Viola Porn Wednesday, Mar 17 2010 

The BBC made porn for me. They made it specifically for me. They gave my libido a checklist and then they wrote an episode of Doctor Who specially to please me.
Doctor Who: End of Time is so. damned. hot.

Honestly, every shot of the Doctor in the entire hour-long joyousness was made with me in mind. First off, he’s the Doctor and I kind of have a thing for him, especially when he’s played by David Tennant.
Secondly, the first shot of him in the episode has him strapped down to a very uncomfortable chair, including his head, and one of the straps doubles as a gag. He gets taunted. He tries to talk his captor into letting him go and undoing his dastardly plot. He gets punched in the face as an interrogation method. By this point I am very happy.
Then he gets rescued ineptly and wheeled down the stairs still in the chair which, okay, is not so hot. I think it’s the rescue-ness, and also the slapstick.

Then we have despair and loneliness and shame and more despair. In space. We have a strong man refusing to do what he’s always refused to do in this incarnation, despite persuasion, because he’s already made that choice. Then the Master makes an announcement that breaks him enough to take the gun and try and kill the Master to stop him resurrecting the Doctor’s own species, whose destruction was at the Doctor’s hands, about which he is still tied in guilty knots. He misses them desperately and he’s got to stop them returning by killing the only one that’s left. Are you getting how good this is yet? This is fucking beautiful.

He falls through a glass roof. His suit is all ripped. His face is all cut up. He is begging the Time Lords and the Master to see things his way. With a bleeding face. On his knees. I want him. More emotional torture while he tries to decide who to shoot. He eventually finds a solution, closes the rift, locks his people back into their bubble. He’s expecting to die. Cuts on his face. Despair and resignation and almost peace because he did what he had to do. Fucking beautiful.

Then he finds he’s not dead, because the Master saves him in pursuit of his own vengeance. I have no words for how hot that moment is. On his knees, torn up and bleeding, sobbing with relief.

Then he finds that he is dead after all, for one ordinary bloke who was just trying to help and is now stuck, and saving him means dying.

The BBC is making porn especially for me. He rants and raves and rails against the cruel world, and then he decides. You can see him decide. You can see the moment where he chooses between being alive and being himself. And, calm and assured, he carries through that decision. It hurts him. Physically hurts him. He’s in agony. He’s dying of heroism with a cut-up face. He made his choice and his choice is killing him and now all there is to do is endure the pain.

I’ll be in my bunk.

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Crushing On The Doctor Wednesday, Mar 17 2010 

I know why I like the Doctor. I can tell you exactly why I like the Doctor. It’s because I love love love the sight of David Tennant on his knees, with his suit all shredded and his face all beautiful with blood, shaking with relief and grief and then hearing his death knoll when he thought he was free. It’s because I love Chris Eccleston tied up and electrocuted and not letting it matter. It’s because he’s the Doctor, he’s the Time Lord, he’s oh so pretty and clever and I want to hurt him. I want him to be hurt for my sake. It’s because he’s so brave and so broken and still being so brave. I love me some of that emotional sadism, bring it on. Men crying. Men looking desperate and begging and pleading and the Doctor in a suit begging his dearest enemy not to die. Yum. Give me more. Give me the Doctor in chains and a whip. Please.

Those Beautiful Welsh Vowels Tuesday, Mar 16 2010 

You know what’s hot? Hot is Ianto Jones in a suit. Bringing the coffee. Doing the filing. Hot is me in my steel-toed boots and my combats with my hair caked in three kinds of dust, and a handsome man bringing me a long sugary drink made exactly the way I prefer at exactly the moment when there’s a lull in the work. Because he’s been watching. He’s been paying attention. He knows when I need something and what I need because I’m his focus and his work revolves around mine. Hot is him wearing a suit, every day, because that’s how I like to see him. Not because I make him. Not because I’ve ever told him to keep wearing suits. Just because he’s heard me say he looks good in them and he’s noticed the way I leer at him and he knows I like him in suits, so he wears suits. Hot is me with a dirty face being waited on by a well-dressed man who doesn’t get to do the fun work, he’s doing the filing and he doesn’t mind because he knows how much I love the scaffolding. If he does the filing then my work becomes ladders and power tools and heavy things, so he does the filing. And he lets me touch him with dirty hands and get dust on his lips, oh yes, because clean is how he looks good for me and dirt is how I claim him.
That’s what Ianto does for Jack. That’s why he’s hot. That’s the whole point.
And then the Torchwood website has these little videos, this game you can play, pretending to be one of the team. A few little make-believe missions to audition for Torchwood. And Ianto’s in charge of them. He’s stern and demanding and challenges you to be up to scratch, prove it, prove yourself. Show you can handle it the way he can handle it, with a suit and a smile. Prove you’re good enough to meet his boss.
That’s even hotter. Prove to me that you deserve to meet my boss, to whom I am devoted, and for love of whom I am testing you. I’m not letting anyone bother my boss who isn’t worth his time. For his sake. All my competence and all my brains and I’ll use them all to make his path smooth. You don’t get to challenge me.
Fuck, I love switches.