was still very warm for a late summer evening, and the remnants of the fireflies had begun to hover about in the air, blinking in and out of sight. She had come out near the canal this late with the intention of seeing them before they disappeared for good, but she hadn’t expected to be pulled out of her thoughts by such a severe voice. Yes, she had noticed the red haired figure from a distance at the corner of her eye, but she didn’t really think he’d speak to her. 

Koi was a place filled with surprises it seemed.

His warning unsettled the demoness a bit, and she tilted her head ever so slightly as she turned towards him, letting her eyes take in his features. “Twisted?” Yukina echoed, reaching out to press an open palm against the tree beside her. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. This place hasn’t given me such an impression as of yet.”

During her time in Koi, she hadn’t felt particularly unsafe. The town had been quiet, and though there were strong individuals she could sense in the area from time to time, that didn’t hinder her from going about her normal activities. Even if there had been reason to worry, a life of cowering away in fear was not one she had chosen for herself. 

       His scarf was bothersome, as it shouldn’t be needed in such rare weather. It drags itself against the ground as he moves — it has been stained of an uncountable list of liquids and materials. Now it just feels like a dead weight, something he should disregard and throw aside. But it does hold a sentimental value, couldn’t get rid of it that easily. 

         He has met a handy of peculiar people here, or has started to hear stories about them. He thought, too, that this place was filled with nothing more than peace and tranquility. But every place he reaches, it starts to rot. He isn’t sure if he is merely a walking tragedy, but what he can say for sure is that he’s not anyone that should interact with people, at all.

          “I’ve heard some stories. Probably just rumors but better be safe. I also thought about peace once upon a time, but...,” His words come with his characteristic harsh tone, but the silence unexpected. He has a hard time finding the correct words to form a sentence, but masks it with a sideward glance at his surroundings.

          “—anyway, it’s dangerous. A bunch of gross stories that a normal person wouldn’t like to hear,” His right hand is placed upon his hips, almost demanding. He could feel his forearm’s brand  tingling, which is a bad signal... He will try to hold it as much as he is able to. 

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amritadrop:

↳ ✽ - - - Immediately, he captured her attention and was never quite able to let go. Perhaps it was the innate protectiveness that coated her bones, but she always went a little weak when he gave her this look. In the span of this second and the ones that followed, the guilt she closely held drove a sort of nausea into her system. How he must suffer, like they all suffered, but more. There was more to his pain than the others, something a simple explanation could allude to, but never fully disclose. He had been shackled, bound by the basis he had been built from- she had built him from- only stumbling free when he had been given a soul he could claim of his own. She hadn’t understood that back then, but now this time her mind was clear instead of riddled with fear. The shaman saw him in a different light, one far brighter than the one before.

The light dress she wore fluttered about her knees in the wind, her standard Embryon uniform exchanged for civilian clothing, petite and pallid hands that had been folded demurely in front of her gingerly unclasping. His use of an idiom she was familiar with caused her surprised look to near-immediately melt into a more composed expression, pink lips curling into the tiniest of smiles, a strange mixture of heartbreak and empathy. He had his defense mechanisms and she had hers. 

❝…Heat. I was worried about you…❞ A truth, one that deftly wilted upon the tender edges of her tongue. ❝I’m glad you’re here… Though I understand you might be… at a loss? About many things…❞ Such a state of uncertainty must be unbecoming of her, likely to be scoffed at for the show of weakness, but despite that she managed to maintain a genuine warmth in her demeanor.

She attempted to find her center, to remain upright in the wake of a force that made others kneel. True, she held a power over him no one else could claim but still she was no threat to him. The shaman returned to the previously interrupted task of paper folding, sitting at the picnic table where she had a spread of different pastel colored paper cut into strips. The shaman had become efficient in the motions after immeasurable practice, a beauty to the precision and ease of which the task was done. Trembling hands learned to still long enough to give her an opportunity, taking something as ordinary as paper and turning it into something that could aid her in remembering. It was relaxing to go through the repetitive motions of folding and creasing these tiny stars. 

❝I had forgotten so many things when I first arrived. I was scared but-…❞ She stopped mid-sentence, shoulders hunching, fingers tensing, but that soft smile still present. ❝I never forgot about you.❞

       The reason of his binding, artificial. It’s all data installed upon his head, filled with contingencies — by the mere process of brewing such thoughts, he’s starting to get a strong headache. An endless seam of questions, and every path has led him to a dead-end. 

       However, it’s probably the way she looks at him — the way she sweetens her tone, the way she emanates warmth despite how her arctic-cold hands felt ... — that his wrath assuages.  Feels every heartbeat, gradually lowering its tempo. There’s a contained anger that flows through his right hand, and it’s expelled out of him as he clenches that fist tightly, veins marking upon thick skin. The words she spoke find a comfortable place on his head, and unfortunately there’s an inability within him that binds him with the silence. It was frequent back then, and still is — that won’t ever change, a fact he is aware of.

        He feels how his words cling on his throat, and it aches. His brows stay furrowed, yet his gaze remains on hers, but there’s a visible hollow that has grown on his countenance, one of grief and contempt.

       “I’ve no idea what you mean,” Pride comes in the worst ways frequently, and he is aware of that unconsciously. He’s a withholder of genuine emotions, nothing has ever broken his mask — even if his theater is decaying little by little as he’s standing in front of her. Regardless, he is not that much of a fool — inside her innocent looks, he acknowledges her intelligence — it should be apparent by now how much he struggles with his never-ending cycle of internal conflicts. 

       What she’s doing is still a mystery. He observes with heavy eyes; odd tranquility envelops their surroundings, and enervates him in the sickest ways. His anger is contained, an obvious fact, but all other feelings are contained as well. He’s but a shell now, only saying what he can muster, like a robot. Inhibitions exponentially decreasing — the flame that characterizes him vanished. Internally, he’s fighting against it — a battle he has fought for what it feels like centuries.

         Then her last words ensued. Awareness revitalized almost instantly — and it doesn’t make any sense at all. He knows what he did, he knows what happened — everything is confined within a reckless mind, but the images are still vivid, torments him every time he breathes, like some sort of plague. Aching lungs releases hot air, which is subsequently followed by some words, “...Same. I shouldn’t be here at all, yet here I am. It’s better if I leave now before things get ugly.”

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     The wind only passes like a ghost, within a seemingly-peaceful city it seems like something good — but it’s a thing that reminiscences the past, and only makes his blood boil. Similar to this guy, Heat hasn’t known anything else besides a battleground, everything he has experienced involves blood, massacre, slaughter, sorrow ... and the list just goes on and forth. 

      What he has seen here it’s completely unreal for him, even the most hideous places are occupied. It irks him, and the presence of this guy in front of him only makes him worst. A hand is placed upon his hips, stance inquisitive, demanding. 

     Considering a plethora of possibilities, all with the same outcome: conflict. His confidence has always been on the top of the hill — thinks of many ways to get rid of him, and as more words he speaks, the more Heat starts to lose his temper. 

       Arrogance is what emanates from his words, Heat couldn’t be more agitated. He has dealt with these kind of people in the past, it’s almost nostalgic, how the last one of those  ended up with their limbs gone. 

      “You talk to much. It annoys me, y’know,” It seems like a threat, but he finds unnecessary a large amount of words to answer a simple question such like his, “It was simple: yes or no. Guess it’s too hard for you, as expected. Now, get outta my way. I don’t have time to deal with your bullshit.”

          Wind blowing through white locks - one that doesn’t reek of radioaction and desolation. With eyes as blue as ice locking upon every single passerby, carefully, observingly, he doesn’t even move a muscle. It’s hard to fathom: for as long as he can remember Haruto has known nothing but the war and the mission. Created solely for the purpose of military action as a puppet directed by its creators and governors.

          That a city like this exists where peace reigns, where battles seem a concept out of fiction, he can’t help but feel strangely dissatisfied. His mind is one of the greatest in the country, courtesy of his very creator, but what use is that when his technical genius isn’t needed here? There must be some reason he has been brought here.

          Following his circumstances it is only far too easy to believe this to be a paradise; a tranquil afterlife waiting for him in the beyond. But Haruto’s mind is way too logical to accept such an unsatisfying explanation. He knows of his own regenerative capabilities, but the concept of an indestructible body even in the wake of death is a surprise even to him. He would never have chosen to do anything differently had he the chance to, though. This was a small price to pay to ensure the continued existence of those humans he had come to intrigue himself with.

          Naruse Ibara had taught him. Believe in humans. It is a hard path to follow, and he wonders if it’s truly worth it, but he wants to believe. He wants to trust that these humans walking around swearing at each other and polluting every ounce of ground they come across are actually worth saving. But his gaze lingers a bit too long on the wrong person it seems, and soon a voice rings out, words leaving Haruto with a sigh as his doubts are only reaffirmed.

          “Thank you for the kind offer, but for the time being, I believe I’ve had enough of death. Try again some other time and we might discuss it then. Although, I can tell you already that the answer will still be no.” Words of facts come out in a disinterested voice as he takes out one of his hand grenades, his human spotting boring him. Not before long the contraption bounces up and down in the air like a ball, as the doll is showing little interest in delving into further conversation with this person. He doesn’t particularly enjoy being threatened, even if he doesn’t feel intimidated in the least.

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parthiva:

≫ Earth can represent balance, a strong presence set firmly. Steady, solid and unmoving – oh but when it shakes, it holds no qualms and destruction is never a stranger. Everything crumbles and wherever you teeter, eventually you slip. She’s used to walk a rocky path, no such thing as knowledge of an easy life and for now she knows pressing forward is the only way to attain her goals. Death had been in no way kind, she can remember Meganada’s fangs around her and its weight deterring her every move. A smile for a farewell sufficed, however. Tender, so gentle she can be reassured this is the end and fear no longer should plague her mind. Soreness remains, and she can barely recognize this as another reality, everything is in a blur and keeping herself together is taxing.

She couldn’t tell if this was her imagination or if this Heat was any real. If so, why her head would play such crude prank when he had brought nothing but harm to the tribe? She remember what he did, plain as daylight despite all the hazy (and unfairly invasive) memories.

She can never presume they had a close bond. Comradeship feels like a shallow concept, it falls through her fingers and can only acknowledge him as familiar but never as someone that should cause further than nostalgia. He’s been with there longer that can she recall, at Serph’s side – she never noticed until later how his factions were a tad lonely when placing aside the fire burning within. Was it wrong not reaching for him and accept who her comrade had been in the last days of the Junkyard? Confusion takes a grip on the asura, unsure what should she make of this visage. She’s angry for a fact, betrayed even though she has no right to say so and her incapacity of understatement deepens further the turmoil in her head.

“I doubt you’re trying to look for them to apologize, huh? Is running away now your sort of thing? I finally can say I don’t know you…” She reaches for his arm, slender fingers grip tightly around it to prevent his departure. Cold sweat falls down and although lips part, her throat is too dry to even dare uttering a single word. Pink pierces through red in a way, yet irises tremble whilst holding on his gaze. She’s nervous, as if in any instant she’d be engulfed by his flame. Eyebrows knit in a frown, determined to withstand his slow burn if needed.

Justice must be brought, somehow. For Serph and Sera.

“You killed Serph.” For having plenty to say she couldn’t place it properly, no sentence can arrange appropriately what she feels – not now and doubted later it could be possibly attained.

“You killed my leader…” ‘Our Leader.’ “You don’t have any right to be here! Did you think I would let you be?! THAT I’LL IGNORE WHAT THE HELL YOU DID TO US!? I’ll make you pay… for everything…”  

     It could have been anyone else, honestly. Yet, destiny (Or whatever, he doesn’t really care about it at all. Brutally honest with that) pulls some strings, disorders the “peaceful” path he had a few minutes prior this encounter and changes everything. Wish some quick-change would have appeared. Wrap his head with a sheet, cut some eyeholes, now you can call him a ghost, but it also seems like a divine joke, some kind of cosmic punishment of sorts, or probably just a bad joke, nothing more and nothing else. (Like his entire life. Had pinched him together out of faux data and played with him like a Lego.) And still, even knowing the real truth about all things, he had swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.

     The silence is uncomfortable, but of course he won’t break it. Doesn’t need to, knows full well she’s going to do that in a few, always been like that. Have been comrades for ages, he would like to say he knows all her quirks, but that would be a lie. Never focused (or was willing to waste energy) on it, but he knows enough to draw that kind of hypothesis, despite how reckless he could be. 

      All of those he has experienced left an acute hollow within him, tossing him aside like a scraped paper or whatever. He kept him for himself, not like they would care. Sera didn’t, nor Argilla. To an extent, Serph. Though out of everyone, he was the ... most reasonable, it was his leader, after all.

      And she speaks, lamenting over something she already answered herself, shrugs it off with a roll of shoulders, not saying a word until —

     “What do you know, anyway. You have always been annoying,”

      —And swats her arm away, “Don’t touch me,” He only halts because he knows she has something else to say, but probably she will spout the same thing over and over, going in circles and making a wreck on her mind, just like him. However, what does he know, truly? His life is not his, technically speaking. All this anger he’s feeling is but rows and columns of complex codes he has yet to understand. Probably never will, but that’s the least of his problems. He’s here, and that’s the only certain fact he can prove.

         "What would you do, anyway. Push me with your disgusting body? Leave me alone, seriously. You don’t know anything about me.” After that, he hastens his pace.

—what a fool

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oh, i damn will if that keeps you away from sera. i won't let you hurt her or anyone again.

“Go to hell! Leave me alone already, you useless woman.”

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why are you so terrible, asking for a friend.

“Tell to yourself that you shouldn’t be prying in my affairs. Now leave me alone.”

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Hey! Just stopping by to say I really dig the way you roleplay Heat. You seem to have an absolutely fantastic idea of his character and that makes your writing so fun to read! I hope you have a lovely day and that we'll be seeing more of you. <3

Uuhh, hello. Never expected such message, but thanks nonetheless! I’ve been roleplaying him for quite a while but stopped a few months ago… But it’s nice to come back to roleplay him formally after a long hiatus and get these kind of messages. 

Certainly, sending these things anonymously isn’t needed, but I’ll respect your decision. Whoever you are, you can hit me up if you have any idea in your mind or anything of the same nature, unlike him I don’t eat people, or maybe I do but not to that extent. Who knows. However I completely enjoy concrit, so it’s okay.

But anyway, your opinion is very much appreciated! 

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I set up a twitter not a long time ago, though I haven’t tweeted anything relevant, you can hit me up there or just follow me, I’ll try to be active there... to an extent, it has been a while since I used it correctly.

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hirusekimaiden​ 

        The space he’s in has never been natural, his whole existence is not natural — it didn’t make any sense at first, but the pieces fit back together with little effort, not like he’s intelligent enough to realize deeper hypothesis, never been like that. Better act first and then question later, frequently with no questioning at all. 

         He doesn’t understand anything, confusion comes to the worst places at the worst times, and that — without a doubt, even if he wouldn’t admit it — is nothing more but an inconvenience. He would scream everything he feels, but words doesn’t form, can’t explain, and won’t bother with it. No one would understand, either way — they never did. 

          Never learnt to stop, too. He could wait forever, recklessness always present on him despite how difficult and impossible things seemed to be. His way of being -- always stubborn; bad for them, indifferent for him. 

           It shouldn’t matter, he would like to say. He knows it isn’t the truth, and that is something that, again, would never say. All his wrath will be confined with him, awaiting to be released when the time calls for it. (Everytime, everyday) 

           It seems to be a curse, to get more unwanted presence when he wants to be alone, a solitary lone wolf, urging for killing anything at his pace, but is aware that there’s nothing life-threatening here, for the time being. His famine will keep growing, and that’s no surprise, until it explodes. No one will like to see that, he’s sure of it. 

         “Hey, woman” he calls out for her, voice inquisitive and harsh, “It’s not a funny place to be around, y’know? People here are... twisted,” There’s a subtle reference to himself, but will keep it low, unless she notices.

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bowfxire​

        It is strange for Heat to be still, he wonders if perhaps tranquility is finally sinking in through his thick skull — not likely, as the torments only paused to catch a breath, they are back as soon as he starts thinking about it once again, could it be a divine punishment, like some people have said during the battlefield? Whatever that means. 

       Wrath doesn’t need effort to rebel, doesn’t need to be spouted. It is always within his insides, revolting around every corner of his body, passes through veins with boiling blood, or destroys the little peace his head can offer at times (very unlikely).  He grits his teeth with force at the same time his fist clenched. Urging for something physical, something visceral, something violent. If it hadn't already been obvious in those narrowed, passionate eyes that burned, it would have been in the the way he walks, the way his vibe emanates naught but contempt and the so-mentioned anger. 

        He observes a woman, heading his way. Gaze’s already on her, not because he’s interested, but because she’s the only one around — people here doesn’t use unorthodox shortcuts like he does, after all. The path’s narrow, and he has no intention to move aside so she could pass first, not at all.  His barely-contained anger becomes more apparent when he stops when they are closer — and he grumbles, impatience growing, “Outta my way, wasting time is the last thing I need right now.”

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amritadrop​ 

       Would his mind were elsewhere, he wouldn’t be so conflicted.  He has been trying to find answers to question after question after question — but he has found no answers, though, no matter how deep he delves. How many times has he imagined the possibilities? That couldn’t be said, but when he thinks about it, there’s always a skin in his pulse, hot thumping from his heart when the adrenaline of anger kicks in. Never has he feel another thing than anger, which was never cut out. It doesn’t matter how many times he opens creatures up, cuts them open, slides his claws underneath where their muscle and veins and everything that allows them to live lies, he'll never truly get better.

        He knows it’s unsettling, the way he stares; unblinking, starless. The red of his eyes seems to deepen as he keeps looking. He knows what will happen next, his anger will ease — it’s obvious. He sees her, and he sees a mirror picturing himself behind her, his own reflection; bleached with white-hot wrath and recklessness. Always been like that, but when he’s near her, such things won’t culture within him, no dangerous idea would latch on his head. It’s strange, but little by little he has tried to decipher this, and he has encountered by  many obstacles, but he keeps trying regardless. 

         Feels like he’s a dog. Obedient when his master sets foot on the place. However, at this rate he finds himself not caring anymore — it’s not like life and death matters for him, not anymore. He has thought many times that he doesn’t belong here, nothing will change that kind of mindset, as it has always been reckless and stubborn, since his genesis. 

        What should he do now? An exasperated sigh drawls, with less inflection than usual. Bruised hand fixates wild strands of instense, almost beautiful red hair out of his countenance, so he could see better. This is no product of his imagination, nor an illusion. Neither a dream — this is the real scene he has been thinking about. Nothing comes to mind now, only silence — except for one thing, “...Look what the cat dragged in.”  

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—what a fool

parthiva​

     He has long stopped living for much at all. His cache for living is void — he shouldn’t even feel anything of this — he shouldn’t be here, period. 

     Head only spins faster at thinking about the memories he has forged. He hates it and wants naught but to be done with this. Not so fond of the idea of living out half-lives, in a completely new, strange world. Desires to disappear between the river reeds like a wailing ghost and never come back. It is a question he keeps asking to himself, with no avail (why the hell am I here?! why the fuck am I alive-?! — and the list goes on) — he has been seeking within the memories, found nothing. However, he still does remember the blood coming out of him and suddenly he recalls how dying felt like; drowsy... and pleasantly warm. Thought it would be an end to the “misery”, in a romantic sense of the sentence.  

      But this feels like a divine punishment, like waking up from a nightmare and still feeling the monster right over your shoulder. (But he knows the real monster here is him, doesn’t care about it)

      One would assume he were jaded, unfeeling, uncaring enough to dismiss this — and they are not wrong on their entirety, but it’s an all too familiar kind of situation – in the sense that somewhere, deep within the vast expanses of his knowledge burdened mind, resided memories that he would like to erase. The imprints she places in his heart still makes him hunger for the echoes, hunger for what’s not there anymore. The splinters left within his chest, despite nonexistent, can still be felt... it is called phantom pain and he needs to get used to it by now. This one is taken slow, like a slow, slow burn. (But his type of burns, the ones he’s used to... hellfire-like). 

       He could still dream of her smile, but he knows that If he even touched her, things wouldn’t go as good as he would desire.

       It’s unusual for the air to be bitter, cold, even. perhaps it were the nature of events unfolding before his own eyes – maybe because the familiarity, but he is starting to dislike this little by little. Out of all places... there’s a familiar face he recognizes way too quickly—

       —Didn’t notice at first, but she was here, while he wandered through the nowhere.  but this “monster” gaze can see her right to the bone. Past the surprise on her eyes, past mouth, wide open, there’s no place his gaze doesn’t reach. He could hear the aching lungs dragging air, his senses keen. When they meet gazes, the reminiscences of the past only come along: to the smaller details, the battlefield, the shouts, the confrontations... to the bigger pictures, like the loneliness, the rejections, the conflicts over outsiders, the dismissals.... all is remembered — wrath makes his appearance, as an anger-driven clench of fist ensues. The veins visible, transporting boiled blood through all his body. Impotence doesn’t go well with wrath, it is a deadly combination, and his start to furrow now. 

         But there’s no time for this anymore, no time to waste with her, nor with anyone. Heat would enjoy nothing more than try to take down the reasons of his anger — which was built out o virtual data, rejections, estrangement and a plethora of reasons. Oh, he wouldn’t rest  until he feels the viscera on every fingertip, until every corner of his face is stained with the blessed crimson liquid he has seen a million of times, until he could feel the . He grimaces, and walks towards her — until they are close enough, but he simply keeps going, going towards the end of wherever they are, where she just passed to meet him. He won’t let confusion win this, and he isn’t being merciful, as rare as it is. He’s merely making a concession, to a former ‘comrade’. Nothing else. Nothing more.

         Feelings are irrelevant, after all.

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kuroppelion​ 

     The silence, habitual. It has been quite some time — has taught him the meaning of a hopeless void. Packed with the dear loneliness, he against everyone else, against the world that did nothing but confuse him. Whether he is the raging hurricane or not, it’s a mystery, he doesn’t understand — but he has begun to think that the problem presents itself when he appears. 

      He doesn’t belong here, he remembers the fingers trembling, the horror crawling up her spine. That feeling has been within him, like a parasite, for a while now. Living inside him — hidden. She fills him, churns him up until he's about ready to burst, weaves a net in the hollow of his ribs. He doesn't understand, tries to recall the feeling, and try to fathom what it's supposed to mean. But it’s for naught, as he only raises the dead and then lets the vultures pick them 'til there is nothing left. 

      Remembers how he elicited those glances of fear, the eyes of his enemies filled with fear. It almost makes him smirk, but this new settling, all of it, is repulsing. He doesn’t know what to do, where to go, merely wanders from alley to alley until he’s lost within the misery. 

       —but of course, misery is never alone, he knows that for a fact. It does collect more misery, there is this one guy looking at him, from afar. He noticed him way too early, senses have become more keen lately, he fathoms. 

       At first he doesn’t heed him, not for Heat’s sake, but for this guy’s one. But he has grew weary and tired of the glances here and there, so he opts to act. He delivers a grunt first, then proceeds to ask, “—What is it? Lookin’ for a death wish or something?”

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It’s good to be back with this muse after months, I’m not sure how many of you know this guy, but I will try to make a ‘pleasant’ experience for you all. 

This can be cataloged as a roleplay ad, however you do have to keep in mind that Heat is a cannibal, and he is not subtle about it. Gore is also a topic he has little problem with, and violence is one of the most remarkable traits he possesses, as he is really volatile. Also I should add that swears way too much. 

Honestly, I would not interact with him if you are not comfortable with subjects like violence, and slurs and threats. I can avoid the cannibalism and gore, and some other deep things in a thread. But it is part of his personage to at least be aggressive, so I can only offer to tone down his way of expressing himself. He could mention those things subtly, but he is still gonna be aggressive or just “a jerk” to anyone that pulls his triggers —or should I say, pretty much anyone (except a selected few).  But he won’t injury your character if you are against it, just tell me, I’m okay with tone those things down. Worst thing he could so is threaten your character, but it won’t go too far if you are uncomfortable with it.

I’m up for plotting, askbox is always open. I just want you to have in mind the things I mentioned earlier. If you are still up for it, you can like this ad and I’ll see what can I do. 

Cappin’ at 3. 

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“So this is Nirvana…”

I can’t believe nobody requested Heat + Schrodinger for when I opened requests for character + cat. You’re all fired.