doctore who au

The Godly Family if they were humans
  • Chuck: The loving but sucky dad.
  • Micheal: Thinks he's the favorite. Gets really good grades. Tells his brothers what to do. Harvard.
  • Raphael: A year younger than Micheal. Basically a copy that isn't as good.
  • Lucifer: Was the favorite when he was a kid but he grew up to be a bratty teenager. Always gets in trouble.
  • Urial: The only wise one in the family. Actually doesn't care about anything. Choir.
  • Gabriel: Pretty popular. Funny. Wants to be a comedian. The one in the family who doesn't fit in. But still liked.
  • Hannah: The middle child that literally no one cares about.
  • Castiel: Wasn't the favorite as a kid but now has taken on that role. The baby of the family. Super gay.
  • Dean: The son-in-law. Castiel' boyfriend/husband.

Doctor Who AU // OT3 : Doctor!Newt / compagnions!Credence/Percival


Newt, aka The Doctor, found this two boys lost in their lives, he decided to show them the Universe. They will fight together, and fall in love together.


(My two favorite things since some months…I needed to mix this two fandoms! :D (sorry if I made some mistakes in english x) )

Sherlock AU

Supernatural AU

Reblog if you’ve ever read fan-fiction that actually set the bar higher.
2

Requested Anonymously

(This fic feels unfinished to me, but it’s the best I can do.)

Soulmate AU: Soulmates share their feelings… and, also, a journal.


The Doctor was disappointed, but not especially surprised, when no words appeared on the pages of his journal. It was only too common for Gallifreyan soulmates to be so far apart in age that one would be of age to own a journal while another would not. But what was surprising, and not to mention worrying, was that the Doctor couldn’t feel anything. He was well pushing four hundred years old, and if he couldn’t feel his soulmate at all, that simply meant that she hadn’t been born yet. At his age… well, it wasn’t unacceptable, but it was a little strange. The Doctor certainly didn’t like it. He had seen pairings with too much time between them, and the mismatch of experience always seemed to manifest itself unpleasantly. The younger mate was often either cowed and obedient or rebellious and aggressive. The elder was usually to fault for this, often attempting to control and be superior over their younger soulmate, being less like a mate and more like a parent, which caused all sorts of issues.

So, finally deciding that he refused, absolutely refused, to be like other Gallifreyans, the Doctor began applying himself to his journal. There would always be room left for you to reply when you were ready, but until that time came, the pages were his alone, and he filled them with stories of his adventures and his hopes for the future.

His hopes for you.


Who started the whole journal business, no one knew. How did people go about it, before paper was cheap? Was it magic? Was it a higher power, that somehow always provided a way for soulmates to communicate over such great distances even before paper was invented? It was a debate that wasn’t to be brought to a close, not until the end of time itself, but until then, people all over the universe and through all time accepted the use of journals. Well, nearly. There were Hitler’s journal burnings, an attempt to lessen the chances of soulmates finding each other so that it would be easier to promote selective breeding. The Ood, in their slavery, were forced to give up their journals, and the ones bred and born in captivity never had any journals at all. There was a cycle on Gallifrey on the matter, sometimes outlawing and sometimes promoting the use of journals, depending on the current political situation (it would flip-flop every few hundred years).

But with or without journals, soulmates could always feel each other, and they always, always, made themselves heard.


The Doctor woke up one night with a feeling of such incredible warmth and contentment that he almost drifted back to sleep. But he was shocked awake when he realized that those feelings were not his own.


“Ah!”

“What? What is it?”

“She kicked me! Hard!”

“Isn’t it a bit early to be kicking?”

“Well, not according to her. Ow.”

“Hey, now, listen here, young lady, stop kicking your mother’s insides. She needs ‘em.”


The Doctor laughed hysterically in his bed when he felt the instant startled feedback. His own surprise at feeling his soulmate had scared his soulmate. Oh, you were… your feelings were so simple and yet so full and all-encompassing. You had to be just a wee, bitty-little thing. Still in the womb.

Relief flooded the Doctor, and subsequently you, easing your simple, pure distress.

“I’ll have to be careful of that,” the Doctor whispered into the darkness of his room. And he would be careful, too. You were still… so very small.


It was a requirement in many cultures, including yours, that one had to reach a certain level of emotional maturity before they were allowed to have their journals. You, thanks to your soulmates influence, matured very, very quickly, surpassing your peers all throughout school. Your body grew no faster than it should have, but your heart and mind did. It’s not to be said, though, that emotional maturity suggests and stiffness of character. No, you didn’t become still at all. Your soulmate had sparked within you a sense of wonder and fun that had made itself very much a part of you.

It was that part of you that had you sending your soulmate teasing feelings of promise as you practiced your handwriting. He couldn’t know, of course, that you would be receiving your journal soon, much sooner that most others your age, but you liked to tease him and let him know that something good was happening. He needed some good feeling, you thought, and that was a sentiment you felt quite often, mostly because… well, because he was, more often than was normal, so incredibly sad.

You wondered if it was because he was missing you, but you didn’t like to flatter yourself that way, especially if you were wrong. You missed him too, and quite often, but being able to feel him kept that ache of pain at bay. For him, on the other hand, it seemed that there was a nearly-constant undercurrent of sadness. The emotional maturity that he had provided you with kept you safe from falling into depression, but you were still completely aware of the pain he felt. There were times when it was nearly overwhelming, to the point that you had a hard time functioning. But despite how bad it felt to you, you were sure that it felt much worse for him, and that he was somehow protecting you from the brunt of it.

When they finally gave you your journal, you could smell a faint whiff of ink from it before you even opened it. He had already written to you.

When you had finally found some time to be alone, you opened the journal and discovered that he had written you enough to fill books. Books and books. On the outside, the journal was thin, easy to slip into a bag and carry. On the inside, it was thick and overflowing with pages, which were themselves overflowing with stories.

Bigger on the inside, you would later call it.

You made yourself comfortable when you were sure that you would have privacy, and you began to read of the lives of the man who called himself the Doctor.


The Time War was a real pain in the arse.

The Doctor had, for the most part, broken himself of the habit of checking his journal every day for an entry. For the duration of the Time War, that is. Now the war was over and everyone was gone and he still only checked his journal once every three days or so now. It wasn’t that he wasn’t eager for you to write to him, of course, but only disappointing himself once every three days hurt less than a disappointment multiple times a day.

He hadn’t stopped writing, though, and when he started catching your smug snaps of mischievousness curling along the bond, he decided it was well time to catch up on his writing.

The Doctor plopped himself down on the floor of the console room, tucked comfortably against the TARDIS console (someplace that, while it might not appear comfortable, was familiar and comforting to him). Pen in hand, he rifled through the pages, looking for where he had left off. When he found it, it was not as he had left it.

Hello, Doctor.

No, that… that wasn’t his handwriting, not one bit. And it was written in red ink, but he always wrote in blue, and why would he write…?

But he hadn’t.

The Doctor took a strained gasp of air, feeling his chest constrict. Oh. Oh, it was… it was you. You had finally written to him, after hundreds of years.

His hands shook when he put pen to paper.

I’ve been waiting for a very long time to hear from you.

It took less than a minute for a reply to scrawl itself out:

Will you come find me?

The Doctor laughed in a broken frenzy, clutching his pen until he heard it crack. He couldn’t believe the question. After everything that had happened, after centuries of waiting for you, after fighting tooth and claw through the Time War with no hope other than that he might get to meet you when it was over, how could you think, for even a millisecond, that he wouldn’t come for you?

Just tell me where and when, love.

10

“Never cruel or cowardly. Never give up. Never give in.”

In the 61st century, the Shadow Proclamation recruits a group of women from different periods to form an elite squad: the Department of Objective and Covert Temporal Oversight through Respondent and Warranted Humanitary Operations, also known as D.O.C.T.O.R.W.H.O.

6

another fem!doctor au: “The first nineteen years of my life, nothing happened. Nothing at all, not ever. And then I met a woman called the Doctor. And she took me away from home in her magical machine. She showed me the whole of time and space. I thought it would never end. … Well, that’s what I thought.” {insp}