gftimelord

[gftimelord]

OOC Post

Hey everyone! Sorry I've been missing for so long, I'm currently in the gutter where finances are concered(tuition is EXPENSIVE) so I started a fiverr and updated my kofi! I'll still be posting on here! But things are definitely going to take a lot longer.

[gftimelord]

Edgy/misc OC ask meme ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Send me a number and an OC, and I'll answer.

What memory would your OC rather just forget?

What's something about your OC that people wouldn't expect just from looking at them?

What is your OC's fatal flaw? Are they aware of this flaw?

When scared, does your OC fight, flee, freeze or fawn?

How far is your OC willing to go to get what they want?

How easily could your OC be convinced to do something that goes against their moral compass?

What's one way your OC has changed since you first came up with them?

Would your OC ostensibly be able to get away with murder?

Do you have a specific lyric or quote which you associate with your OC?

What's an AU that would be interesting to explore with your OC?

What is your OC's weapon of choice? Have they ever actually used it?

Is your OC self-destructive? In what ways?

If you met your OC, would the two of you get along?

How does your OC want to be seen by other characters?

Does your OC have a faceclaim? If so, who?

What is your OC's pain tolerance like?

What is the worst thing you have put your OC through story-wise?

Is your OC more cold and detached or up close and personal?

How does your OC behave when enraged?

Does your OC have a tendency to get jealous? If so, how does this manifest?

Does your OC have any illnesses or disorders? How do they handle it?

What character alignment would you consider your OC to be?

What emotion is the hardest for your OC to process? How about express?

What is an alternative life path your OC might have gone down? How different would their life be if they'd made those decisions?

What is your favorite thing about your OC?

[gftimelord]

The children at my job have been hiding images of bill all over my classroom. Help.

*The doctor’s lips curled into a slight grimace, his distaste palpable as he leaned back, fingers idly tapping against the edge of his journal. The thought of Bill— any version of the triangle— had a way of burrowing under his skin, setting his nerves on edge like nails on a chalkboard.*

"I can already imagine it."

*His voice carried a mix of irritation and exhaustion, a tone reserved for recalling the mistakes of the past that still weighed heavy. The mental image of drawings, crude or otherwise, littering every corner of a space was enough to make him visibly shudder.*

"The thing about Bill..."

*He paused, his gaze darkening as he stared off into the middle distance, haunted by memories he preferred buried.*

"...Is that even the smallest acknowledgment of him can grow into something dangerous. Trust me— I've lived it."

*Ford exhaled sharply, pushing the thought aside as best he could before meeting your gaze with a measured seriousness.*

"Burn them. That’s the first step."

*His tone was decisive now, edged with a hint of the grim determination he carried into every situation involving the triangular menace.*

"Every last one of those drawings. Paper, fabric, whatever it’s on— burn it. Take the ashes and bury them deep where no one will stumble upon them. And as for the children…"

*His fingers drummed rhythmically as he contemplated the best course of action, though the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his inner turmoil.*

"...Well, I’m not suggesting anything extreme, but maybe it’s time for them to focus their energy elsewhere. Pick up a new hobby. One that doesn’t involve—"

*He gestured vaguely, as though the very thought of Bill’s imagery left a bad taste in his mouth.*

"...you know. Him."

*There was a brief pause as the doctor rubbed his temples, his demeanor softening slightly, though his irritation still lingered.*

"Look, I get it. Some kids think they’re just being funny, or clever, or whatever kids these days aim for. But you can’t let even a sliver of that chaos take root. Variants or not, you don’t want to risk it. Bill’s the kind of entity that thrives on cracks in the foundation, no matter how small they seem."

*Ford’s voice grew quieter, introspective, as if he were speaking more to himself than to anyone else.*

"Sometimes I wonder how much of that... thing still lingers in the edges of what I thought I’d escaped. Burn the drawings, get rid of the ashes. And, for what it’s worth..."

*He glanced up, his tone softening just a touch.*

"...I hope your universe's Bill stays locked in whatever metaphorical— or literal— prison he belongs in."

*With that, he leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face before picking up his journal again. His quill hovered over the page, yet for a moment, no words followed. The memories were still there, after all. How could they not be?*

"Good luck."

*Stanford muttered after a beat, though the sincerity in his voice was undeniable.*

[gftimelord]

How fascinating...it seems you are a Pines too! You seem to be equipped the knowledge of not only the strange and unusual but of alchemy as well!

I am intrigued, what are your knowledge of poisons and herbs? What is your environmental scientific discoveries?

*The Doctor’s chuckle was soft, a polite note in the quiet symphony of rustling leaves and the distant hum of wildlife. He turned with an almost languid grace, his attention now fully on the figure standing a few paces away. A counterpart— a variant. The sight wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to him, though the novelty of these encounters never quite faded. This time, however, it was peculiar in its own right. She was a female version of Stanford Pines, her features both foreign and unmistakably familiar. A mirror warped by dimensions.*

*His initial reason for coming to this dimension had been simple— study, catalog, observe. The flora and fauna here were peculiar, fascinating deviations from the species he’d encountered in his own reality. Yet, this meeting had already proved more intriguing than any plant or animal he might document.*

*Her immediate assumption of him as an alchemist piqued his curiosity. Was it the tools he carried? The faint scent of chemicals and ink that lingered on him? Or perhaps it was simply the way he carried himself, a figure cloaked in a mixture of intrigue and secrets.*

"Greetings."

*Ford began, his voice carrying the same deliberate cadence as always, each word weighed and chosen carefully.*

"It seems you're already aware of who— or rather, what— I am. Though I must admit, I find your assumption of my being an alchemist rather curious."

*There was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he dusted his hands off and stood to his full height, pocketing the journal he’d been writing in. The blue cover briefly caught the light, a flicker of color that seemed to echo the guarded depths of his expression.*

*It was a contrasting shade to the journals he used to write in, a deep blue versus a bright red. Even in emblems they were different, the doctor's journal held two in the center. An oyster and his six-fingered hand, both embossed in silver.*

"I don't quite dabble in the arts, though I am familiar with them. Alchemy, while fascinating, is but a branch of a much larger tree."

*Stanford stepped forward slightly, his movements calculated yet unhurried, as though the doctor had all the time in the universe— and, in many ways, he did. The smile on his lips was small, restrained, as he observed his counterpart with the same curiosity she seemed to direct toward him.*

"Most of my discoveries far exceed the study of herbs."

*He continued, his tone dipping into something that bordered on wistful, though there was a quiet edge to his words. The kind of edge that spoke of lifetimes spent delving into the unknown, and the weight of knowledge that sometimes felt more like a curse than a gift.

"Even so, it would likely take days— weeks, even— to scratch the surface of those I have studied."

*It wasn’t arrogance that colored his words, though it might have sounded that way to some. It was simply the truth. A truth that sometimes isolated him, placing him on a pedestal he had never asked to stand upon. His smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he masked it again, his hand resting lightly against the pocket where his sonic screwdriver lay.*

*Stanford knew the dangers of seeming condescending, yet he couldn’t help the subtle way his words danced on the edge of invitation and challenge. It was as if he were daring her to ask, daring her to pull at the threads of the vast tapestry he had woven over the years.*

*Many do, companions, fellow creatures, it just so happens they had eventually come to wish they had left their questions unanswered. The truth was often a bitter pill to swallow after all.*

"Perhaps you could be more specific."

*He offered after a moment, his voice softening as he tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharpening with genuine interest.*

"It’s a vast universe, after all. And I’d hate to overwhelm you with answers to questions you haven’t yet asked."

*The subtle shift in his tone was deliberate, a quiet acknowledgment of her presence and a careful extension of trust. Even if he held the upper hand in knowledge, he didn’t want this exchange to be one-sided. He’d learned long ago that even in the smallest interactions, there was always something to be gained.*

*And never again would the doctor ever underestimate anybody. He'd learned his lesson the hard way in the past.*

[gftimelord]

Have you ever met yourself in another point of time? Or have they ever come to meet you?

*The question hung heavily, like a stone tossed into a still pond, rippling outward through the confines of the room and the Doctor’s mind. His gaze lingered on the open pages of his journal, the lines of his handwriting only half-formed, trailing off where his focus had fractured. The blue fountain pen spun idly between his six fingers— a practiced rhythm, a subtle dance of distraction that barely held the edges of his thoughts at bay.*

"I’ve crossed paths with them before. Sometimes I’ve gone looking for them. Other times, they’ve found me."

*The words felt heavy as they left his mouth, each syllable dragging behind it a weight he couldn’t entirely shake. The pen stilled mid-twirl, as though even his subconscious had faltered under the weight of the memories conjured. With a sigh, he placed it carefully down on the journal, its blue casing a quiet, unassuming contrast against the turmoil it left unrecorded. Rising abruptly, the Doctor pushed himself away from the desk, his movements sharp, almost jittery, as if to outrun the thoughts that now pressed insistently at the corners of his mind.*

"I can’t say I’ve ever left those meetings feeling... resolved."

*Ford continued, his tone dipping lower, darker.*

"More often than not, it’s just a reminder of what could have been— what I’ve lost. Or worse, what I’ve become."

*Storm clouds gathered behind his eyes, a familiar tempest that swirled and churned with unbidden memories. The question had cracked open a door he hadn’t meant to leave ajar, and now it poured forth— a tide of faces, choices, and regrets that blurred into one another. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, a futile attempt to ground himself as he paced across the room.*

“Sometimes it’s better. Sometimes it’s worse.”

The admission came quieter now, almost bitter, his voice laden with the exhaustion of a man who had lived lifetimes too long. There was truth in the statement, but also an ache, the kind that came from wounds not yet healed. Stanford didn’t stop moving, his steps uneven as his thoughts veered into darker waters. He’d met his counterparts before, and each encounter had been its own kind of reckoning. Some were mirrors he couldn’t bear to look into, reflections of a self he had long buried. Others were far worse— twisted, cruel, and unrecognizable. But perhaps the hardest ones were those who were better. Kinder. Braver. Unbroken.*

"Sometimes it doesn’t even matter."

*Stanford muttered, his tone sharp, almost dismissive, as though saying it aloud could make it true. But he knew better. Every meeting left its mark, whether he wanted it to or not.*

"Meeting them, it... it stirs something up. A mirror I didn’t ask for, reflecting pieces of myself I’d rather not see."

*He shook his head sharply, as if the motion could shake loose the thoughts threatening to overwhelm him.*

"And worse, sometimes it shows me what I’ll never be. Someone better."

*His footsteps carried him deeper into the lab, where the shadows seemed to cling more tightly, an unspoken promise of solitude. The Doctor’s mind was a maelstrom, his thoughts spinning faster than he could catch them. He knew the futility of this particular question, the circular path it always carved through his psyche. The fault of one wasn’t the fault of all— he knew this logically, rationally— but it was a truth his heart refused to accept. Too much pain, too much betrayal, too many reminders of the line between what he could forgive and what he couldn’t.*

"I’m not sure what the point of it is."

*Ford muttered, his voice barely above a whisper now.*

"Every time, it feels like trying to fix a puzzle with missing pieces. You get close, but it’s never complete. It never fits."

*The words were meant to end the conversation, though they felt more like a plea to himself than an answer. Stanford’s shoulders sagged under the invisible weight he carried, the kind that had no shape or name, only a presence that refused to leave. His hands tightened into fists within his pockets as he stood amidst the quiet hum of machinery, dusty books and old memories.*

"Perhaps I'll never solve it, I don't think I'm meant to."

*This was one of those questions better left unanswered, he decided. A Pandora’s box of possibilities and consequences that never led anywhere worth going. The Doctor knew this, as he knew so many things, but knowing didn’t make it any easier. For now, he would retreat, let the storm rage on quietly within him while he turned his focus back to his work.*

*Some things were better left untouched.*

[gftimelord]

*Stanford bit back the urge to correct his counterpart— Doctor— as the word rolled from the man’s mouth so casually, like it wasn’t suffocating, like it wasn’t heavy. He had earned the name, yes, but every syllable shackled him to promises made long ago, to oaths only he would remain witness to. Ford didn’t deserve that title, not really. He wasn’t from Gallifrey. He didn’t have two hearts, didn’t wield the raw power of regeneration. He was just a fool— an arrogant, brilliant fool— who had bitten off far more than any mortal human should have dared to.*

*He exhaled slowly through his nose, a bitter sigh he didn’t realize he’d been holding, as the storm outside howled just a bit louder.*

*The weight of everything clawed its way to the surface, always waiting in the quiet moments. Horrors beyond understanding. Wars not meant for men to fight. A universe scarred, and his hands stained crimson with the knowledge that his choices ended it. The Daleks. Gallifrey. The screams that fell silent far too suddenly...*

*He fought against the flood of memories as his counterpart spoke, but Ford’s mind raced. It always did when the past stirred like this.*

*A past he wished so desperately to forget.*

*A chuckle slipped out before he could stop it, low and hollow. It rattled around the room, stopping dead in the tense atmosphere. Ford’s hand shot up, covering his mouth as though to stuff it back down where it belonged. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t remotely funny, but irony had a cruel sense of humor. His voice, when it finally emerged, sounded like it had been dragged through gravel.*

“God if I know. He probably wouldn’t have brought me back from the dead if it were the case.”

*It landed like a joke. A flippant quip. But there was no warmth to it, no smug humor, only a raw edge that his counterpart couldn’t possibly miss. His eyes, sharp and glinting like glass, didn’t smile with his lips. Stanford Pines wasn’t joking.*

*The truth buzzed behind his teeth like a live wire, and he hated that he’d said it aloud. He hated everything about this. About himself.*

“If you were shot point-blank by a Dalek, chances are you’d stay dead.”

*Ford muttered, gaze dropping to the uneven floorboards as he spoke.*

“Most do. Most of our variants don’t even see ninety. Humans don't commonly live to see a hundred.”

*His voice thinned, soft and frayed, but it carried an impossible weight. Ford said little, but he didn’t need to say more. The implications were right there in the silence, filling every breath.*

“I’m different.”

*The words hung in the air, cold and unflinching, as if stating them made it easier to bear. Different. A man dragged back from the abyss when he had no right to return. Resurrected by sheer consequence of technology he still didn’t fully understand. Ford had died. Not almost, not metaphorically— he had died. He’d been broken and hollowed out and pulled back by a repair box that didn’t know when to quit. Something fundamental had shifted that day, and Stanford knew that part of him— the part that understood life and death as immutable— had stayed buried like the bodies he left behind.*

*He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, shoulders slumping as though trying to fold himself inward. His counterpart watched him closely, but Ford avoided the gaze.*

“I don’t know what my mentor would’ve thought if he saw me now.”

*The words fell quieter this time, softened by something that might have been shame.*

“I probably ended up more like him than I intended.”

*His brow furrowed, his lips twitching upward in something that looked like a smile but wasn’t.*

“A mad man with a box. I probably got infected somewhere along the way.”

*Why was he talking? Why was this slipping out? Ford never spoke about his mentor. Those memories were locked tight, stored away in the depths of his mind, where even he rarely ventured. He’d only let them out in moments of vulnerability— late nights in the TARDIS library, staring at pages he’d read a thousand times but never fully absorbed.*

*That ship… God, he hated that ship. It wasn’t a vessel; it was a tombstone. A monument to the man who once stood at its helm, and to the war that shattered everything they had been trying to protect.*

*Stanford shook his head faintly, as if to dispel the thought, the motion quick and sharp.*

“Either he was desperate, or trusted me that much to give me his responsibilities and his title.”

*Ford murmured, his voice quieter now.*

“He always did say I was destined for greater…”

*He trailed off, his gaze flickering back to a nearby window, it was so peaceful outside these walls... unlike the torrent swirling within.*

“I don’t believe in destiny. I don’t think any of us Fords do.”

*The doctor didn’t. He couldn’t. The idea that every step, every stumble, every mistake he’d made had been preordained was too cruel to bear. It robbed him of his free will. It made him nothing but a pawn on some cosmic board he could never see. No, his choices were his own, even when they destroyed everything around him. Especially when they destroyed everything.*

“I don’t know.”

*Ford said at last, his voice dipping toward something softer, something almost hollow. He straightened slowly, his tone turning faintly sardonic, a poor defense mechanism against the encroaching silence.*

“The Time War ended in mutual destruction. Sayonara Daleks, but sayonara Time Lords.”

*He shrugged, the motion sharp and stiff, like a marionette jerking to life. His lips twitched again, that faint echo of Stanley’s self-deprecating humor shining through in the worst of moments.*

“I’m pretty sure those rotten tin cans are still littered somewhere across the multiverse anyway.”

*A bitter chuckle rattled from his chest.*

“Annoying robot cockroaches.”

*The attempt at humor rang empty, but it was enough for Ford to retreat just a little further behind that paper-thin wall of apathy. It wasn’t his brother’s influence, not exactly, but the resemblance was there. Downplay the pain. Brush it off with a joke. Pretend none of it mattered because acknowledging it would hurt too much.*

*The silence stretched long, deafening and suffocating those caught in it's claws. The Doctor’s shoulders slumped as though the weight of the universe itself pressed down on him. He was still standing, still breathing, but God… how tired he was. How utterly, desperately tired.*

*But his answer didn't really change, did it? He'd keep going, even if there wasn't a lick of rationality as to why.*

*Whatever traits that had locked him into that role of Stanford and only Stanford Pines had likely died with him on Gallifrey. This man was painfully different despite the face and name, unfortunately not even for the better.*

(OOC: Hey mod! Am back with another character, mostly because I'm a geek and I like Dr who so have my Timelord Stanford -@gftimelord :D)

*A loud crash echoed from a nearby broom closet in the Mystery Shack, followed by a plume of grey smoke and a string of curses. Boxes and various objects scattered into the hallway as a figure in a familiar beige trench coat shakily rose to his feet. He waved his arms around in a futile attempt to clear the smoke, coughing harshly.*

“Oh, that is a proper mess! Ugh.”

*The man huffed, coughing into his hand as he stumbled out of the smoke and into clearer view. But the moment he noticed he wasn’t alone, he froze, locking eyes with the other man in the room. His expression shifted from irritation to shock. This… this was not his dimension.*

“Uh… greetings?”

*It was like staring into a mirror, though the other man appeared a bit younger. His trench coat was nearly identical, but his eyes—those were the eyes of someone who had seen more than his share of time and dimensions. Still, despite the clear depth of knowledge, the younger man seemed just as awkward and out of place as ever.*

(I hope this is okay! Feel free to ignore if you don't wanna do this tho!)

Stanford Pines had been dozing, a hand leaning on his cheek and causing his bifocals to skew on his face. His jaw was slack and he was starting to breathe evenly, the obvious onset of sleep. His face began to slowly slide down his hand, and was moments from threatening to make his face hit the table when he heard a loud crash.

And this crash was LOUD. Ford was on his feet IMMEDIATELY, barely conscious but already moving to grab the high tech firearm strapped under his sweater. His trench coat had been left draped over a nearby chair and he blinked blearily, his glasses falling off as he brandished his firearm defensively.

Shaking his head, he stared at... himself? A blur that looked like himself? Stanley? Of course, it was to be expected. It wasn't something that surprised him anymore. Yet, having just woken up, and the fact he wasn't wearing his glasses made him a lot more defensive.

"Stanley?!" He exclaimed, "Or... you! You foul demon, I told you that if I ever saw you again I'd blow you into a million pieces! I've got a new gun now and it will blast your atoms across the room! I've destroyed you once and I can do it again!!"

[gftimelord]

Made some silly doodles of my oc Lily and Ford ( @gftimelord ) as Rose and Ten. Admittedly, they're not the best drawings - I made them at like 2 in the morning - but they were just for the fun of it

These doodles are just redrawings of Rose and Ten together, plus a small drawing of Lily as Rose from her travels with Nine. I attempted to give her short hair in the smaller doodle, but it's not that good lol (but it's good enough to share :3)

These were done in pure fun. Also because I enjoy the things my friend Matrix makes :3

It's just a small post for today. Hope you all enjoyed it. Likes and reblogs are appreciated. Have a wonderful day, and remember to stay creative ^w^

[gftimelord]

Okay, soooo... I haven't really been posting much on my main blog and I'm stuck between both my time lord AU and my modern AU. I love them both but I feel like I'm personally not balancing them well. Thoughts?

[gftimelord]

Here! Have a bouquet of Forget-me-not flowers! (⁠っ⁠.⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)⁠っ💐

*The bouquet felt heavier than it should have in his hands, the delicate stems cradled by fingers that had once held the weight of galaxies.*

"Thank you."

*The words spilled from his lips reflexively, unthinking, automatic. The doctor’s gaze rested on the forget-me-nots, their soft blue petals like fragile stars fallen into his grasp. They seemed so small, so unassuming, yet they carried a weight that pressed down on him with the force of memories he couldn’t keep locked away.*

*For a moment, Stanford simply stared. The flowers blurred into a haze of color, their presence dragging his mind far from the here and now. Forget-me-nots. How cruelly fitting— flowers steeped in the symbolism of undying loyalty, eternal remembrance. He’d once thought them beautiful, a reminder of the valiance of memory. But now? Now they whispered a question he could never answer.*

*Would he be forgotten?*

*The title would live on. The Doctor. A name that made gods flinch and tyrants fall silent. But Stanford Pines? The man who laughed too loudly and dreamed too boldly? The fool who stepped too close to the edge? Would he be remembered? Or would time wear away his name, grinding it into nothingness as the stars turned and the multiverse carried on, indifferent?*

*Everyone he loved would eventually succumb to the sands of time. Even Stanley, his brother, was living on borrowed moments— a reprieve, not a reprieve forever. The repair box had granted his twin the kind of immortality most would kill for, but the terms had always been clear: Lee would decide when enough was enough. And Ford? He would have to watch. Again.*

*Always.*

*The Doctor would only rest when he was dead. That was the promise he made.*

*His fingers brushed the soft petals, reverent and delicate, as if the flowers might shatter beneath his touch. Their texture reminded him of the past— the smooth curve of glass jars in his lab, the ink-stained pages of his journal, the unyielding steel of the blaster that had once trembled in his grasp. How many memories had he preserved, as if they too were fragile things, desperate to keep them from slipping away?*

*The irony was sharp, biting at the edges of his thoughts. Forget-me-nots. A plea, a promise. Yet even promises eroded over time. He was a man without a gravestone, without a final day to mark his passing. Would he become a ghost of himself, wandering the cracks between universes, endlessly searching for something already gone?*

"I'll... go put these in a vase."

*He said softly, his voice carrying the weight of his gratitude, his eyes glittering in a silent sorrow.*

"Pretty little things. Thank you."

*His feet moved, carrying him toward the kitchen, but his thoughts remained tethered to the bouquet in his hands. They were a gift, a token of kindness from someone in a universe that had shown him so little. He couldn’t bring himself to discard them, even as they unearthed emotions he’d buried under decades of stoic resolve and charming whimsy.*

*He placed them gently in a glass vase, filling it with water that refracted the morning light into fragmented rainbows. They seemed to glow against the mundane backdrop of his home, an anchor in the shifting tides of his thoughts. For a moment, he allowed himself to admire their delicate beauty, tracing the soft lines of each petal with his eyes.*

*Forget me not. A poetic phrase. A desperate hope.*

*Stanford really wished he could believe it.*

[gftimelord]

3 33 6 666 66 7777 0 run when 2 0 4 666 666 3 0 6 2 66 0 goes to war

66 444 4 44 8 0 will fall and 3 777 666 9 66 0 the 7777 88 66

When 2 0 4 666 666 3 0 6 2 66 0 goes to war

333 777 444 33 66 3 7777 44 444 7 0 dies and true love 555 444 33 7777

66 444 4 44 8 0 will fall and the 3 2 777 55 0 will 777 444 7777 33

When 2 0 4 666 666 3 0 6 2 66 0 goes to war

3 33 6 666 66 7777 0 run, but 222 66 88 66 8 0 the 222 66 7777 8

The battle's 9 666 66 , 0 but the 222 44 444 555 3 is 555 666 7777 8.

-66 666 55 444 2 0 Anon

(Note for mod: Sorry for any mistakes in the code, I had to manually type it so there could be some mistakes)

*The doctor’s eyes scanned the words and numbers, the echo of their meaning unraveling within him like a slow, haunting melody. The poem stared back at him from the page, its lines carrying weight heavier than the ink that composed them. With journal and pen in hand, he hesitated for only a breath, the stillness of the room stretching taut as if the very air anticipated his response.*

*He couldn't resist the allure of a mystery, even if solving it meant peeling away at wounds he'd buried beneath layers of self-forged armor. He gripped the pen, its cool metal grounding him as he began to work through the cipher, each word he decoded hitting like a whisper of long-forgotten truths.*

“Demons run when a good man goes to war.”

*Ford let out a bitter chuckle, the sound hollow in the quiet space. A good man? He knew the weight of that saying all too well, a badge once worn with pride but now tarnished beyond recognition. Could a man who has killed, who has orchestrated destruction— who has stood upon the ash of worlds— still be called good? He didn't think so. He paused, the pen hovering above the paper as memories began to resurface, unbidden but unstoppable. The faces, the screams, the blood— all of it etched into the unrelenting stone of his mind.

*But he pushed onward, decoding with precision, each line unfolding like a mirror held too close for comfort.*

“Night will fall and drown the sun, When a good man goes to war.”

*The metaphor clawed at him, its imagery vivid and unrelenting. He could still feel the suffocating darkness of those days, the way the weight of his actions pressed down on his chest like the crushing depths of the ocean. For all his brilliance, for all his knowledge and power, he’d been naïve enough to believe he could change the tide of a war already lost to the annals of fate. The arrogance of that belief still left a bitter taste in his mouth.*

“Friendship dies and true love lies, Night will fall and the dark will rise.”

*The pen stilled for a moment, his hand trembling as he considered the prose. How many friendships had he burned away in the fire of his ambition? How many bonds had he severed in pursuit of the impossible? He thought of Stanley, of his unwavering loyalty, and how many times he’d tested that bond to the breaking point. He thought of Fiddleford, a fleeting memory now, a ghost that lived only in the faint scent of metal and machine. The kindness extended to him, Ford wondered if that was a luxury reserved for those who could still see themselves as deserving of it.*

*He sure didn't.*

“When a good man goes to war.”

*He couldn’t help the sardonic smile that crept onto his lips. The repetition almost mocked him now, a refrain that felt more accusation than revelation. He scribbled the next words almost aggressively, as if forcing them into existence might make them hurt less.*

“Demons run, but count the cost.”

*His breath hitched. The cost. He could recount every ounce of it in painful, meticulous detail if he chose to, but he didn’t need to. The cost was carved into his very being, the scars physical and otherwise, the sleepless nights, the phantom pain in his chest where his heart once beat unbroken.*

“The battle’s won, but the child is lost.”

*That line stilled him entirely, the pen falling limp in his hand as he stared at the words. He didn’t need to wonder what they meant. He knew. He’d lost the child he once was a long time ago, somewhere between the schemes of a yellow demon and the suffocating pull of his own pride. He’d shed that skin in the fires of ambition, and what remained was something else entirely— a man who carried a borrowed title but questioned its worth every waking moment.*

*Stanford sighed, the sound heavy and laden with more than words could hold. He ran a hand through his silver locks, the weight of the decoded poem pressing against him like a familiar specter. The words had done their damage, dredging up the memories he kept locked away beneath layers of duty and necessity. But he didn’t tear the page out. He didn’t crumple it or toss it into the bin by his desk.*

*Instead, he closed his journal with a soft snap, his hand lingering on its worn cover. He sat back, staring out at the twinkling expanse of the night sky visible through the glass windows of his home. The words lingered in his mind, their echoes refusing to fade as he watched the endless spiral of lights and stars that strayed beyond the safety of the cabin.*

*The Doctor didn’t cry. He didn’t rage. He simply sat, the silence of the room now heavier than before. And somewhere, deep within him, the child he’d lost so long ago wept silently in the ruins of a man who once dreamed of being good.*

[gftimelord]

Apples, Pears or Bananas?

"Bananas, bananas are good."

*The words tumbled out almost reflexively, his voice carrying a touch of lightness that belied the quiet disdain simmering beneath the surface. His brow furrowed slightly as he remembered the question. It wasn’t that the other fruits were inherently bad— well, not entirely— but the mention of pears and apples sparked an involuntary shudder that ran through his frame.*

*He glanced at the pages of his journal, fingers idly twirling his pen as he considered the memory with a mixture of humor and annoyance.*

"I hate apples."

*He muttered, the words laced with a hint of exasperation. His voice dipped low, almost as if the declaration were a confession meant for no one in particular. The disdain was palpable, rooted in an experience he didn’t care to elaborate on but that clearly lingered in the back of his mind.*

*The Doctor rolled his eyes at himself, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Coming back from death itself— or rather, clawing his way out of it— had rewritten so many things about his existence. His body, his palate, even the way certain foods felt when they passed his lips. And apples? They had become an unrepentant enemy in that regard. Bananas, on the other hand, had remained steadfast. Sweet, versatile, a perfect companion to treat both chaos and calm.*

"I always try to take a banana with me to a party."

*Ford said aloud, his tone shifting into one of practiced casualness. The words felt almost like a mantra, a small and absurd piece of stability in a world that often made no sense.*

"You never know when it might be useful."

*He let the thought hang in the air as his pen resumed its journey across the paper, a sharp black ink that etched precise strokes of memories, ideas, and plans. His mind danced briefly to times when a banana had indeed proven unexpectedly handy. A distraction, a tool, a snack— what couldn't they do?*

*The irony of it all wasn’t lost on him. A man who could open rifts between dimensions, who had seen the rise and fall of empires, harboring a peculiar fondness for something so mundane. But then again, life was made up of such simple joys, wasn’t it? Even for someone who had lived through so many complexities.*

*Stanford sighed, tapping his pen against the journal before shaking his head with a faint chuckle. For all the chaos that surrounded him, there was something undeniably grounding about such moments— small, silly preferences that reminded him that he was still very human. Or at least, human enough to crave sweetness amidst all the bitter.*

[gftimelord]

Doctor?

Doctor Who?

"Oh, this again?"

*Stanford's laughter broke the quiet hum of the room, light and fleeting, like a bird’s wings brushing the surface of still water. He leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth curling upward with a hint of amusement. Inwardly, though, there was that familiar pang of surrealism— a sharp-edged awareness that in certain universes, his life, his struggles, his triumphs, were nothing more than scripted entertainment for faceless spectators. A bit cruel, really, though undeniably fascinating.*

*Meta. That was the word, wasn’t it? He’d heard Mabel use it once, excitedly describing some convoluted show she and Dipper had been hooked on. He was still trying to catch up with the ever-shifting tide of modern slang. Words changed like seasons, fleeting and unpredictable.*

"I don't technically count as a regeneration if that's what you're inquiring, dear anon."

*His tone was casual, dismissive even, but his eyes flickered with something deeper, an unspoken weight that settled at the edges of his smile. He paused, thoughtful, recalling similar questions he’d encountered before. They always seemed to ask: which Doctor was he? The teacher? The healer? The guiding hand?*

*A god among men?*

*The thought slithered in unbidden, cold and unwelcome, and he couldn’t suppress the awkward chuckle that escaped him. He shook his head, his fingers fidgeting with the corner of his journal. No, thank you. That wasn’t a title he wanted or deserved. He’d seen what unchecked ego could do, and he’d be damned if he let himself spiral into that abyss.*

*Yet, if there was one moniker that clung to him, one that felt like an inseparable shadow, it was this:*

*The Doctor who regrets.*

*The weight of it pressed against his chest, heavy and immutable, like an ancient stone weathered by time but unbroken. How upsetting, indeed, to carry such a title. But wasn’t it fitting? Every choice, every sacrifice, every life saved or lost— they were etched into the very marrow of his being, a perpetual lamentation.*

*He exhaled softly, lowering his gaze to the journal resting on the table before him. Its pages gleamed faintly under the glow of his desk lamp, a canvas for his wandering thoughts and endless calculations, littered with papers and sketches of god knows what by now. The Doctor’s pen hovered for a moment before resuming its fluid motion, elegant strokes spilling across the paper. He wrote, not for anyone else, but for himself— a way to untangle the knots of his mind, to silence the endless echoes of what could have been.

*Getting lost in his emotions wouldn’t do any good. At least, not that he’d discovered. So, with a flick of his wrist and a furrow of his brow, he pushed the thoughts aside, burying them beneath layers of ink and equations.*

[gftimelord]

Hey doctor! I heard you used to do karaoke back in the day! Any songs you like or recommend?

"Uh... it largely depends on what you're into, if you ask me. I like listening to classical tunes on most days— Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Bach, Mozart— met him once, actually. Great guy."

*Stanford's voice carried a lighthearted warmth as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes drifting somewhere far away as if lost in a memory. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his coat as he considered the vast array of songs he'd absorbed over his long life. The thought was both amusing and overwhelming— decades of melodies, rhythms, and lyrics forming a tapestry too expansive to pick apart easily.*

*He lingered for a moment, caught between nostalgia and indecision, before a faint chuckle escaped him. The number of times he'd been trapped with a tune stubbornly lodged in his head— thanks to Mabel's relentless enthusiasm for modern pop— was enough to drive any man mad.*

*Well, he was already a mad man with a sonic, and a box— technically. Even if he didn't use it.*

"That’s like fishing a needle out of an ever-growing haystack. The niblings are always introducing me to new songs, and they— well, they stick, often for weeks at a time. Kind of drives me nuts on some days."

*He flashed a crooked smile, shaking his head at the memory of his niece and nephew dancing around the Mystery Shack, blaring music at full volume until the walls shook. As much as it occasionally grated on his nerves, he cherished those moments, knowing they were fleeting.*

*After all, everybody grew old at some point.*

"But if you're asking about songs I like?"

*His tone shifted, a reminiscent warmth softening his voice.*

"Try 'Oh, Carol' by Neil Sedaka, or 'Can’t Take My Eyes Off You' by Frankie Valli. At least, those are two I can name off the top of my head. Iconic beats from when I was growing up."

*He leaned back, his gaze distant but fond, the corners of his mouth curving into a wistful smile. The memories tied to those songs carried a weight of simplicity— a time before interdimensional rifts, time wars, and the heavy title of "Doctor." Just a boy with dreams and a world of possibility ahead of him, humming along to tunes on the crackling radio.*

*It really made him miss being a naive kid who would cause daily chaos with his twin. At least he didn't have crippling burdens dragging behind him back then.*

[gftimelord]

@askbillcipherofficial

“heya! remember me? when ya saved me from being destroyed by the theraprism? good times! good times! so! I’ve been busy but- i did have to say hi to my favorite Sixer!!~”

*The Doctor stood poised, his arms crossed casually, yet there was a gleam of wary curiosity in his eyes as he regarded the golden figure before him. The faint hum of the cuffs still thrumming with restrained energy drew his gaze momentarily, a quiet confirmation that they still worked as intended. For now, the balance remained intact, but with Bill Cipher— or rather, this variant— things were never as they seemed.*

"Hahaha, hello! I had been curious for a while where you’d run off to… but I’m glad to see you’re doing better."

*Stanford's voice was light, almost jovial, but his words carried the weight of deliberate caution. His hands fidgeted briefly with his coat sleeves, a habit he hadn't shaken when conversations teetered on unpredictable edges. He had spent lifetimes learning how to navigate beings like this, yet something about the triangle— no matter the variant— always left him slightly guarded.*

*The faint yellow glow of the cuffs caught his attention again, a small reassurance that Bill’s power remained contained. Still bound to his sonic, at least... for now. He wasn’t naive enough to think they’d hold forever, not if his muse’s ingenuity had any say in the matter. Still, the Doctor’s expression remained as cool and collected as ever, a carefully crafted façade that masked the storm of calculations swirling in his mind.*

"So… what brings you here?"

*His tone held an almost musical cadence, curiosity laced with that undercurrent of suspicion he never fully dropped around these kinds of powerful entities.*

"If it’s to remove those cuffs, I will say your flattery will not help there— even if it’s appreciated, my muse."

*The Doctor’s lips curled into a faint smirk, his sharp gaze flickering to Bill's wrists. The remark was playful on the surface, but beneath it lay the subtle reminder of their dynamic: Ford still wouldn't give an inch when it came to power. Not to Bill. Especially not to him.*

*Even if a part of him missed the easy ebb and flow they used to have. Could they still have that?*

*Maybe not, it would be too dangerous.*

*At least this variant wasn’t insufferable or insane. Ford could admit that much. This version retained some of the entity’s chaos, yes, but it was subdued, like a roaring flame reduced to a flicker; even if it shined just as brightly. Bill was still Bill— mischievous, calculating, infuriatingly clever— but there was a layer of control here, one that hadn’t existed in most others Ford had encountered. Perhaps the theraprism had worked after all… or at least, partially. A nagging part of him wondered how much of that control was genuine and how much was simply a game the dream demon was playing. A dangerous, endless waltz where every step felt like teetering on the edge of a blade.*

*He wouldn't be surprised if all of this was a ploy anyhow, but he couldn't ignore the slight warmth that creeped into his chest at being called a favorite. It was high praise, and Ford couldn't stop the bit of him that wanted to believe those words wholeheartedly.*

*He was definitely getting in over his head again.*

"How has the multiverse been treating you? Kindly, I hope?"

[gftimelord]

*The Doctor had to admit, this particular Bill variant was... surprising. Most iterations of the triangle demon were nuisances at best and catastrophic at worst, but this one? This one was different. There was an unassuming depth to his illusions, an artistry that made them feel almost alive, pulsating with a vibrancy that rivaled reality itself.*

*The pages of his journal filled rapidly, the decadent ink sketching out fine lines and elaborate notes, his mind racing to capture every detail. His penmanship— refined and precise— was as steady as ever, though now tinged with a subtle excitement that even he couldn’t entirely mask. His brow furrowed in concentration, but there was a lightness in his posture, a far cry from the guarded tension he usually carried when dealing with such entities.*

*He glanced up from his work occasionally, engaging in the ebb and flow of conversation as easily as water slipping through stones. Questions were exchanged like tokens, riddles passed back and forth with mutual intrigue. It was almost unsettling how natural the dialogue felt. For a creature born of chaos, this Bill was surprisingly... amicable. Perhaps that’s what unnerved him the most.*

*Minutes melted into hours, the shifting hues of the sky above eventually deepening into twilight. The fading sunlight cast long, golden shadows across the meadow, making the illusions shimmer with an ethereal glow. It wasn’t until the first stars pricked through the evening sky that Stanford realized how much time had passed. A pang of guilt tugged at his chest— Lee would undoubtedly come looking for him if he didn’t return to his home dimension soon.*

“Well.”

*Ford said, slipping his journal and pen back into the inner pocket of his trenchcoat with practiced ease.*

“This has certainly been... enlightening.”

*He hesitated for a moment, caught between formality and sincerity. Finally, a genuine smile broke through his otherwise composed demeanor.*

“I’ll admit, I didn’t expect this. But it was... fun.”

*He felt a flush creep up his neck at the admission, though whether it stemmed from embarrassment or the warm glow of the moment, he couldn’t tell. The triangle’s features twisted into a smug grin, undoubtedly catching the faint tinge of red dusting the Doctor’s cheeks. Stanford cleared his throat, standing a little straighter as he adjusted his coat.*

“I’ll have to take my leave for now, it's getting pretty late.”

*The doctor said, his tone light but edged with that familiar touch of professionalism.*

“But you can trust that I'll be back. You're interesting. See you around Bill.”

*With that, he turned and made his way down the grassy path, the faint rustle of leaves underfoot blending with the soft hum of the wind. The cool evening air felt like a balm against his skin, and before long, he noticed a subtle skip in his step— a rare, fleeting moment of levity. Perhaps not all variants of the dream demon were irredeemable, he mused. The thought lingered, a curious smile pulling at his lips as the town lights came into view in the distance.*

*A few doors and rifts later, he'd be home.*

got anything weird you can show us?

"I always got something weird! :D"

[gftimelord]

"Hi again Stan!! Snazzy new outfit- whered the pin go?" she tilts her head and frowns a little at the fact Ford isnt wearing Stans mackerel pin, not yet realizing theyre two seperate people.

@magpie-prime

*Stanford blinked, the woman’s words lingering like an echo in his mind, taking a few moments to fully register.*

“Hm? Pin—?”

*He repeated, his brow furrowing slightly as he mulled over the word in his head, trying to place it. The realization struck a beat later, his confusion melting into mild amusement. She’d called him by Stanley’s nickname— his brother's nickname.*

*Even after all these years, people still managed to confuse them? A familiar pang of exasperation mingled with a begrudging fondness. Sure, their shared resemblance made sense in their youth, but now? The differences in their appearances were notable. His sharper features, now more pronounced with the age difference, contrasted against Stan’s rugged, well-worn charm. And yet, somehow, the mix-ups persisted.*

*A soft chuckle slipped out, unbidden but genuine. It was a sound edged with interest, amusement flickering in his gaze as he gave a slight shake of his head.*

“Haha… you must have mistaken me for my brother, miss—?”

*He said, his voice warm but probing as he let the question dangle. His words were polite, but the faintest edge of intrigue seeped into his tone as he paused, waiting for her to fill in the blank.*

*The moment stretched, but inwardly, his thoughts were already racing. Who was this woman? And more importantly, how did she know Stanley well enough to use his nickname like this? An old friend? But it wasn't anyone he recognized. It wasn’t often strangers mistook him for his brother like this either— but there was a level of recognition in her voice, a sense of knowing that went beyond a simple passing hello.*

*Stanford’s mind churned with possibilities. Had his brother crossed paths with her while he was off-world? Doing interdimentional errands? What sort of impression had Stanley left this time? His twin had an uncanny knack for leaving behind wild tales and connections wherever they went, even in the most unlikely corners of the multiverse.*

*His curiosity was piqued, and a familiar spark of intellectual intrigue flickered in his chest. And while he wasn’t about to jump to conclusions, the temptation to unravel the thread of this mystery tugged at him.*

*The Doctor’s expression softened as he awaited her reply, his stance casual yet poised, a quiet intensity lurking just beneath the surface.*

[gftimelord]

"You’ve got to love a bit of chaos, especially when it’s done with class!"

OOC: Here's Doc's ref sheet since I really wanted to update his old one in the blog's intro post, PLUS- I wanted to add how his sonic looked like since I've only ever mentioned it but never did show. It's very inspired by a certain model LOL-

Also bonus sketches under the cut because I lowkey feel bad for disappearing out of nowhere HEHAHAHAHA- I AM SORRY YALL I WILL BE REPLYING TO THE RPS ASAP-