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a-wartime-paradox · 2 years

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The Doctor's timeline (Echoes of the Homeworld, part 4)

Through analysis of the TARDIS wiki and of other whoblrs and FP-blrs, I've come to my own conclusion about the (Hyper)Timeline of the Doctor.

42nd Century

An individual, presumably human, existed in the 42nd century, which was a prime attack range of the Enemy. This individual's timeline was so badly altered that they were flew back into the Pre-War Era and....

Pre-War Era

...produced the Four Mutants of the Homeworld. These were Morbius (the Imperator), Grandfather Paradox (who wasn't), Koschie, and Theta Sigma. Theta Sigma was the "reincarnation" of the 42nd century individual, and the other three were reactions to the mutation.

(The Imperator lead an oppressive and interventionist presidency against the rest of the Spiral Politic, until his downfall. This did lead to the first developments in Great Houses culture since the anchoring of the thread (it's arguable this may have caused the War, as the Great Houses rapid move from stasis could have shocked the metastructure of history, and caused it to develop the Enemy). Grandfather Paradox created House Paradox, then left and created Faction Paradox.)

Koschei and Theta Sigma grew up together in the Academy. Both left and renegades, taking the titles "the Master" and "the Doctor" respectively, to match their view on their role in the universe as a whole.

The Doctor, over time, went through seven regenerations and continued to interact with the Master.

The Infinity Doctors (and a bit before)

At the point at which "our" Seventh Doctor leaves Bernice Summerfield to get ready for the TV Movie, this "original" version does not. Well, he may have left her specifically, but he continues traveling the universe in his timeship, until he eventually takes a fatal blow and regenerates. This causes him to reflect on his life and return to Gallifrey, his Homeworld. The Doctor then discovers that the Master - now in a new incarnation to the last time he saw him - was calling himself the Magistrate. They hung out and were mates, teaching at the Academy.

Then the War stuck. Or, rather, the dooming idea that it would, at some point in the near future, struck. The Magistrate rises to power and eventually becomes the War King (after the "head of the Presidency" incident). The Doctor is complacent and just exists here.

Eight copies of the Homeworld are made. Whether this means simply the planet itself (Gallifrey), or the whole casual centricity (anchored by the caldera) is unclear. I like to think the copies include echoes of the Caldera, and hence also echoes of many of the members of the Great Houses. Hence I headcanon this process of "galliogenesis" (or, less silly-ly, "crypto-forming of the Homeworld") as retro-generative, meaning that each new Homeworld believed itself to - and in a way did - have a history spanning back to the anchoring of the thread.

The "half-human" Doctor

One of these copies is ruled by Romana (in her third incarnation), a past associate of the Doctor. In fact, this Homeworld contained a version of the Doctor, and may not have contained looms. If it did, Pythia's Curse had been lifted, if only for Great Houses/lesser species hybrids. This is because the Doctor on this Gallifrey was the child of Ulysses, a member of the Great Houses; and Penelope Gate, a human inventor. This Doctor's timeline was, intriguingly, identical to the prime Homeworld's Doctor's timeline until late into his seventh incarnation, implying either a biodata connection or lazy history-writing by the War King's Homeworld. Either way, this Doctor (who shall be referred to as the "half-human Doctor") diverged from the "prime" or "Infinity" Doctor late into his seventh incarnation, where he regenerated on Earth into an incarnation matching that of the contemporary Infinity Doctor's. This "half-human" Doctor continued travels, often crossing paths with the War, most notably on its first day in the Battle on Dronid when his counterpart from the prime Homeworld died. Due to the two doctor's appearing identical, and may people not knowing that galliogenesis/crypto-forming produced variants of the individuals, most participants in the affairs after the battle, including the "half-human" Doctor himself , believed this "Dronid" Doctor to be himself in the future.

"Scream of the Shalka" and "The Curse of Fatal Death"

These incarnations can be considered to be probable post-War alternatives, or as "paracarnations"/variants from different Homeworlds.

#faction paradox #doctor who #the doctor's life #the infinity doctors #the eighth doctor #the war king #the Magistrate #the doctor is half-human #war in heaven #the homeworld #nine homeworlds #Gallifrey

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prettyboykatsuki · 5 months

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✮ tags ; gn!reader, implied bottom reader, semi-erotic and bloody fingersucking, romance, struggling with intimacy on astarions part, not an established relationship fr, 18+

✮ wc ; 1.6k (literally what in the fucking world)

✮ a/n ; *smacks astarions back* you can fit so much projection onto this thing.

canon divergent i.e. this takes place during act two but reader doesn't sleep w astarion in act one. it's explained in da fic.

The taste of intimacy is acrid.

It's bitter and sharp to the senses. In many ways, he finds it unpleasant. Intolerable. He's lost in thought, primarily caught up in the sensation of your skin pressed against his.

Too much, he decides, this entire affair is proving to be too much.

"You know, there's no need for theatrics," He can almost hear the recoil in his own voice, like hiding away into the shadows when dawn approaches. It's instinctive. "All this...poetry is quite thoughtful but very unnecessary."

Yes. Unnecessary. Somehow it feels violent, though it's anything but. You pull away from him and he winces at your expression - genuine confusion draped across your face. Your skin is hotter than the sun, much warmer than his. You're attractive.

Astarion wonders if he can assess you as beautiful. If he's allowed to use something so flowery.

He can't stop thinking about it. He's played the part of a lover before, so kissing and touching in quiet whispers is not unfamiliar. If that's the sort of affair you wish to have, than Astarion can be apart of it no problem. Whatever makes your desire towards him tangible, whatever you want. The last part he doesn't say out loud, or to himself.

But it was real, just a moment ago, wasn't it? The feeling of your lips on his forehead and the crook of his shoulder was real. The words of affection were real. He was looking for fun, debauchery, pleasure.

This is not that, he decides. He decides, too, that he does not like it.

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh don't play dumb, darling," He says, his throat tightening. It's natural to him, in a way. "Though your heroic romantic gestures are quite something, they're very unnecessary. We both know what we're here for, do we not? A little roughing up is fine."

You pause, and you stare. Your eyes are clear, like the water of the open ocean surrounding the lower city. Even in the darkness, he can see you perfectly. You can see him too, but he can't see himself even in the reflection of your gaze. He wonders if that is some kind of mercy, but remembers quickly that no god has ever shown him such kindness.

And you wouldn't either, or you shouldn't. He convinces himself that its a courtesy, and that this conversation is an attempt at honest between you. He's expecting something different. Maybe a snarky laugh of approval, or a widening set of eyes. Lurid with excitement in all the ways you're okay to defile him.

Most people he's laid with have given him the same. They're pleased with his fluidity. He shows it off like he's water in a beautiful chalice, look at all the forms I can take and adore me.

And yet, you're all but silent. What a terrible conversation to have when he's almost inside of you, he thinks.

"If that is what you desire," You says, your words slow. You then, so softly, draw your thumb over his cheek bone. It takes strength not to recoil. He almost wants to mock you. Wants to bite at the gentle caress of your hand, wants to make you bleed. "But I would've hoped my gestures conveyed my feelings a little better than this."

Shit. Shit.

"Feelings? Have you really taken a page out of the wizards book and written me a poem?"

"It would be easy enough to do," You say, so easily and so naturally - he can't help but show that he is startled. Shaken by the sincerity of every word. Bitter. "If you desire such gestures."

A feeling coils in his chest. He cannot distinguish his urges from each other. Whether it is hunger or desire. Whether to push you away or cling to you closer. He cannot make sense of any of it, despite his efforts. He doesn't need any blood, he's sure - but his mind lacks clarity.

Is he afraid or angry? He does not remember how to tell the difference between those two emotions, either.

"We're here for sex, you know?" He says, proactively pushing into old habits. His eyes feel heavy in their sockets, like their weighed by his own need to be desired perfectly. He seduces you easily. Lowers his lids and parts his lips, snakes a hand against your waist and lets you fall forward until you collapse against his chest. "Hot, lecherous, burning pleasure. Such romantics are best saved for..."

You look at him, and you want him. But it is not the same. Even he is not so foolish as to deny something you make so obvious.

"For?"

The words someone you love do not leave his lips, though they threaten to. "Someone more suitable."

"There's no one so suitable as you," You say, and the words do not sound damning. They do not intend to please him. They're not coated in myth or covered in lies. They're like you, honest and rich. "And that pleasure can be found all the same with regards to what I do."

Astarion understands little of you. Never has, in full. He finds your character damning, finds your kindness often irritable. His plan to seduce you had worked, he thought. You had taken some kind of liking to him. Enough that you act against yourself, just to appease him at times. To clumsily win him over by being a little bad, or being silver-tongued.

But you hadn't laid a hand on him despite his efforts. Without taking anything, you shield him from harm. You kill the people who wish to kill him. He'd never stopped trying to seduce you, because it benefits him to play the part of prized possession to the strong.

He thought your acceptance of his request meant you had finally broken. That he could go through with it.

Yet, you touch him like this - as you have been all evening. You brought a bedroll to fuck him in the woods of all places. Your hands are soft, and warm. You're reverent. He's kissed plenty of people, and played lovers even more than that. It was his lifes work, after all.

But it is impossible to deny that you're different, despite his best efforts to believe you are not.

Astarion isn't familiar with your gestures. He cannot hold his ground against honesty when his existence is passing and pleasant - ephemeral as a white lie.

"Astarion," You say, clear. You enunciate his name. It is not intended to have any weight, yet it crushes him. His chest tightens. Aches. It is all so strangely miserable. He wants to interrupt you, but cannot fix his lips to do such a thing "I wish to make love to you. You're welcome to find it unnecessary."

A kiss. Your mouth is warm, and tastes faintly like the sweet wine you had before bed. Your hands cup around his nape, and your other hand keeps you upright. He won't fall for it but his body does not listen, makes him melt comfortably into the bedroll. You kiss and kiss and kiss, and it is well-practiced like you have loved many times before him.

You must know something better than him.

Still. There is not enough strength in his limbs to fight you. His eyes blink open when you've stopped. A scream almost rips from him, but he's frozen in place instead. He can fight now. He could fight this.

The nails he tries to scratch you with, dig deep onto your waist. He closes his eyes. A begging for you to stay.

"Darling, really," His voice cracks. A touch so gentle and unfamiliar may be the thing to flay him open - cut him into pieces and open him up the blackened night sky. His lips feel cracked, hands shaking. "Wholly unnecessary."

There is no way out from this. From his feelings for you. How terrible.

You examine him quietly, then smile like you know everything. He is so much older than you, yet you smile like you've lived one thousand more lives. Maybe you have.

"Astarion," You mumble, your hands finding his hands. You lock your fingers together, your touch making his nerves fire whenever you brush along them. Your free hand ghosts his lips. "Look at me,"

Then, very suddenly, you push your thumb against the point of his fang. It punctures you in no small wound, and you push until the blood spills. You wince, but it's barely there. You let the blood spill into his parted mouth, let the taste of it fetter onto his lips and tongue. It's almost saccharine. He leans up on instinct, latching himself to it. He drinks from your self-inflicted wound with his eyes lidded, with desperation so unsightly.

You don't slink back. You watch onto him fondly. Watch him eat recklessly. Watch him swallow around you.

You already know what he is, he realizes, too late. The weight of your deliberateness nearly buries him. Unpleasant eyes, that know everything about him without any modicum of effort.

The feeling of anxiety, of restlessness well up even deeper inside him. The bitter unforgiving irony of finding intimacy with you lingers still. There is no escaping the thought that it will be you who betrays him first, and not someone else.

But the taste of blood, your blood, washes it all out. The gentle touch of your skin unsettles him as much as it makes him needy. He wants to be adored, and be adored by you.

He wants you in a way that does not incite any instinct. He works against each one trying to look you in the eyes.

When he manages, you are there and you are kind. You want to make love to him. He wants, very desperately, to believe it is possible. That such a ridiculous thing exists outside of a performance.

His voice is soft as a whisper. "I guess it's not impossible to appease you,"

You kiss the corner of his mouth and grin. He doesn't flinch this time.

"I'm quite relieved."

#astarion x reader #bg3 x reader #astarion x tav #astarion smut #writing tag #astarion you are so similar to me!!!!! stop!!!!!!! identity theft is a crime mr magistrate!!!!!!!!!#also someone tell me if this is worth uploading on ao3 lol

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