writers_muses - Beautiful
ooc: er, this is kind of dark, and I’m not really sure where it came from, but it does a bit to explain both martha’s remark to lois in S6 about “attracting the dark, mysterious type” when she was young and also some things she’s alluded to in RP.
This year, she vowed things would be different. Everyone did. Tabula rasa, new beginnings, that annual attempt at change and inevitable subsequent failure humans are so fond of. This New Year’s Eve, her third year at college, Martha Clark promised she would have more fun. That fun, she decided, would begin at the largest, most prestigious year-end soirée in the city of Metropolis.
She boldly wore a white dress. The fabric reached just above the knee, loose and flowing from her waist, above which the material was fit precisely to form and cut lower than she was used to even then. With her vibrant red hair whisked up off her neck, she was the picture of elegance, very nearnly glowing as she mingled around the ballroom with a glass of champagne.
Martha had always been far too polite to be truly social. Her father had taught her to be prim and proper to a fault, which had never been very conducive to maintaining lively conversation. This was just one reason (of many) why she often turned to alcohol in these college years in order to have a good time. But she knew that for this occasion, that sort of rowdy good time was not appropriate, so she kept to her single glass of champagne and sipped it slowly.
When he found her, she was alone on the terrace, where the iridescent moonlight only added to the very distinct glow that surrounded her. She recognized him right away - his father was the esteemed owner of the Daily Planet at the time, and she had seen him around whenever she interned in the legal department. During their brief conversation, she had very little to add but he could see the piercing intelligence in her eyes, which only attracted him to her more. On her end, she was charmed by his English accent and the way his lips mechanically curved into a smile whenever she looked him directly in the eye.
After a few moments, he drew her into a corner and began to circle her the way a predator might do his prey. She did her very best to ignore him, taking a sip from her champagne, her eyes downcast staring into the glass until at last he took it from her, setting it on the floor without a word.
“You do know,” he uttered slowly, drawing out his words with flawless diction. “…what it is I’m thinking of, don’t you?”
Martha was trembling as his index finger traveled along her collarbone. “No. I couldn’t possibly.”
“You,” he said simply, moving behind her to running both his hands down her arms. “In that dress…” Two fingers followed her spine all the way down, giving her the chills. “And you, out of that dress.”
Soon he was standing before her once more with lecherous eyes, trailing his hand across the thin hem of her dress, over her cleavage. “Exquisite,” he observed softly. The hand lingered there for a few moments more as the other reached up to trace her small, perfectly formed mouth. “Ah, those trembling lips, that flawless skin…you are quite fit to be worshipped, my sweet, darling girl.”
At this, she instinctively shook her head to negate his words. “No…”
He quickly grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Yes,” he insisted with fervor. “Men should be falling to their knees before you, journeying from distant lands just to catch a glimpse of your shimmering hair, you goddess, you.”
All at once, Martha began to feel faint, weak in the knees even, for this had always been her Achilles’ heel. She was powerless against compliments, especially ones so grand and well-spoken. Her childhood had been so very full of criticism and empty silences that words, kind words, never failed to have an enormously intoxicating, and often dangerous, effect on her.
And so she let him kiss her. All the way back to his penthouse in his limosine she let him kiss her, touch her, anywhere he wanted. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered over and over, each time leaving her weaker and weaker, even as he got carried away and tore the front of her dress ever so slightly. “And what’s more, you transcend beauty, they’ve yet to introduce a word for what you are.”
In his penthouse, she was “disarmingly flawless” as he unzipped her dress from behind, “a precious gift from the gods” as he kissed his way down the skin the open zipper had exposed, and “lovelier than a Shakespeare sonnet” as he pushed the dress off her shoulders and watched it fall to the floor. Walking around to the front of her, he stared at her for a good thirty seconds without interruption, his smile growing wider by the second as she trembled in anticipation. This was not, of course, her first time in this position, but it was the first time she had been in it with someone she had only just met, someone she didn’t care for. She didn’t particuarly want to give herself to him, but in her mind, for such elaborate and grand praise, this was the only appropriate reward.
In the end, he had taken her from behind, pounding into her with a reckless abandon. She had never felt so abused in all her life, certainly the farthest thing from worshipped. She closed her eyes tightly, gritting her teeth, and could not help feeling betrayed by the words he had so sweetly spoken to her just moments earlier. Surely he could not properly worship her from back there, he couldn’t even see her. But she thought perhaps that was fortunate, as he could neither see the tears she shed.
When it was over, he had nothing to say to her. He merely got dressed, a satisfied smile plastered on his face. But the smile was for himself, he did not share it with her. It was some time before he was perfectly groomed again, and once he was, he pulled out his wallet and left $350 on the nightstand beside where she still lay naked and horrified in his bed. “For the dress I ripped. Consider yourself worshipped.”
As he headed toward the door only his way out, he turned to look at her, ignoring entirely her angry and confounded expression. “Make no mistake,” he told her without a hint of remose. “You’re still the most beautiful girl in Metropolis. Everybody knows that. But you’re just one girl. There are plenty of other girls to get through, and plenty of other boys who want to get through you.”
Martha did not know whether to be insulted or flattered, though she leant towards the former, but he was gone before she could decide.
Her first instinct was to burn the money, but she was practical enough to recognize that would do no one any good. The money went to the children’s hospital instead, and the girl, for the first time in three years, went home to her parents’ house and slept in her childhood bed. At midnight, she changed her resolution. It was no longer to have more fun, but to have less.
Martha Kent
Smallville
1,197
This year, she vowed things would be different. Everyone did. Tabula rasa, new beginnings, that annual attempt at change and inevitable subsequent failure humans are so fond of. This New Year’s Eve, her third year at college, Martha Clark promised she would have more fun. That fun, she decided, would begin at the largest, most prestigious year-end soirée in the city of Metropolis.
She boldly wore a white dress. The fabric reached just above the knee, loose and flowing from her waist, above which the material was fit precisely to form and cut lower than she was used to even then. With her vibrant red hair whisked up off her neck, she was the picture of elegance, very nearnly glowing as she mingled around the ballroom with a glass of champagne.
Martha had always been far too polite to be truly social. Her father had taught her to be prim and proper to a fault, which had never been very conducive to maintaining lively conversation. This was just one reason (of many) why she often turned to alcohol in these college years in order to have a good time. But she knew that for this occasion, that sort of rowdy good time was not appropriate, so she kept to her single glass of champagne and sipped it slowly.
When he found her, she was alone on the terrace, where the iridescent moonlight only added to the very distinct glow that surrounded her. She recognized him right away - his father was the esteemed owner of the Daily Planet at the time, and she had seen him around whenever she interned in the legal department. During their brief conversation, she had very little to add but he could see the piercing intelligence in her eyes, which only attracted him to her more. On her end, she was charmed by his English accent and the way his lips mechanically curved into a smile whenever she looked him directly in the eye.
After a few moments, he drew her into a corner and began to circle her the way a predator might do his prey. She did her very best to ignore him, taking a sip from her champagne, her eyes downcast staring into the glass until at last he took it from her, setting it on the floor without a word.
“You do know,” he uttered slowly, drawing out his words with flawless diction. “…what it is I’m thinking of, don’t you?”
Martha was trembling as his index finger traveled along her collarbone. “No. I couldn’t possibly.”
“You,” he said simply, moving behind her to running both his hands down her arms. “In that dress…” Two fingers followed her spine all the way down, giving her the chills. “And you, out of that dress.”
Soon he was standing before her once more with lecherous eyes, trailing his hand across the thin hem of her dress, over her cleavage. “Exquisite,” he observed softly. The hand lingered there for a few moments more as the other reached up to trace her small, perfectly formed mouth. “Ah, those trembling lips, that flawless skin…you are quite fit to be worshipped, my sweet, darling girl.”
At this, she instinctively shook her head to negate his words. “No…”
He quickly grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Yes,” he insisted with fervor. “Men should be falling to their knees before you, journeying from distant lands just to catch a glimpse of your shimmering hair, you goddess, you.”
All at once, Martha began to feel faint, weak in the knees even, for this had always been her Achilles’ heel. She was powerless against compliments, especially ones so grand and well-spoken. Her childhood had been so very full of criticism and empty silences that words, kind words, never failed to have an enormously intoxicating, and often dangerous, effect on her.
And so she let him kiss her. All the way back to his penthouse in his limosine she let him kiss her, touch her, anywhere he wanted. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered over and over, each time leaving her weaker and weaker, even as he got carried away and tore the front of her dress ever so slightly. “And what’s more, you transcend beauty, they’ve yet to introduce a word for what you are.”
In his penthouse, she was “disarmingly flawless” as he unzipped her dress from behind, “a precious gift from the gods” as he kissed his way down the skin the open zipper had exposed, and “lovelier than a Shakespeare sonnet” as he pushed the dress off her shoulders and watched it fall to the floor. Walking around to the front of her, he stared at her for a good thirty seconds without interruption, his smile growing wider by the second as she trembled in anticipation. This was not, of course, her first time in this position, but it was the first time she had been in it with someone she had only just met, someone she didn’t care for. She didn’t particuarly want to give herself to him, but in her mind, for such elaborate and grand praise, this was the only appropriate reward.
In the end, he had taken her from behind, pounding into her with a reckless abandon. She had never felt so abused in all her life, certainly the farthest thing from worshipped. She closed her eyes tightly, gritting her teeth, and could not help feeling betrayed by the words he had so sweetly spoken to her just moments earlier. Surely he could not properly worship her from back there, he couldn’t even see her. But she thought perhaps that was fortunate, as he could neither see the tears she shed.
When it was over, he had nothing to say to her. He merely got dressed, a satisfied smile plastered on his face. But the smile was for himself, he did not share it with her. It was some time before he was perfectly groomed again, and once he was, he pulled out his wallet and left $350 on the nightstand beside where she still lay naked and horrified in his bed. “For the dress I ripped. Consider yourself worshipped.”
As he headed toward the door only his way out, he turned to look at her, ignoring entirely her angry and confounded expression. “Make no mistake,” he told her without a hint of remose. “You’re still the most beautiful girl in Metropolis. Everybody knows that. But you’re just one girl. There are plenty of other girls to get through, and plenty of other boys who want to get through you.”
Martha did not know whether to be insulted or flattered, though she leant towards the former, but he was gone before she could decide.
Her first instinct was to burn the money, but she was practical enough to recognize that would do no one any good. The money went to the children’s hospital instead, and the girl, for the first time in three years, went home to her parents’ house and slept in her childhood bed. At midnight, she changed her resolution. It was no longer to have more fun, but to have less.
Martha Kent
Smallville
1,197