#time to make a master post

[acourtofquestions]

[gallifreyanhotfive]

RENEGADE TIME LORD WRAPPED

You have dematerialized in your TARDIS 3 times 🫥 this year, but only because you prefer traveling in the late 1900s and earlier 2000s.

You have traveled in 2 different TARDISes, you cheating whore 👎.

The Hostile Action Displacement System has kicked in 13 times ⚠️.

You successfully piloted your TARDIS to Heathrow Airport 0 times ✈️.

You have lost your memory 4 times 🧠.

You got stuck in 301 time loops ⏳️.

You have battled your on-again off-again situationship 134 times 🤼‍♂️.

You have collected 3 individuals from other worlds 👥 to travel with you.

You have accidentally destroyed 8 star systems 🌠.

You have meddled in the development of 87,912 different cultures 👋.

You have almost died 12,342,915 times 💀.

You have accidentally become a god 1 time 👑, which qualifies as a Class Two Intervention, so you really ought to be vaporized.

Your most traveled to planet was Earth 🌎.

You have regenerated 1 time this year 🔥, which is concerning because you also regenerated last year, and don't you think you're burning through your lives a bit quickly?

You have broken the Laws of Time 13,411,843 times 🚓. That's in the top 0.1% of Time Lords!

Your definition of a year has changed 8,541,823 times this year 🗓, making this Wrapped very difficult to complete.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

If I was in a lucid dream with a ghost, I would simply impress them with my blunt rolling skills

[deoidesign]

Doing master studies the only way I know how: Stealing them and making them my guys.

(Barberini Faun)

(The Fallen Angel - Alexandre Cabanel)

(Covent Garden - William Bruce Ellis Rankin)

[plutonious]

they’re teaching cilan to play pool

[inkyrainstorms]

Martian Stan AU - Aftermath & Discovery

The Beginning (1), Aftermath (2) (here), The Journals (3)

Extra! (The Apology)

Ford didn’t know how long it took for him to pry himself off the floor, but it felt like hours later when he managed to trudge his way upstairs, eyes burning and throat raw. There was new blood on his knuckles, and Ford couldn’t remember if it was Stan’s or his own. He’d tried to scrub the blood off of the portal, but most of it had been too high and Ford was so tired.

He couldn’t fall asleep in the basement, he chanted to himself, again and again and again and it only occurred to him once he stood swaying at the top the of the stairs, that is didn’t actually… matter, anymore.

It didn’t matter what Bill did, or didn’t do.

The portal was broken beyond repair. His brother was dead.

The journal is gone. his mind whispered insidiously, and he couldn’t remember if he’d always been so cruel to himself, or if it was a byproduct of Bill. You got what you wanted, Sixer. How does it feel?

Ford hobbled to the bathroom as fast as he could manage, and hurled his guts out into the toilet. When all that came up was acrid bile, though, and Ford wondered idly when we he last ate. It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered, Ford decided firmly, hands clenched on either side of the porcelain bowl so hard that they looked bloodless in the harsh white light. It didn’t matter what he felt, or didn’t feel.

Not anymore.

The journal was gone. That was a good thing, it meant that the portal could never be rebuilt again. Stanley made an honorable… he. He’d made an honorable sacrifi—

Ford hunched over the toilet and heaved again. Nothing came out.

Impossibly, time kept moving.

Ford was left drifting in the current, from room to room, machine to first aid kit to paper to specimen to paper to circling the door of his lab again and again like an anxious sentry. He didn’t process any of it, and eventually, the door was the only thing left in the house that felt truly real. It was the only mystery left that Ford could pay any real mind to, and most of the time he wanted nothing more than burn the whole thing to the ground.

Sitting against the door, head leaned back and staring at the ceiling, Ford searched his mind for something. Anything.

A plan, a goal, fuck, he’d take the will to actually get out of the house and get groceries despite the constant chance of being watched at this rate. There was near nothing left to eat in the cabinets that wasn’t rank with age, and Ford knew he was wasting away like this.

But there was nothing. No part of him cared.

He knew he’d always had the wildest aspirations as a kid and as a young man, that he’d never stop reaching for bigger and better heights, but the light had blinded him with its promise, and now he’d fallen. He’d fallen so far.

He’d said Icarus didn’t flap hard enough, when Fiddleford tried to warn him of his own hubris all those weeks ago. Now he was just glad he wasn’t an English major, because it had taken him all of this just to realize that Icarus had found the sun, been embraced by the promise of warmth, and burned for it.

Trust no one.

Ford traced an idle finger against the freshly bandaged burn on the underside of his hand.

And no one should ever trust you.

…

The worst part, Ford thought to himself as he brewed another pot of coffee and searched for a clean mug, was the uncertainty of it all. There was a grief in loss, of course, but not knowing could be so much worse.

Stanley could still be alive out there, among the creatures of the Nightmare Realm, all alone. He could be dying. He could be dead. He could be sitting on the other side, waiting, hoping Ford could open the portal and bring him home—

Ford slammed down the sole clean  coffee cup he had left hard enough to startle himself, and then sighed.

He’d have to go clean up the remains of the portal, eventually. Before he fell asleep and Bill…

Ford poured out the coffee and leaned heavily against the counter as he took a sharp swig. It burned the whole way down. 

What did he have left that Bill wanted? What reason did Bill have to keep him around if his research was beyond saving, if he couldn’t be threatened or tortured into complying anymore?

The next time he fell asleep…

Ford didn’t know what’d happen to him, and despite everything, damnit, Ford didn’t want to die. He couldn’t let Bill win, couldn’t become another footnote in the history of the world because he was just another one of the poor schmucks who fell for Bill Cipher’s lies.

Taking another gulp of liquid courage, Ford pulled his coat tight around himself and marched to the door of his lab before he could talk himself out of it.

Forget not sleeping in the lab. Ford couldn’t sleep at all until he found a way to sever Bill from his mind for good. Project Mentem had been a bust last he’d checked, but it was worth another shot. What else hadn’t he tried? There was something… a protection spell? A charm?

Ford contemplated his options all the way down the stairs, one hand keeping him steady on the wall while the other held his mug. 

He still wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted yet, or what his next step was, but Ford could do this. He just had to secure his mind, like he’d planned, and then get rid of the blasted portal once and for all. Nothing had changed.

Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. Nothing, nothing, except that Ford felt hollow where there must’ve once been something warm and vital in his chest. He didn’t know if he’d ever feel warm again. He didn’t deserve to.

Ford remembered a detail about sleep deprivation, as the elevator neared the basement level again and his heart dropped in time with the doors hissing open. Hallucinations were a common byproduct of the resulting sensory overload and exhaustion. They could take auditory or visual form, though visual hallucinations were a more common symptom by over 52%.

That was the only explanation he could conjure for the faint singing that echoed through the dark, cavernous sub-level before him. 

“It’s not real,” Ford whispered to himself, hands a vice around the coffee mug. He felt cold. “Auditory hallucinations are an expected and well documented symptom to experience in conditions less dire than these. Focus on your intellect, Stanford. Focus, focus, it is not real.”

For a long stretch of time, seconds, or perhaps minutes, Fords feet were glued to the floor of the elevator. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he said or did, the singing, or the static, remained steady and quiet. 

It wouldn’t go away unless Ford made it. 

Finally, Ford forced himself to creep into the basement, and then the control room to set his mug down on the desk. The music was louder now, more distinct here than it had been before. Had Ford left a radio on down here? Was that it?

Holding his breath, Ford crept around the trashed room, checking behind spare sheets of metal that had been propped up against the walls, kneeling to look under the control panels, and then behind them too. All the while, the music droned on, buzzing and humming and settling under his skin like an itch. 

-any- wind blows—

It got louder as he neared the very back of the room, the words filtering through the humming static and becoming clear. Ford couldn’t deny it anymore. That was a voice. He shivered hard, jolting like ice had been pressed to the back of his neck, and hurried forward. 

-really matter to me… To me. 

There was a pile of debris, in the back of the control room, farthest from the door where he’d entered. Stanley must’ve crashed into it, when Ford and him had been… when he’d…

-just killed a man —a gun against his head…

Ford slowed his pace, staring down at the dented metal plates and machinery that had fallen loose in a heap on the floor, the stray wires and screws jutting out of the mess every which way. Slowly, Ford sank to his knees and pressed his aching palms onto the cool floor beneath him.

He could hear the singing now. Warbling, staticky. Familiar.

-Life had just begun, and now I’ve gone and thrown it all away.

Ford choked on his next inhale, thin and trembly as it was, and searched through the wreckage with wide eyes. 

There. Nestled between a dented panel with half its screws undone, and a jumble of wires and smaller panels of sheet metal, was the source of the sound. 

For a long, long moment, all Ford did was stare.

Oh mama… oh ohh oh. Didn’t mean to make you cry.

If I’m not back again this time tomorrow…

Ford’s hands trembled as he reached out, carefully prying the radio out of the scrap heap and holding it up in the dim light.

Carry on, carry on…

As if nothing really matters…

The voice faded out. Static.

Ford set the radio down on his lap, gently, as it would shatter into a million pieces otherwise, and pressed a trembling hand to his mouth.

“Stanley?” Ford choked out, and it was like trying to breathe glass. But he had to know, he had to, because— because…

He sat there, dully staring down at the radio Fiddleford had cobbled together months ago, when they’d still been in the implementations stage of the data and blueprints they’d collected, when the preliminary tests had begun. A device to send and collect waves and other information from beyond this dimension without actually opening a rift.

And here it was. In Fords hands, dented and scratched and still whole despite everything. Ford had turned his sights completely to the portal before the it’s completion, since Bill had deemed the entire endeavor a waste of time and energy and an ineffective outlet for his genius.

Fiddleford must’ve completed it, back when he was still just as enthralled in the project as Ford was. He missed his old friend, but Fiddleford was likely back home by now, in California to try and reconnect with his wife and child. As bitter as Ford was, he hoped Fiddleford was successful. His old friend deserved as much and more. 

There was no reply to Ford’s question, except, Ford brought the radio to his ear and strained to listen through the faint static. Was that… humming? 

Doo- doo doo, yeah, no poindexter, I‘m done, man. That’s the last song of the evening, I’m not paid for overtime. 

Moses, wish I were getting paid for this.

Ford jumped, wincing at the sudden burst of noise loud enough to make his ears ring, then processed what Stanley, because that had to be Stanley, had said.

“Stanley! Where are you? Are you in the Nightmare Realm? You must be… what sort of method did you find to transmit your signal? Are you al—“

But Stanley continued speaking as though he hadn’t heard him. A thrill of irritation  went through him. Was Stanley ignoring him? Was this some kind of petty revenge tactic?

When’d that song come out anyway? ‘75? 

He hummed.

Sounds about right.

Ford shook the radio and bit back a growl, before he remembered that the technology in his hands was damaged and sorely in need of a repair and upgrade, and loosened his grip again. He set it down in his lap.

“Stanley, I need you to take this seriously, please, for once.”

Wow, that song was everywhere back then, wasn’t it? I remember thinkin’ Ford probably liked it when it came out, wherever he was. The nerd was probably in college.

“Stanley?” he tried again, but he wasn’t expecting a reply anymore. Stanley soldiered on, rambling about everything and nothing and Ford could almost hear the smile in his voice if it didn’t sound so tired. 

Hell, where’d I first hear it? Must’ve been over at a gas station in… eh, Kansas? Somewhere over there, the big ol’ middle states. 

We sure aren’t in Kansas anymore.

Ahh, those were the times. Me, the open sky, and so, so much dirt in my hair. Seriously, where did the dirt come from. I roll around in one haystack and suddenly i’m fishing filth out of my hair a month later.

Stanley went quiet again, before he laughed. 

Aw man, I actually like this story. Buckle in folks, and I’m taking us back to that weirdly cold summer day in Kansas, where I had to steal 5 prized chickens. For some reason.

Look man, when someone pays you a hundred bucks and tells you he wants chickens, you don’t ask questions. 

Anyways, I’d been-“

For the past few… well, it had to have been days since Stanley fell through the portal by this point, if Fords state was anything to go off of, Ford’s mind had been eerily blank. He’d been a hollowed out shell of his former self, a ghost in his home and life that held onto the living plane by only the barest threads and pure spite.

It was like a switch had flipped. Ford’s fingers drummed on the outside of the radio as he forced himself to his feet, mind whirling at a hundred miles per hour and making calculations and theories and discarding some and contemplating others, and he was nearly jittering as he walked out of the control room entirely. He’d need to find a way to secure this side of the portal from Bills influence, recollect his journals, and then, he was bringing his brother home.

He stopped just before he got into the elevator and turned around to stare down the wrecked portal that loomed overhead. The once perfect inverted triangle, now ruined and warped nearly beyond recognition.

He grinned in a way that was more just like baring his teeth.

“You may be a god, Cipher, and you may think you can control me, but never forget. I am a scientist.”

The portal stood dead as it had been, but Ford didn’t care. He whirled around and stalked into the elevator. He felt more awake than he had in days. And he had research to collect and a demon to banish.

Stanley was still talking, as the elevator began to shudder and rise, and Ford’s adrenaline shot began to ever-so-slightly wane. Something about… attack pigeons?

-And when I finally think I’m in the clear, I duck around one of the hay bales and come face to face with, and I’m not kidding here, a cow wearing heavy duty armor, like a helmet and shit the guy in ‘Nam would wear. It even had holes for the ears!

There was a strange sound then, and Ford realized with a start that it was coming from him. He was laughing. It wasn’t even than funny, really, but something about Stan delivery made Ford wheeze. 

When was the last time he’d laughed? It must’ve been before this whole thing started, when he’d been with Fiddleford or B—

The laughter died in his throat. Oblivious to Fords inner turmoil, Stan kept on jabbering.

And there I was, 5 chickens smuggled into my coat and in my bag —and if you’ve never tried to carry 5 chickens, never do, it’s hard as hell and not worth it at all��� staring down ol’ Bessie. 

And then, because this fucking farm couldn’t get any weirder, the cow started moo-ing like it was setting off a tornado siren, and all the other cows in the whole place started mooing in sync too. It was fucking terrifying man.

They must’ve been calling the attack pigeons, because those suckers came back, and they started dive-bombing my sorry ass, and really, that was when I reached my limit.

I dove into the hay bale like a damn football player going for the end line, and even though it was by far the itchiest thing to ever happen to me, it saved me from death-by pecking so I’ll take take it. 

The itchiest, of course, save for my stint in Albuquerque.

Ford could almost imagine Stan shaking his head as he paused again. With a start, he realized he was still smiling.

Just. Don’t try selling pillows in Albuquerque is all I’ll say.

Stan gave an audible shudder. 

So many feathers… And itch powder. The itch powder didn’t help. 

Ford couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out of him at that.

Tags! (I’m sure I’m forgetting someone, pls tell me if you want to be on the list! Or just follow the tag that also works) @aroace-get-out-of-my-face @pleasantartisanhottea @littlelilliana15 @empressofsamoyeds @pinesfamilycatsau

Super Epic Secret Surprise!

[daemon-in-my-head]

At last, here it is. A while ago, I had the pleasure of commissioning the wonderful @lokorum to portray my beloved idiots in all of their tragic glory.

So without further ado, after months, here's the first chapter of my durgetash-centred, possibly very long, post-canon Genfic (cuz even if he's not featured in the picture, he's very much the one behind it, and yes, I said genfic but they do fuck, there's just also other themes that are more important than whatever it is those guys got going on).

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63147115

Rated M; further elaboration, summary etc behind the cut.

As per usual, please mind the tags. This is rated mature and may turn explicit depending on—let's be so fr—nothing but my mood. It IS a tragedy. I know how it ends. Trust me when I stress the tragedy part. I'm writing this story through tears at times. There's fluff, there is hurt comfort, there is true old man yaoi but there is just as much 'doves that aren't simply dead but rotten' and pain.

So to everyone who's not scared shitless yet (which is very valid), here's a summary:

The year is around 1530 DR. The once-revered and reformed Bhaalspawn returns to the city he had both saved and nearly doomed, emerging from his exile in the Underdark. Though he claims to seek only rest, the city's de facto ruler, Archduke Gortash, sees through the monster’s carefully crafted facade. Perhaps if the elf had never saved the Banite all those years ago—when he was little more than a blurred and distant memory—his own fate might have unfolded differently, perhaps even more mercifully. But regrets have long since lost their weight. The past is immutable, and all that remains—all that truly matters to him now—is the purpose that once again draws him into this treacherous den.

And on a personal note; I'm still squealing and shoving this artwork into the face of everyone I meet irl. I absolutely adore it. I'm not sure I'll be stopping with that soon. You will see reblogs.

Again. Tragedy. I mean it. There's fluffy moments, but I will absolutely exploit them to enhance the pain. I'm dead serious about Bhaal being able to learn from me. I caused his kid more agony than he could ever dream of delivering. And I haven't even shared the worst parts yet.

Edit: I also mean the psychological warfare tag. It's my guilty pleasure. And whatever over one year of obsession amounts to.

[bunnithechubs]

i'll be your piece, your A-R-T.

[fulgurbugs]

Osvald + Ochette Duopath - Introductions

[distantnebula4]

i get not liking thoschei, everyone ships what they ship-- but it’s a bit strange to me when people just completely deny it’s existence. how do you watch any twelve and missy episode and think ‘oh yeah, just enemies. nothing has ever happened there’

[day-azevir]

It had been two hours since Tango had dropped him off at his apartment. Two hours since he had heard Tango's voice. Two hours since Tango wished him goodnight. Two hours since he watched Tango drive off and wished the night could be longer. Two hours of desperately trying not to think about it.

Unfortunately for Etho, he just could not stop thinking about it.

Thinking about it? Who was he kidding. Etho couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

Etho couldn’t stop thinking about Tango.

Why him? If Etho were to count up the hours, he technically sees Gem and Bdubs more often. He’d met them first too - so why Tango specifically? Maybe, Etho thought, it was his humor. How Tango always made him snort beneath his mask and could crack his smile with ease. Or perhaps how passionate he was about everything. Tango seemed to be driven in everything he did; from hockey to cooking and even the mundane things like board games or his motorcycle. Right, his motorcycle. Even after crashing and burning Tango got up and continued to live as if nothing occurred - could it be his fearlessness and perseverance? Maybe even his intelligence. Tango never seemed to flaunt it, but Etho knew well enough that he was a genius. The way his mind moved faster than his mouth, making Tango stutter in a way that softened Etho with every syllable.

And those are only the things he knew about Tango, what about all the things he didn’t? Etho had learned a lot about him since going to the rink and spending time with him outside of it - like his love for dogs and programming, his irrational fear of rabbits, his complicated family life - but Etho knew there was more. He wanted to know more.

Etho wanted to know Tango's days; how they start, how they end, how he navigates through them. The things that tick him off, the things that make him smile. What his plans were for the next weeks, months, even years if Etho could be so lucky to find out. Where he wanted to go, what he wanted to see. Etho wanted to know the sound of Tango's footsteps, to recognize his warmth. To know how he feels and if he likes to be held.

If he would give Etho the honor of holding him.

Would that be too much to ask? Did Tango even like him like that? This wasn't something Etho had any experience in - romance was never a focus for him - but now? Maybe Tango was just being nice. But then again, maybe there was more. Surely he wouldn’t spend so much time with Etho if he didn’t like him a little bit, right? He didn’t really have a point of reference for any of this. What even was any of this? Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe Etho was just seeing things that weren’t there.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

It had been five hours since Tango had dropped him off at his apartment. Five hours since he had heard Tango's voice. Five hours since Tango wished him goodnight. Five hours since he watched Tango drive off and wished the night could be longer.

It was going to be a long night.

[youremyonlyhope]

Me years ago: Yeah I never really understood why people are attracted to the Master. I get that Simm and Gomez are both attractive as the Master, but I've never really been attracted to the Master.

Dhawan!Master:

Me: ...... Oh ok I get it now.

[luna-loveboop]

HI

SO, I'm doing three of these for Time, what his physical age is, what his mental age is, and how big the gap between is. Posted yesterday, today, and tomorrow- I'll put the links (lol links) in below. I wanna know what y'all think!

Quick refresh, there's a longer explanation below-the Hero of Time's mental age is more than his physical age by the time it took for him to complete his journeys. Due to time travel, he ended both Ocarina of Time and Majora's Mask in the same body as when he started.

Evidence so far in Lu on Time's age:

-he is the oldest

-his mental age is different than his physical age-his mental age is MORE THAN his physical age. The difference is determined by how long his adventures were. This is because he time traveled- adding years to his memory and life lived, but ended up in his original child body by the end.

-He had to 'grow up again' with years of life from his journeys not shown in his physical age, hence the difference.

-Jojo put him as 'an older adult age' because in his games he was a child, teen, then child again, then more child while not changing from child, then we next saw him as the hero's shade, which is a skeleton ghost thingy, aka really old.

-the boys take bets on his age and apparently think he's 60 (making 60 an essential option in the polls)

-idk if you caught in there- from 'Malon 2', Epona was specified to be an older adult horse in Lu, having lived with Time from a fairly young horsie in Majora's Mask. So for numbers, this factors into his age because the time since his journey is comparable to Epona's. For reference horses live to 30 years on average.

Aaand I will be copy and pasting the explanation on his poll posts, sorry, I don't want to write this out every time.

-this does not account for his 7 year sleep at the beginning of Ocarina of Time. His sleep did not have an effect on his current bodies physical age, nor his mental age. For his total time with years he has lived (outside of this poll), that would add seven years.

All the art and words are from Jojo @linkeduniverse au :D

And yes, the intervals for age options are indeed random, I got tired trying to figure out the number jumps ToT

<Time 1

Time 3>

masterpollst⛓️

.

...here's a doodle from when I was taking a break on trying to figure out numbers for this (child?adult??)'s age-

:D

[brokenstar-s]

Separation Au Kevin & Jack

Kevin’s hair will react to his emotional state and will spike up when his mad or stressed and will spike down when his scared. However this always can be used to mess with as Jack found out.

Transcript

J: Look! He has cat ears!

K: Hey!

Rarely will their be an argument between Jack and Kevin, but when their is only Matthew can break them up and settle the issue.

Transcript

K: get off!

J: But it’s mine!

K:No it’s not!

2

M: Enough!

[mochi-kitty]

Begging y’all to read solo comics. You could learn a lot about Bart simply by READING then you wouldn’t say things that are straight up wrong

[nookisms]

Oops. It's a second headcanon compilation!

Don't worry, the next one will be back to our normal schedule of regular text posts and not headcanons

Masterpost