This is a shameless excuse for porn. That's it. I recently saw The Shakespeare Code and realized that there are not enough fanfictions of the Bard himself and the Doctor getting down and dirty. So this happened. Enjoy!
The midnight winds howl as they twine and twist around the medieval buildings of London, the normally bustling city as still as stone as its residents hide away in their barely-warmed homes, huddling together under the covers with the hopes to survive the bitter night. Work has been stalled, responsibilities forgotten, all in favor of hot tea and warmed beds. All except for one.
William Shakespeare is not affected by the cold, far too used to the chill from many winters before. He grew up with this weather, played with it, learned with it, and by God he's going to stay with it. And so, with windows open and curtains billowing behind him in a dramatic effect that will not become popular for centuries, he sits in his familiar wooden chair at his familiar wooden desk and writes. He writes even as his wrist aches and even as black ink stains his fingers, his quill scratching loudly in the otherwise silent room.
"From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His"
His what? William sighs and tosses his quill onto the table as angrily as possible at half midnight, rubbing a weary hand over his face. He's been stuck on that same bloody line for ages, never able to find the right words, the right sounds to complete his thoughts. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to register the strange wheezing sound outside of his door, and even longer to realize that it's not his imagination. He jolts out of his chair, nearly knocking it over in his haste to get to the old wooden door that acts as a damnable barrier between him and the strange new noise.
As he pulls it open, wracking his mind for an animal that makes such a sound, he stops short. Before him sits not an animal, not a beast, and not a ghost, but….a box. A big, wooden, blue box with strange lettering on the door and along the top. A candle seems to shine from the box's tip, and yet from his position he can see neither flame nor wick, just a brilliant white light. Before, however, he can finish observing the box, the door swings open and a man whom he remembers and knows very well steps out. He catches just a glimpse of a low lighting in a room much too big for its walls before the door swings shut, and the Doctor's all toothy grins and bright smiles as he meets Shakespeare's eyes.
"William!" he exclaims, pulling the poet into a hug that feels a lot nicer than it ought to. But William brushes it off and hugs his old friend back with the same enthusiasm, laughing with glee as the pieces click into place. He'd figured out long ago that his dotty Doctor is not from this world and not even from this time, although he's always wondered how he did it. He'll rest well knowing the answer.
"Doctor, my old friend! What are you doing here, if I may be so bold?" He pulls back from the hug and grins up at the alien. "And where's the lovely Martha?" The Doctor's face seems to fall slightly at her name before he hides it with a wider grin, walking into William's room at his nod.
"She's…indisposed at the moment. Visiting family," he shrugs, tugging at his earlobe before turning to William, eyebrows raised. "Was a bit bored, now that I'm travelling alone and I thought I'd give my good friend Shakespeare a visit!"
"Well your thoughts are certainly appreciated!" William laughs, plopping down onto his bed and patting the space next to him, smile widening when the Doctor sits down and kicks off his shoes with a lazy sigh. "You are a strange one, Doctor."
"Alien, almost." The two laugh at the joke, all light-hearted and free from heartache and drum-beats. The Doctor's grateful for it, had been hoping for this very thing. He may be stronger than most, but even he needs a break sometimes. He shifts his body to better face Shakespeare, head tilted to the side. "What have you been up to, then? Being as brilliant as always?"
"Oh come now, Doctor. I am no more brilliant than any other; the only difference is that I speak through the written word rather than the spoken." The Doctor only rolls his eyes playfully at his modesty, and William quirks an eyebrow before continuing. "As it happens, I am working on something new. A sonnet. I'm stuck, however, and I do not feel as though I'll become un-stuck anytime soon."
"Well, let's hear what you've got. Maybe I can be of some assistance," he smiles, raking absent fingers through his hair. William nods and takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes to remember the words he'd written just minutes before his friend's arrival. After a few moments, his voice calls out into the cool room, voice velvety and low as his tongue seems to trace over each word before releasing it into the air.
"From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, his—," William cuts himself off and sighs, opening his eyes and shaking his head. "It is from that point on that I am stuck, I'm afraid. Never the matter, what did you think of it?" He looks up at the Doctor and freezes at the sight he's met with.
With hooded eyes and flushed cheeks, the Doctor meets his gaze with his own hungry one, hands bunching the thin comforter he sits on between tight fists. His breathing is labored, lips parted as a hint of pink tongue appears to swipe wetness over the two bits of plump flesh. "I-it," he pauses and clears his throat, shaking his head as if to wake himself from a reverie. "I…liked it."
"Doctor," William starts, raising a slow eyebrow. "Is something the matter?" The man in question denies this vehemently with widened eyes and quick shakes of his head. Just as before with the magical blue box, the pieces click into place and William smirks, scooting just a bit closer to the Doctor to whisper into his ear. "Do my sonnets arouse you? Do you like the way I speak my written language?" A full body shudder wracks the Doctor's body, squeezing his eyes shut tightly lest he lose the one thread of control he has left. He does not bother speaking nor moving, for he knows the answer is plain to see both on his face and in his trousers.
It is the latter the poet takes advantage of, resting a warm, firm hand over the Doctor's growing erection, smirking at the small whine the action causes. The words come to him, then, as if they were there all along. His lips trace along the contours of his lover's ear as he purrs them out. "His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st th—mmf." The sonnet is pleasantly cut short by the Doctor letting out a feral growl and pressing hungry lips to William's, pushing him onto his back and pinning him there as he grinds their hips together mindlessly, his thoughts ablaze with fiery lust and passion.
Shakespeare's hips buck up at the attention, his arms coming up to loop around the Doctor's neck as his fingers twine into that ridiculous, magnificent hair, tugging at the strands and relishing in the alien's answering moan into his mouth. He takes advantage of the action to press his tongue to the other's, teeth clashing in a way that just makes the kiss that much better.
All too soon, it's over. The Doctor pulls back suddenly as the two gasp in lungfuls of air. He sits up and runs his fingers through his hair, trying desperately to calm himself down and cross his legs to hide his erection. William, for his part, is quite disappointed, sitting up slowly and raising both eyebrows in the Doctor's direction. "Why did you stop? I was enjoying myself."
"William, we can't…that ca-..do you have any idea how dangerous sleeping with you would be? I could tear a hole in the fabric of reality! I could set off the balance of the universe, accidentally change a fixed point," he rambles on, gesturing wildly with his hands as if that will make the gibberish he's spewing make sense. William simply shakes his head and pushes the Doctor back until his head rests against the pillows. The poet crawls over him and wrestles the Doctor out of his coat, quickly setting his nimble fingers to undoing the buttons of his suit. "You…really don't understand what I'm saying at all, do you?"
"Not a word."
"Right," he sighs, leaning his head back. William swiftly leans down and nips at the offered flesh, causing the Doctor to gasp and arch up just slightly, hands coming to grip his waist. "This is really not a good idea," he groans as he helps William get him out of his suit and shirt, soon naked from the waist up in the legend's bed.
"You're complaining an awful lot, and yet you've yet to tell me to stop," William smirks, licking a slow line from his neck to his jaw and up to the sensitive spot under his ear, worrying the tender flesh between his teeth. The Doctor's breath hitches and his hips make small little cants up into Shakespeare's, gripping his waist tightly.
"I-I…you…bloody hell," he grunts, shaking his head and bringing up shaking hands to pull at William's tunic. "How bad could it be, yeah?"
William grins wolfishly and pulls back, pulling off the offending fabric and shivering slightly at the cool air to his torso. "Wonderful." And with that, he swoops down and kisses his Doctor just as hungrily as was given to him before.
The next minutes are filled with pants and moans, clashing mouths and roaming hands as clothing is shed and strewn carelessly about the room. It isn't long before William has the Doctor pinned down on his stomach, his forearm pressing across his back to pin the alien's upper body to the mattress. His cock throbs with need as his free hand's fingers twist inside of his lover's body, lubed with the strange substance known as "olive oil" in the future. The Doctor's moaning into the pillows, pressing back against his hand and rocking his hips, pleas for more muffled by the feathers.
Although nothing would please the poet more than to pleasure himself inside of the Doctor's body as soon as possible, the power of being able to tease this ancient, brilliant being is just too delicious to pass up. He leans down until his lips brush the Doctor's ear, whispering hotly against it. "Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies." The Doctor lets out a loud, needy moan at that as he fucks himself back against William's fingers, tossing his head back as far as he can from his pinned position. One by one, he pulls out his fingers, soon enough pressing the blunt head of his cock against the alien's stretched hole.
"Please, Will," the Doctor gasps, trying in vain to buck his hips back enough to get the man's cock inside of him. Never one to say no to a beggar, William allows a slow grin to spread over his face as he thrusts into him, both of them moaning out at the feeling. The heat and tightness of the Doctor's body is indescribable, easily the best sensation he's ever been blessed to feel. He slowly rocks his hips, the arm that isn't working as a restraint gripping the Doctor's thigh as he hisses with pleasure.
"Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel: Thou that art now the world's fresh orn…oh god, yes." Sonnet forgotten, the sweet sensation around his cock demands that he speeds up. He does, grinding the Doctor's knees and upper body into the bed with every thrust. The Doctor moans and grunts repeatedly, sweat causing his hair to stick to his flushed skin as he rocks his hips in time with William's. The spoken words only heighten his pleasure, almost as though he can feel them caress his skin just as their maker does.
The two men rock together in a timeless, blissful heaven, calling out to deities either long dead or not yet born. William's nails dig into the tender flesh of the Doctor's thigh as he feels the beginnings of climax heat his belly. He pries his hand away to grip at his lover's cock, stroking it roughly and giving a breathless smile at the answering cry he receives. They're both close, so painstakingly close, their movements losing rhythm and becoming frantic and desperate. The words of his sonnet are forgotten, or at the very least hidden in the very back of Shakespeare's mind.
The Doctor's moans have become near-constant cries and babbles of pleasure, clawing at the sheets beneath him as he writhes around as much as he's allowed. William leans down once more to the Doctor's ear, whispering words in a harsh, breathless voice. They are not part of a sonnet. No, instead they are raw with the passion the two have built together, sincere in the filthiest of ways. "Thy moans are akin to that of the cheapest whore." A simple sentence without any hidden meanings, no depth, nothing for scholars to discuss centuries later, and yet it is that simplicity said in that complex voice and language that is the Doctor's undoing.
With a wildly bucking body and a scream so loud it cracks at the end, the Doctor spills his release out onto William Shakespeare's sheets, and the very same man follows right after with a harsh yell.
The Doctor vaguely remembers Shakespeare kissing and stroking his skin, washing him clean with a rag and water before holding him close. He remembers falling asleep in the poet's arms, snuggled close and happy, the room still thick and heady with the scent of sex. In the morning, he kisses the human's cheeks, watching as the genius sleeps peacefully even when bathed in the early light. He smiles sadly and untangles himself from his arms, dressing silently. Before he leaves, however, he sets something down onto William's bedside table. A promise. A reminder. A token of affection. More specifically, the spare key to the TARDIS. It is with that and that only that he takes his leave, stepping into his TARDIS and leaving in silence.
When he's back in the time he's used to, he goes to the local library and checks out a book of sonnets. Settling into one of the leather chairs, he smiles as he reads.
"From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee."