hello there! strangers can call me cyrus, i’m 24, and i’m in the pacific timezone. i’m a full - time student in a four year university working towards my bfa so my activity will be fairly sporadic. my usual formatting is double spacing and small text with color used for dialogue. this simply makes it easier for me to read. however, i will more than likely copy your formatting style when we write together if i don’t know you’re fine with that formatting.
you can read my rules over on google sites or on my blog but i’d suggest the google site since i update it more frequently.
you can find my detailed rules on my rules pages but there’ s some things i’d like to note real quick:
i don’t want anyone who rps/supports these things following me, out of both comfort for myself and the comfort of certain mutuals:
a.ttack on t.itan, h.etalia, k.illing s.talking, fictional nazis (h.ydra agents, f.irst order) anything from jk rowling’s writings, genderbends, rape, actual nazis, pedophilia, glorification of abuse, a/b/o, bestiality (no shit), or i.ncest
shouldn’t have to be said but i don’t tolerate bigotry of any sort
I really don't give a damn about "proshippers", this is a hostile space towards those who claim to be such.
Since people have apparently decided to muddy the meaning of proship: to be absolutely clear I will not tolerate people who glorify and romanticize pedophilia, incest, and bestiality. I will not interact with people who interact with these types of people either.
𝓅𝓅 ♯ your supplications could supply cash enough to suck up even to the worst luck. so if i'm longing for all the wrong things i shouldn't long linger on such. good-hearted christians whip out their weapons and push them against some sinner's side. well-wishing witches were something with which to burn your sins and sticks alike.
carrd.
authored by raphael.
indie. private. selective.
aymeric de borel from ffxiv
𝓅𝓅 ♯ your supplications could supply cash enough to suck up even to the worst luck. so if i'm longing for all the wrong things i shouldn't long linger on such. good-hearted christians whip out their weapons and push them against some sinner's side. well-wishing witches were something with which to burn your sins and sticks alike.
carrd.
authored by raphael.
indie. private. selective.
aymeric de borel from ffxiv
i feel i should note that i did a mass unfollow/softblock i may have caught people i didn't intend to catch in the crossfire. you're welcome to refollow of course i just needed to breathe a little bit
nothing's going on i've just kinda gotten to a breaking point with the rpc. i don't want to see people who romanticize pedophilia/incest/whatever fucked up thing they think is alright on my dash At All
Perceptor stares at the final line of coding. Damocles looms over him, a living, breathing thing. Each vent a breath taken, each code executed a thought. His lips are thin as he leans back in his chair. Everything is in order.
He closes his eyes, digit hovering above the key that would launch it.
It’s been uniquely encoded to his spark signature, a concept he borrowed from Brainstorm’s lock on his time case. Which, incidentally, is entwined with the selfsame technology Aequitas employed. The thought sets him ill at ease.
His hands should shake. They should shake and shake and shake and—
Perceptor glances at the time, exents slow, and presses enter.
Stars light behind his eyes.
A sound screeching through his audials, an echo repeating over and over and growing faster and faster ‘till there is but a high-pitched whine.
It stops.
And he is alone.
There is nothing.
He’s not even sure if there is thought in this in between.
It is the void of void. There is no light here. There is no dark. He does not see.
Then, blinding light, and Perceptor is thrust into seeing everything. His mind tries and fails to parse all the data and raw information that sweeps through his systems. He is dreaming. He is awake. He is dying. He has been dead for thousands of years. His spark is clawing out of a thermal vent. He is an amoeba just evolving photosynthesis.
All that has been, all that is, all that will ever be.
A web of movement and action coalesced into one, beautiful, glorious tapestry. He knows not what he looks at, only that if he reached out and plucked at a thread he would know all it has to offer. Its wings reach out, ever out, long, spindly limbs stretch around him, cradle him.
He is holding a ||gun|| thread.
He looks to the center ||down a scope||.
He sees a cataclysm ||Prowl||.
He pulls the ||trigger|| thread.
And all at once, it releases ||he is released||.
White noise.
Perceptor finds himself back in the lab. Damocles hangs over him.
𝓅𝓅 ♯ your supplications could supply cash enough to suck up even to the worst luck. so if i'm longing for all the wrong things i shouldn't long linger on such. good-hearted christians whip out their weapons and push them against some sinner's side. well-wishing witches were something with which to burn your sins and sticks alike.
carrd.
authored by raphael.
indie. private. selective.
aymeric de borel from ffxiv
𝓅𝓅 ♯ your supplications could supply cash enough to suck up even to the worst luck. so if i'm longing for all the wrong things i shouldn't long linger on such. good-hearted christians whip out their weapons and push them against some sinner's side. well-wishing witches were something with which to burn your sins and sticks alike.
carrd.
authored by raphael.
indie. private. selective.
aymeric de borel from ffxiv
keep forgetting to note that my muse for tf has been really low for the past few months. all threads and relationships are on hold until further notice. sorry i didn't make this post sooner! love you guys.
i've been working on an aymeric blog @furysblade lately so you Might find me there sometime in the future.
A laser pointer to a jet. Surely going from an ornithopter, and only partially reformatted at that, back to a Windrider wouldn't require the same level of work? You still have most of your constituent parts. Your legs barely changed, and they didn't remove your wings, only stripped the membranes and turned them into a larger pair of arms.
"I can handle any pain. I want it to work for me," you say, desperately. "I want to feel like my frame matches who I am. Like you do."
You shutter your optic and lean back, stretching your primary arms out to their fullest extent either side of you until you can touch the walls with your fingertips. My wings, you think, dreamily. "How does it work?"
— Perceptor's gaze sharpens as he turns it back to Wayfarer. His lips thin upon the assertions the Pathfinder gives him, and he shakes his head. He would never wish for what experienced on Luna 1 to befall anyone else. Overworking one's body to the point of metal sloughing off... It wasn't right, it wasn't fair.
"No," there's an edge to his voice he doesn't intend, "you won't go through what I did, I assure you. In a controlled environment, with sterile tools and proper pain management it is painless."
Once he's made that clear, he folds his fingers into each other. "You will be online through it, to ensure nothing goes wrong with your sensory input and motor controls. Your pain sensors will be disabled, however. First begins with the extraction of your t-cog, which is altered to meet the new specs. Once that is done, we will need only to either add or remove parts of your frame to properly accommodate the new shape... I must emphasize, I have never done a full reformat on anyone But... I do know those who have experience with t-cog alteration."
"Perceptor? I... had an idea. Something I wanted to add to my frame, should reversing the reformatting work. I thought you might be able to help with the logistics of it."
— Perceptor's attention shifts from the lines of code he's been staring at tirelessly for the past several days. He briefly thinks they must have seared themselves into his vision leaving a ghost in his optics before he blinks a few times and rubs at his eyes. He sets the tablet down and looks at Wayfarer.
"Do you have anything drawn up of it? I'll give it a look."
