Doctor Who X Reader One Shots And Stories

To Be Human (Part 1)

A/N: Hellur my dear Whovians! I have returned with what is the first of what I hope to be a two or three part fic. (The only reason I did this was because it would be heckin' long without the split parts and I was anxious to post something.) 

ANYWAYS. It's a bit important that you know that this is unlike any of my other fics before. It is a very poetic story with an overuse of parentheses and italics, but it's purpose is to make the reader feel and question things, more than just to dump a story into their lap. (it's a new thing. Eat up children :D) Also, this is an Angel!reader x 11th Doctor thingy, so yeah. Hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it! 

P.S. the doctor isn't in this part, but certainly will be in the next one. I just needed to lay out the groundwork to set everything else up.

Warnings: Blood, implied torture, mention of religious history

11th Doctor

What does it mean to be human? For humanity itself to claim you as its own? Not the race, no, but the title. Smooth skinned and hairless, two eyes through which they see the world, human beings. (how you envy them).

Is it perspective? To see things from a vantage point that others cannot? The very human-like vision of it all. Intelligent, unable to view past their own earth just yet. Waiting, waiting, until that day it all is revealed. (let the veil be lifted, for them to see, to understand how small they really are). Tiny, miniscule, but not invisible. Never invisible. Never unseen. Not humanity. Not ever. (A people so small yet with a voice so large, echoing on and on and on, never stopping, never dying).

Is it emotion? Raw ugliness and beauty in their truest forms? Never lying, emotion. Truthfulness so exposed for everyone to see. Some hate it because of that. (you don't blame them). This, such an incredibly telling attribute of human beings themselves, surely it could be this? Possibly, though that would make anything with any scrap of emotion human. Even those who glorify hatred in its purest state, human. (no, it could not be this).

Is it love, that is what makes one human? Love, an emotion but also an act. Living in gifts and motions and thoughts. Love, so needed yet so misunderstood? Not always wanted, but desperately needed, regardless of whom it touches. Do not toss away those who yearn for affection. Can you blame a starving man for reaching for the table? (Let it go, do not hold it back. Do not hurt yourself).

It is a question, many times asked though scarcely answered in the entirety of its truthfulness. How would one know? Humanity must be experienced. To be cherished. Then, do the questions come. The never ending inquiries about the impossible- or rather, the unknown. Will we ever find our answer? Our solution? (you hope so). Perchance you will. Maybe you will not. Time is a fickle thing. And yet the mind ever wonders what is to come next.

Do you wish to know? To leap into the unknown, regardless of the ever present doubt that you might not find the answer you are looking for? If so, you are a brave soul. Admirable. Let us jump together. Allow our feet to leave the ground of surety and to fall into the abyss of what is a thought. Are you ready? If so, keep reading.

~~~~~~

Metal burnes. The cold icefire cut of it against sensitive skin sends nerves bouncing to and from the brain, each tingling with a frigid discomfort. Its often gleaming surface glowers with a wicked malice; a warning sign to all who draw near. Intimidation is purpose. It will trap you; ensnare you against your will. Iron and tin and steel and nickel melded together to create the binding shackles and the equally unforgiving observation table. Once sterile, now coated in the blood of an angel.