Out of doctors 9, 10, and 11, Clara Oswald will be the first companion with brown hair… weirdddddddy
Martha has brown hair, dearest…. She’s brunette.
Wait…did OP tag this with Martha Jones and then go on to ignore the fact that she is a brunette?
A whole lot of folks think that only white folks can be naturally blonde, brunette or red head….
Imagine this. Your family is falling apart at the seems, you’re in a job you feel isn’t maximising your talents to the best of your capabilities. Plus, you’re psychologically recovering from your hospital being dragged to the moon. And then, out of the sky pops the very same guy who kissed you on the moon (well it wasn’t a kiss but damn did it feel good) and helped save your life. You now have been faced with three options and only three.
1. Run away screaming.
2. Run away screaming and crying.
3. Stop being such a coward and takes the guys hand because fuck, if his lips are that soft, his hands are probably even softer.
Anyways. You’re in the motherfucking TARDIS. And yeah, its bigger on the inside, and feels a little empty, but its okay, because his name is the Doctor and he’s just promised you all of time and space. And shit, if that kiss didn’t make your heart flutter his little cheeky grin just did.
Fuckshitwallop. You’re falling for the guy like a fucking (wait, what’s the saying), and every time you close your eyes you can feel his lips on yours again and shitshitshit, this can’t be happening, because all he does is run and most of it’s running away from enemies, but sometimes he runs away from you and someone else. He’s running from someone and you can’t figure out who the fuck would ever be stupid enough to run away from him.
And you swear to yourself that you’ll only have one more trip before you go home (because the ache in your chest is ridiculous) but then he calls you brilliant, and says allons-y and you can’t even remember why you would want to leave in the first place because you’re just so happy.
Then you find out her name. Rose Tyler. And it’s such a pretty name and all you can do is sit and mope and pretend to laugh and smile at his bad jokes and his odd behavior. But damn it hurts like a motherfuckingbitch to think that all this time you’ve been competing with a girl who doesn’t even live in the same reality as you. And you want to leave. Holy shit do you want to leave. But you can’t. Because you know that he can’t fucking do it. He can’t do it without you. And if it means you have to sacrifice everything (mind, body and idiotic stupid loved up soul) then fine. You’ll do it. Whatever money can and can’t buy to keep that smile on his face.
So you forget the slurs they throw at you and the way he looks at that stupid doctor (because you’re a doctor too so why can’t he look at you that way?) and you let it slide when he accidentally compares you to Rose and hey, you’re even prepared to die an honourable death in that space pod because anythings better than leaving him alone (at least if you die he wont feel like crap because you walked out on him, he’d feel a little guilty for a bit until he found someone named Daisy Jyler who had blonde hair and blue eyes and be happy again). And you try not to cuddle up with him in Shakespeare’s time because you know he’d probably hold you close for a millisecond before pulling(pushing) away, realising you don’t spell of roses and you skin just isn’t that shade of smooth for him. And you do all these little things and every time you look at him your heart hurts just that little bit more and all of time and space just isn’t enough to save a dying heart.
And then it’s D-Day and you’ve been dumped onto a planet that used to be your home and there’s so much death. So much death. The air is thick with it, it clogs your throat, and eyes and heart and although its horrible, you hate yourself for worrying more about the old man with an odd name up on the Valiant than you do about anyone else. And you got cut up and probed and stabbed and you don’t know how you’re still alive because fuck how much blood did you lose that one time in Spain? And then it’s over. And everyone is saying the one word you can’t get out of your mind. The one word that causes you to sing for joy and sob with uncontrollable despair. Doctor.
Because he’s harsh and he won’t ever kiss you again. Because he’s brilliant and cruel and the last of his kind. Because he’s him and you know that no matter what happens, you’re always going to love him. And you hate moping and sounding like a teenage love struck indie-pop auto-tuned piece of crap music video. But you can’t help it. Because you love him, and no amount of Tom’s or Mickey’s or Jackson’s (that last one was Tish’s idea and you learned never to trust a Jackson again) are ever going to be enough to forget the fires he used to start in your heart.
And by the time you realise this, it’s too late. He’s better now. His wounds aren’t fully healed but he’s a hell of a lot better. And he calls you brilliant and marvelous but somehow it’s just too late. And you know it’s going to hurt him but if you stay, even for one more second, he’ll ruin you. You’ll be so ruined it’ll be like Miss Havisham never fucking happened. He’ll destroy you. What’s left of you anyway.
So you leave. And even as your feet step out of the TARDIS your heart begs you to go back. Begs you to stop being a fool and go back to the man you love because it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t love you back. Because each moment spent in his presence, every time his eyes light up, you’re you. You’re happy. And you know leaving will destroy the rest of you quickly, but isn’t it a better death than being chipped away slowly? Isn’t a gun shot to the head better than begin burned at the stake?
You’re not sure, all you know is that as the whoosh of the TARDIS sounds in the distance, you feel the rest of your heart just disintegrate. And it hurts, even more than it hurt to hear him say her name. It hurts so much you wonder if you’re even breathing anymore.
But you’re free. You’re Martha Jones and you’re free. You saved the universe on countless occasions. Brilliant, brilliant Martha Jones. And you’re free.
-Now bearing that in mind, how the fuck can you even begin to tell me that Martha Jones isn’t fucking amazing?
There are literally no words for how amazing and perfect this is. Every God damn petty Martha hater should be forced to read this over and over and over and over again until they get it into their skulls. I got chills, and my eyes welled.
This is literally one of the best things I’ve ever read.