Martha knows he has a wife. She knows that her presence here might even be interfering with history. But then he reaches out a hand and pulls her back down onto the bed, and she can’t protest.
She blooms – unfolds – like an exotic flower at his touch, and that’s what he calls her. An exotic flower. My Dark Lady. He tells her she is no rose, and doesn’t understand why she laughs so dryly at that, pushing him back against the wall and kissing him so fiercely that she can taste the metallic tang of blood from his lips against her own.
He writes sonnets on her skin with his tongue, and traces verses on her thigh with his fingertips.
Queen of Afric, now worshipped in a way the Doctor could never manage.
What had they told her about the Dark Lady when she was at school? She’d had little time – and even less patience – for English lessons. She only remembered the basics. His lover. Adored, exalted, worshiped. Stolen away by another man.
You look at him like you’re surprised he exists. He’s as much of a puzzle to you as he is to me.
She wishes she could explain it to him, but she can’t. He pins her to the mattress when she opens her mouth to try, and she is soon incapable of any real words.
He, on the other hand, is never silent. He is always telling her things. Describing her hair, her scent, her skin. Her touch. He drinks her in, and it’s a good job he reserves certain words and phrases just for her. Her old teacher would never have been able to cope with such language, even from Shakespeare himself.
He glorifies her darkness. Her otherness. She is his blackamoor lady, after all.
Which is odd, considering the terrible glances she attracts on the streets.
She is not a rose. She doesn’t have coral red lips or damasked cheeks.
(He tells her that too, and it takes Martha a while to identify the sonnet. When she does, she laughs delightedly, and kisses him with such tenderness that he finally falls silent. For a little while. When he regains his sense of speech he is more enthusiastic than ever.)
She is not Rose, either. She isn’t the companion the Doctor still longs for. She never will be.
The Doctor may never kiss you. Why not entertain a man who will?
Except he had kissed her, hadn’t he? The Doctor. Once. In another time and another place. A whole world away.
She was going to have to leave with him eventually.
Stolen away by another man.
She wishes she could explain.
She wishes a lot of things.
Next: Tenth Doctor/Arthur Dent, Corporal Bell/Liz Shaw, Jo Grant/Mike Yates, Liz Shaw/Sarah Jane Smith/Jo Grant
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timeasmymeasure
Martha/Shakespeare
Date: 2008-06-17 08:07 pm (UTC)She blooms – unfolds – like an exotic flower at his touch, and that’s what he calls her. An exotic flower. My Dark Lady. He tells her she is no rose, and doesn’t understand why she laughs so dryly at that, pushing him back against the wall and kissing him so fiercely that she can taste the metallic tang of blood from his lips against her own.
He writes sonnets on her skin with his tongue, and traces verses on her thigh with his fingertips.
Queen of Afric, now worshipped in a way the Doctor could never manage.
What had they told her about the Dark Lady when she was at school? She’d had little time – and even less patience – for English lessons. She only remembered the basics. His lover. Adored, exalted, worshiped. Stolen away by another man.
You look at him like you’re surprised he exists. He’s as much of a puzzle to you as he is to me.
She wishes she could explain it to him, but she can’t. He pins her to the mattress when she opens her mouth to try, and she is soon incapable of any real words.
He, on the other hand, is never silent. He is always telling her things. Describing her hair, her scent, her skin. Her touch. He drinks her in, and it’s a good job he reserves certain words and phrases just for her. Her old teacher would never have been able to cope with such language, even from Shakespeare himself.
He glorifies her darkness. Her otherness. She is his blackamoor lady, after all.
Which is odd, considering the terrible glances she attracts on the streets.
She is not a rose. She doesn’t have coral red lips or damasked cheeks.
(He tells her that too, and it takes Martha a while to identify the sonnet. When she does, she laughs delightedly, and kisses him with such tenderness that he finally falls silent. For a little while. When he regains his sense of speech he is more enthusiastic than ever.)
She is not Rose, either. She isn’t the companion the Doctor still longs for. She never will be.
The Doctor may never kiss you. Why not entertain a man who will?
Except he had kissed her, hadn’t he? The Doctor. Once. In another time and another place. A whole world away.
She was going to have to leave with him eventually.
Stolen away by another man.
She wishes she could explain.
She wishes a lot of things.
Next: Tenth Doctor/Arthur Dent, Corporal Bell/Liz Shaw, Jo Grant/Mike Yates, Liz Shaw/Sarah Jane Smith/Jo Grant