#// i rewatched and fell in love all over again

[taee]

my heart skipped a beat

[nemmet]

🎃 fred jones in trick or treat scooby doo! (2022)

[saturnniidae]

"I should've seen the signs" I feel like Stoick was basically reliving the way he lost Valka.

To him, after a lifetime of wanting nothing but to kill a dragon, Hiccup's suddenly and inexplicably changed his mind. To him, Hiccup saying he can't kill them is just like when Valka refused to and tried convincing others as well, then as a result was 'killed' by one herself.

To him, way Hiccup tossed his weapon and shield to the side then approached Hookfang while speaking about how dragons aren't what people think they are probably bares an uncomfortable resemblance to the way Valka put down her weapon and stared a dragon in the eyes and as a result was taken.

To him, attempting to do anything but preemptively defend yourself against a dragon will only end in tragedy, so he has to do anything he can to stop Hiccup before it's too late.

(And just like with Valka, he unintentionally escalated the situation by trying to protect Hiccup but only agitated the dragon, causing it to panic and react, inadvertently putting someone he loves in danger. again)

Stoick of course, wasn't acting rationally, but it makes sense when you think about how traumatizing Valka's 'death' must've been for him (and how much Hiccup reminss him of her); he watched her get taken, presumably killed, and couldn't do anything about it.

[httpiastri]

paul aron's hair throughout the 2023 season 💁‍♂️

(also known as jack being obsessed with a certain blonde curly-haired boy)

hello hello 👋 i knew i wanted to do a longer post about paul's hair but i wasn't sure what to do... at first, i wanted to make compilations of just his different kinds of hair; like how it's sometimes super curly and sometimes flat, how it looks when wet and from behind & the side and so on. but then i decided to instead do one collage per round in the f3 championship (+ abu dhabi and one extra)(and some gifs... scroll all the way down, you won't be disappointed) !!!

the main conclusion that i came to when making this was that he's got soo MUCH hair? it's so thick?? poor boy must be sweating so much during the summer :( disclaimer: this all comes from someone who 1. has 0 experience with curls (my hair is as flat as a wall), and 2. has no knowledge of how boy hair works. or anyone else's hair for that matter, i only know my own hair. anyways...

on the collages with many pics, pls zoom in because you'll notice so many good details 🫡🫡 also, my hyperfocus/hyperfixation and time blindness rlly went crazy when i was making this last night, all of a sudden it was 5am..... so apologies if i use the same pic twice, i was a little tired when editing 😶

‎ ‎ ‎

bahrain

bahrain was a very cute round. paul's first f3 points in the first race was very comforting, and the curls he showed off were just as heartwarming 🤭 very messy hair this round, the curls were everywhere. but they also looked super pretty, like in the last pic (where i purposefully cut out his abs because. this is a hair post, not a thirst post… i would've gotten too distracted if i hadn't).

‎ ‎ ‎

australia

australia hair was very fluffy. it was pointing out in all kinds of directions, especially after racing sessions. in the four pics on the left, there's exactly 0 control of the hair hehe. the two pics on the right show off so much volume and just 🤯 also, the wind enjoyed blowing it in weird directions (check out the top right gif).

‎ ‎ ‎

monaco

buddy had a lil haircut before monaco? it looks kinda neatly trimmed in the back, and slightly shorter in the front – but still very long and fluffy. looks like it's easier to handle! but still many many curls, and it still lives its own life after sessions. 🤭 the podium hair! flat and cute. and the post-quali hair (fourth column), very strange but very cute.

‎ ‎ ‎

barcelona

the little hairband he got from simone 🥺 the two pics in the bottom left corner… not sure what his hair was doing in that part of the video, he looks like a maniac (endearingly!!). also, this was a weekend of many different hair colors; very golden in the bottom right pic, almost dark brown roots in the pic to the left of it, almost white/gray/blonde in the top left two pictures.

‎ ‎ ‎

austria

not a lot of hair content in this vid? a lot of paul content bcs of his win but he's wearing his helmet or the winner cap most of it. very soft and bouncy as usual though. i really wanted to include the middle picture because he's in the air mid-jump lol

‎ ‎ ‎

silverstone

yet another weekend of mixed colors and volumes. very shiny & light blonde in the sun/under lamps, but very dark blonde in other pics. also, why is his hair so straight in the bottom right pic? like compared to top right? they're just hour apart, both after the race…. idk the hair in the top right pic has such a hold on me (because i wanna have a hold of it).

‎ ‎ ‎

budapest

budapest hair was very chaotic at times… and looking like it's been growing out quite a lot! the middle pic (and the one above it) 😭 not only does he sound so cute when he's telling his little story about his former soccer career, but the hair…. literally everywhere 🫠 so cute :(( also the top left picture has such a chokehold on me, idk if i've posted it before but it's one of my faves. not just for the hair, but the neck and the chest and just-

‎ ‎ ‎

spa

yet another little trim? shorter in the back and more tidy + less dense in the front? i still refuse to acknowledge the fact that the feature in spa happened but at least he was cute during the weekend 🤭 the little curl in his forehead in the middle pic 🥺 and please what's going on in the middle left pic 😭 i have a gif from that later in this post, cracks me up every time ngl

‎ ‎ ‎

monza

paul has got so so much hair!!!!!! especially noticeable in the middle column, especially in the middle middle pic. wow. so thick. him resting on the floor with his headphones and the hair is just everywhere :( the little curls falling into his eyes despite how short is looked just a few weekends before in spa… so pretty. love how the curls are so noticeable from the side too!!!

‎ ‎ ‎

abu dhabi

was this peak broccoli in the season? probably. especially in karl's story with the broccoli emojis, and in the top right. and then, we have bottom right, where it's so flat? how?? anyway, he was glowing this weekend and his hair was so cute. always super fluffy, always super curly, always just sticking out everywhere. also love how the like ends of the curls are very straight out in the air (does that explanation make sense?), especially in the interview picture !! 🥦

‎ ‎ ‎

pre/post/mid season

a lot to uncover here. first row = macau (except for top right which was abu dhabi, but wearing his macau shirt…). very messy curls but not too long? very cute. and i would guess that it's karl's hairband-thing because that's like the only time i've seen paul wear it but i see karl wearing it all the time. either way, it must feel nice for him to finally have all that hair out of his face, finally he can see properly 😭

second row = vacation hair!! the horse riding hair, very cute and so long in the front, curls in his eyes definitely. the wet hair is so so flat, can imagine it just feels good to cool it down in the hot summer too. and the mirror selfie, very short post-spa but very very curly!!

third row = gala/ceremony hair + his vacation with ralf. a lot calmer, especially the 2nd pic (!!! so flat, but the little curls in the tips…. adorable). idk it just looks pretty styled like that.

fourth row = extras lol. first two are zandvoort, no? i think so. veryyy curly. the first pic is so cute because it looks like his hair is literally floating on the top of his head, not around it. like it looks like someone just flopped some wig on top of his head and called it a day 😭 third pic from working out with karl or something, idk he just looked so cute. and then his investment pic or whatever i should call it 😭 so blonde in the tips but dark roots? cute

‎ ‎ ‎

i also wanted to make some gifs to show off how his hair moves because i think it's super cute 🥺 esp like the one where he's running, and all of the bottom row gifs.... so much hair!!!

‎ ‎ ‎

if anyone actually made it this far, thank you for reading/looking at the pics with me 🫶🫶🫶 hope you've maybe started to like his hair even more after this hihi

[sabo-torao]

i love sabo's new voice sooo much.. thank you miyu irino for this blessing

[paladinsbrainrot]

i’m going to apologize in advance for the person i will become on oct 3rd

[fluffomatic]

My Byakuya (along with my Naegami) obsession is coming back in full force 😅

[tsuncda]

so am i right or am i right in my assertion that bridgerton doesn't actually do character work, it just rebrands it's main characters before their season begins and tries to recontextualize them as poor little meow meows.

[lcvenderblues]

ty for the tag @rebelscoundrel !!! this was fun 🤍

six shows from my 2022:

np tagging: @psithurista @eupheme @ohheyitsokay @princessxkenobi @redahlia-writes

[orphudice]

esmerelda theme ^^

[lnfours]

Lando making reader go from "don't forget to pull out, okay?" to "pleasepleaseplease come inside, i need it, i need it"

the switch up would be absolutely bonkers and i know it. also my friends and i just rewatched all the after movies and all i could think about was that one scene in the home gym but w lando and i need it.

smut (18+ please!)

lando thoughts? lando thoughts.

your nails digging into his biceps felt like heaven as his lips kissed yours, a soft moan rising from his throat. your head tilted back against the pillows, letting his lips travel down your jaw and your neck. he kissed all the way down to your collarbone, his hips meeting yours as you tugged on the curls at the top of his head.

“lando, fuck,” you sounded so pretty moaning his name. breathless, back arching off the mattress. a sight he never wanted to forget.

“yeah?” he asked, hands grabbing your thighs and wrapping them around his waist. the new position making him fuck you deeper. you moaned loudly at the feeling, fingers now raking down his back, “like this baby?”

“mhm,” was all you could manage to say.

“where do you want me to come?” his hands slipping between your bodies and finding your clit with ease. your mouth fell agape at the feeling, hips bucking up into his touch.

“fuck- in me. please.” you begged and he raised an eyebrow at you.

“thought you wanted me to pull out?”

“not anymore,” you panted, “i want you to fill me up.”

his eyes rolled back, hips suddenly slamming into you a little faster, “shit, you’re sure?”

you nodded, the familiar warm feeling spreading through your lower stomach, “please. i’m so close.”

“me too, baby,” he said, “gonna fill you up. just like you want.”

you moaned at his words. thighs shaking as he worked you up, “i’m gonna come.”

“me too,” he said, “come for me, love.”

you moaned as you squeezed him tightly, body convulsing as you let your orgasm wash over you. he followed in pursuit, his orgasm getting buried deep inside you as he rode out his high.

you whimpered softly as he pulled out, eyes locked to where your bodies were previously conjoined. he watched the way your thighs shook, spreading your legs and watching his cum drip from inside of you. he moaned at the sight, damn near hard again as he leaned down.

you gasped as his tongue gently licked a stripe up your pussy, his fingers replacing it shortly after as he fucked the remaining fluids back into you.

“fuckin’ hell,” he mumbled, kissing the inside of your thigh as you grasped at his curls, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

[farfromstrange]

“What if the way you hold me is actually what’s holy?” | Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Warnings: SMUT! (18+), shower setting, oral f!receiving, masturbation, fantasizing, beard appreciation (kink?), dirty talk, mentioned unprotected p in v, slight Dom!Matt, DDBA!Matt, improper thoughts about a certain crucifix necklace, (kind of) religious symbolism, mentions of choking, praise kink, pet names, “good girl”, not perfectly edited (shocker)

Summary: Fantasies about your late-working boyfriend take over your much needed self-care shower—until he’s suddenly (and unexpectedly) right in front of you when you are about to take care of the problem yourself.

A/n: So, the Born Again trailer brought me back from the dead and made me so fucking needy for this man. I thought this would be the best opportunity to rewatch Daredevil and practice writing Matt again because I’ve been a bit out of practice lately. Let’s just say the experiment was successful, but I definitely owe it to my hormone levels. The gif below inspired this fic (as it probably has done to many writers in the fandom these past two days). Anyway. If you want to listen to the song I was listening to while writing, it’s “Guilty As Sin?” By Taylor Swift, hence the title. Other than they, enjoy, and feedback is always appreciated!

Read Me On AO3!

The warm water from the shower head above runs down your clammy skin, seeping into your pores and aching muscles. You have been dreaming about this ever since you got home from work. 

The apartment is quiet, save for the little noise you make in the bathroom. Matt called you earlier, telling you he would be late and that you shouldn’t wait up for him; you expected as much after he and Foggy caught a high-profile case a couple of weeks ago. 

When he isn’t busy at work, he tries to fulfill his duty to protect the city. You’re not mad; you knew what you were signing up for when you fell in love with him, but that doesn’t change the fact that you miss him sometimes. Or rather, all the time. It doesn’t matter if he’s at work or wandering around in red leather, searching for a fight—you always miss him. 

There’s not a day that goes by that you’re not worried he might not come back to you. You can only hold on to the thought of him coming home in the middle of the night, crawling into bed beside you because he’s too tired to shower, wrapping his arms around you as though you are the only thing anchoring him to reality. It makes you appreciate what you have in him. 

The thing about Matt is that he feels he has to do penance for every little thing he has ever done, whether his actions hurt people or not; he loathes himself for who he is, which is absurd to you but to him, it makes sense. Perhaps it’s the catholic in him, or all those years of losing soulmates, or maybe it’s both.

His shampoo smells faintly of sandalwood and the rainforest, but only if you focus closely. You like that it makes your skin soft, and when you wrap yourself in his silk sheets at night, it’s almost like he’s all over you before he physically can be. 

You close your eyes and you focus on the feel of him, imagining your hands are his. You imagine his calloused fingers trailing over your heated skin, exploring every dip and every curve, even though he already knows the wonderland of your body inside and out. His lips on yours, traveling down your neck to your shoulder to your chest… a shiver runs down your spine, pooling in your core. You’re on fire, and he isn’t even with you. 

He’s at the office, sleeves probably rolled up, the first two buttons of his dress shirt undone, loosening his tie with that strained look he gets when he’s stressed. Or maybe he’s on his way to Fogwell’s Gym so he won’t disturb you before he puts the suit on, fists raining down on a sandbag as sweat drips down his body, and he grunts whenever he lands a hit. 

You were just trying to have a nice shower, but Matt always manages to invade your every thought like a burglar on a mission. 

It’s just not fair how he always looks so sinful when he’s at his wit’s end. Oh, you love that look he gets when he’s feral. And you suddenly remember how long it has been since you got to touch each other. Since he let the devil out on you. Since he came home in the middle of the night and fucked you into the mattress because he was still so full of adrenaline. 

It has been so long since you two got to have a nice dinner together and you last rode him on his leather couch until you were both sticking to it, not even thinking about stopping; since he devoured you for hours and hours and hours until you were almost severely dehydrated and overstimulated from the orgasms he tore from you. 

You bite your lip so you won’t moan into the void of the bathroom. If you touch yourself now, he will know when he comes home. For a moment, you consider it. You slide your hand from your chest down your stomach. The water is slowly starting to grow cold. You just need to take the edge off.  Lower, lower, and lower, and—

“Don’t,” Matt’s voice reverberates in your ear. His hand slides over yours, calloused fingers on the back of your hand. 

The veil of fantasy burns to the ground. Your heart stops, then picks up the pace at a million miles an hour. In an instant, you turn around to face him, a gasp dying on your lips.

He’s right there, clothes discarded on the floor before the shower, no doubt. The golden crucifix around his neck offers a sinful contrast to his milky skin. You have always wondered if he was made out of marble rather than skin and bone. How can one person be this beautiful—this close to perfection and still be human? 

Matt is close enough for you to feel his heartbeat against your own. His hands slide to your forearms to make sure you don’t slip. You can see your wrecked reflection in his hazel irises. 

His unfocused gaze is right on you, boring through your skull into your soul. Only he can read you like an open book, listen to your body, and know exactly what you want, what you crave. He thinks of himself as the devil, but all you see is an angel. He’s the sun. To you, at least, he’s everything. The moon, the sun, the stars, and the entire fucking universe.

He caught you when you were about to touch yourself, and he’s naked. Really fucking naked. This is not how you imagined tonight to go. 

His chest heaves with a deep inhale of your scent, forehead coming to rest against yours. 

“You’re home,” you whisper. 

His lips curl into a smile—not a smirk but a genuine smile. “Yeah.”

“But you said you guys had that case, and then you were gonna go out…”

Matt cuts you off, “I missed you,” he says. “Couldn’t go out without seeing you.”

He chose you over the city. You never doubted Daredevil meant more to him than you, but hearing it out loud almost brings tears to your eyes.

“I missed you too,” you answer. So much. Days, weeks, seconds, all the fucking time. 

He’s so smug about it, too, when he tells you, “I know.”

The water keeps falling around you, drowning out the noise of the city and pearling off his necklace. He should have taken it off. If he wanted to shower with you, he should have taken it off because the need for him that makes your cunt pulse in desperation feeds off of the mere thought of taking the cold metal into your mouth while he pounds into you like a madman. 

He doesn’t look agitated, not at all, but there is a dark shadow falling over Matt’s bearded face. It’s a calculated shadow rooted in a need for control, and who are you to deny him the only thing he can control?  

“Hey,” he grabs your chin, “Tell me. What were you doing in there, hm?” 

You bite your lip. “Just… showering.”

“Just showering?” He brushes his nose against yours. “You know I can hear your heartbeat…”

You nod. Your lips brush, but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. You can taste the remnants of his last coffee, the familiar warmth of his mouth on yours, but he refuses to give you the satisfaction. You crave him so much that fireworks have started erupting on your skin wherever his fingers dare to travel; it isn’t fair. He isn’t fair. 

Matt studied the science of driving you crazy, and now you are bordering on the edge of madness. Alone. 

“Mhm. So, I know you’re lying…” He moves to your cheek, his breath hot when he speaks, “And I know when you’re touching yourself. ‘Cause I can smell how fucking wet you are, sweetheart.” 

There he is. The relentless, feral animal you fantasized about before. The man driven by primal need and the sheer power of his senses rather than rational thought, and yet he knows exactly what he is doing. He’s a musician playing you like a delicate violin, pushing her to the breaking point but never fully destroying.

“Like I said,” you breathe, “I missed you.”

He presses his lips to your cheek, almost like a reward. “I know,” he says. “Probably been thinking about me, too, with your hand on your pussy…” 

You swallow a needy moan that would have been too embarrassing. It’s been a long few weeks. Neither of you will be able to resist for long, you know that, so you decide you have to be bold tonight. “And what’re you gonna do about it?” you ask.

Though stunned for a moment, the smirk on Matt’s face isn’t far out of reach. “That’s my girl.”

Your back hits the now warm tiles of the shower wall before you can string together another remark, and then, finally—fucking finally—his lips are on yours. Kissing you. Devouring you. Breathing air into your aching lungs. He tastes like paradise, the Garden of Eden, and the six circles of hell all at once. It’s all the same to you, anyway. 

As long as you’re with him, you don’t care where you end up. No amount of torture could take away the love you feel for him, and you know that with Matt, even weathering the stormy seas of hell would be worthwhile. It’s sick and twisted how far you would go for this man, but you can’t find a single bone in your body that cares.  

His tongue forces its way into your mouth, tasting you, and inhaling you like his sole source of life support. You don’t bother fighting for dominance; you’re all his. Your body is telling him to command you. Your mind is screaming for him to touch you in any way he pleases, so help him God, and the chain around his neck keeps sinfully dangling against his toned chest. You want to bite it. You’re going to bite it. But not yet. 

When it is time for you to swim to the surface for air, he pulls away. His lips move from yours to the corner of your mouth. He kisses there, taking his time to explore what he has explored many times before. But Matt Murdock is an addict, and you are his drug of choice, so why would he ever stop? 

He kisses your cheek, your eyes, and the bridge of your nose. That’s how he sees you. Either with his fingers or his mouth or both. Touching you. Listening to you. He wants to see you in his own way. In a way that is far more intimate than you admiring his objective beauty could ever be.

“So beautiful,” he whispers between kisses. When he says it, you know it has to be true, even when you don’t see yourself in the same light as him.

His beard is rough where he kisses you. He has grown it out quite a bit, not having the time to bother shaving. The specks of gray that have started appearing as he got older should be illegal, you think, staring at him through hazy eyes. It should be illegal to look this good.

You caress his face, palm covering the entirety of his cheek. So beautiful, you want to say, but you don’t have the words.

The confession of love tumbles against your skin, softly, breathlessly, and he dips his head into the crook of your neck. He seeks your pulse point to press his lips against the beat of your heart. Your head falls back against the tiles. He’s a fucking menace, but he’s gentle about it. So, so gentle.

The hands-on your hips pull you closer, as close as you can get. Your nipples brush his chest, and you can feel him growing hard against you. He’s hot, red, and flushed, and with his lips against your neck, sucking and biting and licking some more, the shower water isn’t the only thing running down your thighs. You’ve been wet just thinking about him; Matt is here now, and he has no intention of stopping until you’re screaming his name.

Your skin is raw from the way he’s moving his face against you, suctioning his lips right where he can feel your pulse reaching for him. Reacting to him.

“Matthew,” you moan, breathless. “Please.” 

He hums, fingers digging into your flesh to keep his composure. The sound of his name from your lips in such ecstasy makes his cock swell to the point all he wants is to sink into you and fuck you against the wet shower wall until you can’t walk anymore. He wants to wrap his hand around your throat, just holding you there as you take it like the good girl you are. God, he wants to do so many things to you. 

He wants to push all of your buttons and reward you for it. He wants to feel your nails running down his back until he’s bleeding. He wants to eat your pussy until you forget your name, and when he’s done with that, he wants to do even more because that is the kind of animal you turn him into. That is what you do to him. You consume him with your mere existence and your love you keep pouring into him like a glass about to overflow, a glass so full yet so fucking empty at the same time, and he has been neglecting you for far too long to hold back now—yes, the water bill be damned!

“I love it when you beg,” he growls, feeling his voice vibrate through your skin. Like he’s in your veins.

You whimper. Oh, that sound. That sweet, sweet sound. It seems to do him in. Matt sinks to his knees like he would in front of God in church—like Mary knelt in front of Jesus after he got crucified. But there are no stained windows, no crosses, and no confessional booth in sight; you’re his place of worship, and your body is the altar. You are the only constant in his world on fire. You always want him to set you on fire, too. 

Once on his knees in front of you, his cock straining high and mighty against his stomach, he grabs your thigh and places it over his shoulder. No rush. You can barely catch your breath. 

Burning along the inside of your thigh, Matt kisses his way toward where you need him most. Your core yearns for him. Your hand slips from his face, searching the tiles behind you for something to hold onto. 

He’s quick to bring your hands back to his hair. “Don’t let go,” he says. 

It’s almost embarrassing that the only sound you can make is a grunt, and when your brain finally catches up, it’s too late. He’s impatient. Desperate. And he places his lips in a gentle kiss against your clit. The sudden contact makes you jolt, but that is not nearly all of it. 

He tests the waters. Once, twice, even a third time, gently kissing along your slick folds. You instinctively tug at his hair, but that doesn’t deter him. Matt inhales your scent, tasting your essence on his tongue; he would bathe in it if he could. 

You cry out when he dives in. He parts your folds with his tongue, sucking and licking until his face is covered. The obscene noise of lips smacking against wet skin goes straight to your head. He can hear the wetness gushing out of you, every twitch of your muscles and hitch of your breath, and he sucks a little harder on your sensitive clit. You’re scared you might fall. 

“Fuck!” Your moans are as obscene as the sound of him eating you out. You grind against him, at first involuntarily, but then he moans against you, and you can’t help it; the vibrations he sends through you continue to pool in your cunt, tightening the coil that is waiting to snap. 

Matt prods your entrance with his tongue, the tip of his nose digging just right into that sensitive bundle of nerves he lost when your hips first jerked. He’s completely out of it, hooded eyes rolled back into his skull while you are almost splitting yours open on the dark tiles. The cross necklace is sticky with his saliva as he drinks from you like you are the spring fueling his ocean. He’s thrusting into his hand, pre-cum leaking from his cock, but his mouth never wavers. He has a job to do. 

Your walls clench around what little of his tongue is inside of you. There is nothing more arousing than the sight of him touching himself because the taste of you is bringing him to the brink of an inevitable orgasm. Because he wants to come with you. Because he’s desperate and he can only imagine being inside of you as he licks away at you. It’s a kind of dedication that makes you feral. No one has ever loved you quite like he has, and no one will ever eat your pussy as only he can. 

“Matt,” you choke out. “Fuck, I’m gonna—’m gonna come. Don’t stop. Don’t…”

As if he could. He flicks his tongue from left to right, painting shapes you have never felt before over every last of your nerve endings. You’re quivering. You’re shaking. You are turning the bathroom into a concert hall for the symphony of your pleasure. 

He doesn’t stop to tell you to come, that would be futile. You couldn’t possibly stop the wave headed for your shore. You can’t warn him. You can’t do anything other than let it happen. The coil snaps and your orgasm crashes into you at full force, shattering you into a million pieces. You grind against him until you’re sure he is branded into your skin forever. 

Matt holds you through it, working his tongue against you to prolong the electricity running through your veins. He gets lost in the echo of his name, stroking his cock harder and faster, and within seconds of you, he’s coming, too. He spurts into his hand and on your thigh, moaning deliciously into your pussy. For a moment, he’s stiff, though as you are starting to come back to him, he’s starting to come back to you. 

The aftermath of your orgasm is quiet. His lips slip from your swollen folds eventually, and he pulls away to rest his cheek against your inner thigh, the one resting over his shoulder. He’s still catching his breath, cock softening in his hands, but when you look down at him, he’s a wreck. For you. 

Slowly, he rises back to his feet. You look at him, unsteady now on both of your feet. He wraps his arms around you. “You okay?” he asks softly. 

You lean into his hand when he places it on your cheek. “Yeah,” you nod. “I’m…perfect.”

“You were so good for me. So good.” 

The distance between you dissipates, foreheads falling together in absolute exhaustion. He smells and tastes of you. You kiss him softer than you ever have. “I love you,” you whisper, and he smiles because he knows.

You don’t count the minutes you stay like that, kissing. It might have been an hour, not nearly enough. Matt reaches for the water when it starts getting cold, and he lifts you to wrap your legs around his waist. 

You frown. “Aren’t you going out tonight?” 

He shakes his head. “No, sweetheart,” he says, “I’m not done with you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Gotta make sure you know how much I missed you.”

The giddy smile on your face when you kiss him again is involuntary, but not unnecessary. He giggles, too, before you finally shut him up.

Hell’s Kitchen can live without him for one night, that much is for sure. And when he finally thrusts into you and you bite down on the golden metal of that godforsaken crucifix to stifle your scream as he fucks you to hell and back in a way that is gentle yet possessive, you know this is the only place Matt needs to be tonight—for both of you.

[clegfly]

OUGH AH PLEASE DO!!!!!!!!!1 Favourite show ever 10/10 would brainwash all my mutuals into watching again

SHSHFBHS i actually really appreciate this reblog because I was working on basil and a lot of his concept designs have MAJOR spoilers so now I will know to add warnings!!! <3

I had a vision…

[twilghtkoo]

pairings. jungkook x reader (f)

genres/aus. comfort, established relationship

warnings. descriptions of anxiety

notes. another self indulgent writing with jk on my mind <3

masterlist

—

oh god. why do you do this to yourself? and always at this time at night, always when you have to piss too.

it’s late, around 1:30 in the morning and your boyfriend is sound asleep peacefully snoring into his pillow. you’ve grown accustomed to his sleeping habits and it’s now become something you miss on those months he’s gone for work.

he fell asleep easily, as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out fast. muttering an ‘i love you’ half asleep before slumber took over.

you’ve been scrolling on your phone switching from different apps back to tiktok. until one specific tiktok appeared on your for you page, one that piqued your interest with the eerie sound. a lady was explaining a nightmare she had and how she saw a creepy, shadow face with picture evidence. and now you can’t unsee it and you paused the video because the sound was becoming overwhelming and suddenly you feel like it was in the room with you.

you remember how you had to pee and that urge comes back but no way are you walking that three feet in the dark.

you scroll past the video and it’s one showing an otter swimming in a pool. yes, much better.

but that haunting image keeps flashing behind your eyes, so you exit out the app and go back to youtube. trying to find one of your comfort videos you always go back to rewatch. you take a peek over your phone to see the faint outline of jungkook on his side, mouth slightly open. oh how i wish that could be me right now.

anxious thoughts hit you again and you wonder if you turn over, would that face be there?

you’ve always been like this since you were little. afraid of the dark and gets easily scared. suddenly you wish you kept that ocean nightlight you had since you were five, but your mom gave it away to your cousins.

there’s only one thing you could think of.

“kook, kook..” you gently shake his shoulder to wake him. it takes a few more tries before he’s awake. your phone automatically turns off from the screen not being touched. leaving your room pitch black.

he breathes out, “what’s wrong? you okay?” you open your phone, illuminating the room a bit.

you bite your lip. “can you walk with me to the bathroom? i’m scared..” do you sound like a child right now?

jungkook, without questions, kicks the blanket off and crawls out of bed to walk around to your side of the bed.

“come on.” he mutters, he holds out his hand for you to grab as you get out of bed. you’re clinging to his side as you take those few steps to the bathroom in your room.

when he turns the light on, you both hiss at the brightness. your appearances in the mirror looks like you’ve been in bed for a bit. but jungkook doesn’t look bothered at all, a small smile that says a million things to you eases your worries.

he leans against the counter with his arms crossed as you do your business before washing your hands.

while you’re in front of the sink, he comes up behind you to circle his arms around your waist. “wake me up always if you need anything, i don’t mind. and if i don’t wake up for the first couple times, i allow you to smack me with a pillow.”

you chuckle. “okay.”

“okay.”

he walks you back to your side of the bed and tucks you in, crawling over you to get on his side. blindly reaching for your hand under your pillow, giving it a squeeze. “put your youtube video on baby.”

you nod, even though he can’t see. then you hear his soft snores again. you lean in to place a kiss on of his forehead before doing as he says.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

To Need Somebody

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, angst, very light fluff, pre-established relationship, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: After a hunt goes poorly, Dean retreats down a well-tread path of self-loathing. You've been here before, and you'll be here again, and you'll stay every time. Self-esteem warning, but that's it.

Author's Note: First Dean fic! A very good excuse to rewatch supernatural and say it's for my own edification as if he doesn't live in my head rent-free.

Title from Renegade by Big Red Machine ft Taylor Swift.

Word Count: 3.8k

The night doesn’t pass as quickly as you’d like it to. It’s long and slow, treelines and yellow grass moving in blur out the window as the stinging, stabbing pain in your leg keeps you awake.

You keep your face pressed to the glass, hidden in shadows and under your makeshift blanket—it’s just a jacket, but it’s Dean’s so it smells like him and might be better than a blanket—so that the light reflecting off your tired, tear-stained face doesn’t catch the attention of the rear-view mirror.

Doesn’t catch the attention of Dean.

He hasn’t spoken since the drive home began. He’d carried you to the car, then into the motel, then on the bed, holding you still while Sam cleaned and sewed up the gash in your thigh. Dean had muttered words of comfort and let you bite down on his shirt through the stitches. He’d told you that you’d done well, and that the kid was going to be fine.

The kid with you was going to be fine. You’d been faster than the demon—but not faster than its blade aimed at your leg—and the little girl who had attached to you was going to be traumatized, but had a lifetime ahead of her to heal from it.

The little boy that had been with Dean didn’t. He was ash scattered over the skyline and stuck to wet grass. And you knew Dean blamed himself, even though Sam had told you in hushed words at a gas station that it there was nothing anyone could have done. The kids eyes had started to go black, and he’d wandered to the window with an expression of wonder Dean had caught immediately, because he was a good hunter and better man.

And it wasn’t Dean’s fault the kid had punched through the window with inhuman strength. You’d all assumed that the crazy fucking ritual was more of an offering than a conversion. If your kid had punched through a window, you would have likely lost her as well.

But you hadn’t. Sam’s hadn’t lost his either. By pure, shit luck, Dean’s was the one that formed a stronger connection. That fell under faster, and died for it.

So now Dean wasn’t speaking to you or Sam. He’d helped you to the Impala, checked that you were comfortable, and set his jacket over your body, even after you told him you were okay. You’d reached a hand up to his face, told him you loved him, and gotten a grimacing smile in return.

You know he loves you. He’s not good at saying it, but you know. You know because he’s driving slower than usual, to avoid bumps. You know because the music is low, and it’s one of his better tapes. One of the one’s you’ve told him you like more than the others, and the one he always put it on when you’re in pain.

There isn’t a doubt in your mind that Dean loves you. And the silent acts of attention and service make the exact three times he has said it all the more meaningful.

The first time, when you’d tried to leave—reaching a breaking point of I can’t keep loving him like this, but I can’t get over him while I’m here—and he’d shot down your every fear with begging words and a confession he’d sounded afraid to make.

The second time, when you’d died. Really died, and Dean had tried to break up with you to protect you when you’d come back. You’d called an idiot, but your idiot, and simply refused to leave him. You’d told him to give you one good reason he wanted you to go, and he’d never see you again. He’d shouted, and you’d screamed, and you think you won. You’re still here, so you won. 

The third time, which you called the good time. Where he hadn’t said it in a shout or plea, or because he was in afraid of losing you in whatever form, but because he wanted to. Dean had really just wanted you to know that he loved you, and now you did. And you’d never doubt it again.

But this still hurts. The wall that forms over Dean—a form of protection from this silent burden and self-inflicted torture you know must be unbearable and heavier than the world, crushing on his shoulders and head and ribs—is like a stray dog that you just have to watch tear itself apart, and hope it will accept your outstretched hand. Offering comfort it doesn’t know it deserves.

You know Dean loves you, and you know he never takes your hand, and it still really fucking hurts. A fight would be better than this. Screaming would be a relief to the heavy silence that had started to form a weight in your lungs. Your head felt like iron, and you were beginning to wonder if your tongue with ever stop being a pointless muscle that was uncomfortable in your mouth. Stop just itching at your teeth and finally become useful. Find the right words that would make Dean do anything, anything at all. Literally anything that wasn’t sitting like a sentry and holding the wheel like—if he choked it and it spat out blood—something would fix itself.

It’s dawn when you hear the engine stop, and you can’t move. A little because you still can’t fully support any weight on your leg, but mostly because moving will be acknowledging that you’re awake. And being awake comes with choices. You either have to look at Dean and pretend you don’t see the way he’s ripping himself apart before smashing everything back together in a way that’s just a little less stable than before, or you have to not look at Dean.

He’ll notice. He notices everything, especially obvious things like you not looking at him. And it will hurt him—make this hole you think lives in his ribcage or spine bigger and more hollow—so no matter what pain it causes you, you need to look at Dean.

You push up your forearms with a groan, and he’s right there. Already watching you, so obviously in pain, and so obviously guarded from it that there’s not much for you to do right now. These are things Dean has to ask you for before you can give them. If you offer kind words, he’ll think they’re tainted with pity and spit venomous ones back. If you offer a body he’ll take it, but then the hole will grow larger as the guilt sets in for using you, even if you were the one that asked.

When it’s like this, all you can do is sit with him. Let him help you into the bunker, and—when he tries to put you in bed—insist he stays here, or you go where he goes.

You can make that about you, about not wanting to be abandoned in the midst of your physical turmoil, instead of Dean. He’ll let you follow him if it’s for you.

“You need to rest,” he grunts your name, and these are the first words he’s spoken in almost twelve hours. They’re almost inaudible, and a little angry, but they’re the most amazing sounds you’ve ever heard. “Been a long night. You’re hurt-“

“I can rest with you.” You whisper, and he looks like you shot him. “I don’t want to be alone, Dean. Please.”

There’s a long, horrible moment where you think he’ll say no. Where he’ll mutter that he’s never a productive in a bedroom setting for anything like resting, give you an empty smirk and a sleep well, Sweetheart before walking out the door and closing it behind him. If he does, you won’t be near him until he comes to bed in the dead of night, finally deeming himself worthy of undeserved luxuries like blankets and pillows.

In that awful moment, you consider crawling to him and dragging the entire bed set with you. Demanding that he gives you just proximity, because you both need it. He won’t have to touch you, or look at you, or speak to you, but he’ll be near you. At an acceptable distance, in case something in him escapes and you need to be there to catch it.

Dean doesn’t help you out of bed to follow him. But he does climb onto the mattress at your side, sitting up at the headboard and resting his hands in fists against his thighs, staring ahead with a practiced, unreadable expression.

You take it. Loving Dean is a lot of taking things. A lot of trying to give things back and having them be refused. It’s worth it, worth every screamed fight and strange, empty moment of only being near him, because most of the time it’s not like this. Most of the time it’s jokes and shared, sparring words. It’s almost all watching him be goofy and charming, and kissing a stubbled cheek when he gets in a mock fight with Sam and loses. Smiling and telling him you’ll get him next time, Buddy.

But these darker, emptier times are an unavoidable hazard of the trade. People who date in offices have to navigate HR, people who date in entertainment have to deal with the media and hunters who date have to deal with the fact that loss is inevitable, and you can’t afford to be attached to anything. On top of that, Winchesters who date have to grapple with their whole�� everything.

But Dean is still with you. And that means he’s decided the joy of having you is worth the pain of losing you. It’s why when you slip your hand into his, he doesn’t pull it away. He squeezes it, and clings to it like a lifeline.

Sleep fades in and out in a haze, never long enough to dream or feel rested, but enough to register that Dean is crumbling. It starts with his body suddenly slouched down the mattress, then his legs are tangled in yours. Soon after your face is near his neck, and finally, he’s asleep at your side.

From there the day is traded sleep. You’re awake, and you shift the blanket to cover his body with yours. He’s awake, and suddenly your hair has been brushed from your face. You’re awake, your leg is hooked over his waist. He’s awake, you’re on top of him.

When you’re finally awake together, you just watch each other. You don’t speak first—Dean always to speaks first during these things—but you might have to stay here for a while until he does.

His eyes strained as if something is going to burst out of him, and he’s using every fiber and crevice of his will to keep it in. You don’t want to keep demanding more of Dean’s will. You don’t want to demand anything of him at all. So you just wait for him to fall a little further—keeping a soft, encouraging smile on your face the whole time—until he comes down entirely and speaks again. Light words coated in a pain that makes your head and heart ache, but words all the same.

“How’d you end up there, Sweetheart?”

You shrug, matching his tone but making your face more open. Wide and almost innocent, considering the position of resting over to your sex-god boyfriend, whose hands are wandering to hold you by your thigh. “Not sure.” You lean down, smiling at Dean like you have a secret as your voice drops to a whisper. “Between you and me, I think someone keeps putting me here. I go to sleep and wake up in the same place every time.”

He chuckles. “We should do something’ about that. Tie you to the bed so you can’t be moved.”

“I think,” you kiss his jaw, tangling your fingers in the soft, spiky hair at the nape of his neck. “That might just spur him on. He’d like the challenge.”

You start to kiss over his cheek—because it’s rare you get moment to just touch him without any need to go further, with neither of you asking for more, so you’re taking full advantage—and Dean’s head falling back with a low, long sigh, eyes closing as you continue your self-set task.

“He might.” Dean mutters. “But he also might not let you get to the sleepin’ stage.”

“He would.” You say against his skin, rising back up to watch his face, a strange combination of relaxed pain on his features that you knew too well. Where his brown was drawn but his breathing was slow and easy, and his mouth was parted but in a small frown. “Or he’d end up sleeping on me. The joke would be on him, though, because I love that too.”

“You seem to know this guy real well,” he says your name, dragging his eyes open to hold your gaze, and almost breaking your heart with how tired he looks. How he doesn’t seem to find peace in the truth of the words he’s saying. “He know you?”

“Better than anyone.” You whisper. “And I do know him. I’d like to think it’s better than most.”

“Do ya?”

“I do.” You drop your chin to prop on his chest, and Dean shift up to keep watching you as you speak. “He’s a bit of a goof, but very serious when he needs to be. He’s charming and handsome and a total cowboy, right down to the very odd chivalry and voice.”

“Odd chivalry?”

“He’ll hold my hair back when I’m sick and open every door, but he gets all bitchy when I ask for a fry, even when I offer a blowjob in return.”

“I always give you the fry, even when you just fucking ate all your own. And I don’t take the blowjob.” Dean grumbles, and your smile widens.

“Because you’re a very chivalrous guy, Winchester. Even if you keep moving me on top of you in the middle of the night.”

He frowns, scanning over your face. “I can stop that-“

“Don’t. I think I’ll find my way back here anyway.”

“Yeah? You like it here, huh.”

Dean’s words aren’t teasing like they might have been on another morning, but defeated. All you can do is hold your ground, and stay.

“I love it here.” You hum, playing with his hair under your hands in the way that always slows his breathing and eases the storm in his brain. “I love you.”

Dean sighs, and you know exactly what’s coming before he says it. “Look, Baby-“

“Don’t call me Baby, Dean.” You mutter, continuing your movements. “That’s either a sex name or an apology name, and we’re not about to have sex."

He says your name again, and it’s lower and deeper than before. Like he never wants to stop saying it, but can’t afford to anymore. “You gotta understand that I’m no good for you. Hell, no one’s good for you, but son of a bitch, I’m plain bad-“

You drop your head down to his chest, and take a long, laboring breath. This happens, in some form, every time. You don’t want his apologies or excuses or attempts to convince you to leave. If anything they just cement your place here, because you can be a little spiteful, and you’re not one to give up. As long as Dean keeps loving you, you’ll keep waiting out the darker nights at his side. 

But you’re also a little sick of it. How pointless this is, how it only wastes the finite time life has to offer to anyone, let alone two hunters. How it hurts Dean to say, and you to hear, and he seems to think he’s doing you some sort of favor by pushing you away. That this is saving you and not killing you. Slowly, slowly eating at you until you don’t leave—you won’t leave—but you do start to wonder if it’s you. If Dean just doesn’t trust you or like you all that much, and doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. It’s just as irrational as Dean’s own logic—if only because he’s hurt your feelings a lot before, and always torn himself apart for it after out of love and pain after, making it up to you tenfold—but it remains a little, nagging voice in your head. That people who want you don’t try to push you away. That he does love you, but maybe can’t see a life with you, and just wants you gone.

You try and offer yourself some grace for your doubt, because it’s really, truly, not about Dean. Despite what he seems to believe, you’re not perfect either. You don’t end up hunting because you’re incredibly emotionally stable and have a pristine, joyful past. It just all happened to fall into place that your breaks and cracks line up with Deans. That he can fill in divets and depressions that eat at you—not pretty enough, not likable, nothing anyone could really chose to stay around, always the backup, always the poet and the prophet but never with a name people will remember when you’re inevitably gone—and you can do the same for him.

You need to try to keep doing the same for him. There are parts of you Dean knows that soothing and healing will take time to do, and parts of Dean you’re worried to touch and make worse, but there are also breaking points. Where your words start to spill out in a desperate play to just make it a little better for you both.

This is one of them. And all he’ll have to do is listen.

“You don’t need to agree with me,” when you start your voice is soft but cracked, like a breath you have to fight to take. “And you can even tell me I’m wrong after. But please don’t leave.” 

He looks mostly confused at that, at the sudden shift in the air and spaces between it. Still heavy and clouded with sorrow, but also wired. Detriment. “I ain’t leaving you-“ He says your name, and you cut him off with a sigh. 

“Don’t leave the room. Don’t leave the bed. Just stay here and listen.” 

His frown deepens, but he nods. And now you have to talk. 

It’s not rehearsed or prepared, but it doesn’t need to be. You know what you need to say.

“I’m not going to tell you it wasn’t your fault, because I know you hate that. But I hate when you do this. When you blame yourself, or try to. It’s mean to me.” 

Dean’s hands tense on your body, and he looks like a wounded animal, but you keep going.

“I love you. A lot. And when you tell me I shouldn’t it’s, it hurts.” You sigh, trying to just keep your eyes fixed on a freckle near his nose as you start to choke on your own words and the salty taste they bring. “It doesn’t feel good. It’s like you think I don’t know what I’m doing. Like you’ve tricked me into loving you, when I want to be here. I really like being here, and I know it’s not about me, but I want it to be.” You chance a look at his eyes, and they’re glossy. No tears—you’ve never seen them before, and you likely won’t see them now—but the closest thing you ever get from him. A storm that stays green and trapped, instead of crashing out onto golden, soft skin for you to brush away.

You feel a little selfish, because this is really not about you.

And you can’t really bring yourself to care, or stop.

“I wish you’d let this be about me too.” You whisper, your voice almost inaudible over the lump and ache in your throat. “I wish you’d let me help. I let you help, Dean, and it’s not fair.”

“’S different, Baby.” Dean’s voice is hoarse, and a little unsteady as he shakes his head. “I don’t-“ 

“If you say need help, Winchester, you’re going to need to start rehearsing your speech to convince Chuck to send you back again.”

“You don’t know I was gonna to say that-“

“Yes, you were. And it’s not different. I want to help, Dean.” You’re almost pleasing, and it’s an effort not to crawl up his chest and outright beg. “Let me help, or stop telling me I should fucking leave you. I’m not going to, and I know you don’t really want me to, or we’d have been done two years ago.”

“You shoulda listened two years ago-“

“But I didn’t. And I won’t now.”

Dean shakes his head, huffing a dry laugh. “You’re real damn stubborn, anyone ever told you that?”

“You have.” You let a smile twitch at your lips, but you still don’t relent. “And I’ve told you that you’re no better. And it’s one of the many reasons why I don’t want anyone else.”

“You should-“ 

“No, I shouldn’t.” You give a full, close-lipped smile that’s mostly made of hope. You haven’t fixed anything, but you may have soothed it. Found a way to make his hated a little less consuming, because this is hurting you, and Dean hates hurting you. If he can’t start to change or listen to genuine reason, you can use his own twisted logic against him. “And I’m staying here. Because I love you, and I don’t want to hear about how I deserve better. I know what I deserve, and I know what I want.”

“Me.” 

Dean says his word like he hates it, and you say yours like it’s a prayer. “You.” 

He looks defeated, but not in pain. When his hand wanders up your back, tangling in your hair and tugging it just enough for you to know what he wants, you comply. Falling carefully forward and letting Dean’s lips find yours, allowing him to lead the kiss and decide where it ends. Long and soft and almost delicate, his free hand still rubbing and squeezing on your thigh, but nothing more.

It doesn’t need to be more. Because Dean pulls back slowly, staring at you with a slight awe as he clears his throat, and his voice come out slow, but not forced.

“I,” he swallows, shaking his head at mostly himself. “I love you. And I, uh, I’m glad you’re still here. Glad you’re stubborn.” 

Your smile makes your cheeks hurt, but it’s pain born of joy, so it’s not really pain at all. “I’m glad I’m stubborn too.” You rest back down against him, and know neither of you will move for a long while. “It means I get to stay here.” 

End Note: I'm pre-gaming something. Thank you so, so much for reading!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

Taglist

@artemys-ackles

[bloodstained-ballgowns]

i just rewatched ‘the woman who fell to earth’ a couple of days ago for the first time since it aired back in 2018 and the more i think about it, the more i like it.

thirteen is the only doctor for whom i feel a tangible, rose-tinted nostalgia. she wasn’t my first doctor, but she was the first doctor i watched live, the first doctor that i spent an actual extended period of time with over the episode rollout. her intro episode has middling parts (as can be expected with most episodes of Who) but there’s also so much good that i really want to highlight.

first of all, there are some really great character dynamics set up here. much more interesting than i remember, tbh. ryan is a guy who loves mechanics but is stuck in a warehouse job he hates, a guy who obviously wants to connect to people, a guy who by the end of the episode has lost both his mother and grandmother in the space of a couple of years and the step-grandfather he didn’t really want is all he has left (minus his absent father). that’s interesting.

yaz has a keen sense of justice and this raw, intense yearning to help people, to do something worthwhile, something more - the way she has chosen to express that is through law enforcement, but it’s not quite giving her the satisfaction she wants. that’s interesting.

graham’s experience with cancer means that he constantly feels like he’s living on borrowed time. meeting grace gave him purpose, gave him family, gave him the will to fight when he fought it was all but over, but now grace is gone. he and ryan aren’t related, but they’re family, and now they’ve got to figure out how to care for each other without the very lynchpin that brought them together. once again with feeling: interesting!

“i’m just a traveller. sometimes i see things that need fixing. i do what i can.” i like that they circle back to the ‘just some guy’ portrayal of the doctor here, both because it’s the one i’m partial to and because it feeds particularly well into the whole ‘the doctor is an unreliable narrator’ aspect, especially in the wake of the increased deification in the moffat era. it's a nice set up, even if it gets completely overhauled circa series 12/13. in fact, having thirteen keep this as a persistent attitude throughout the Timeless Child of it all could have been really effective re: her reticence with her companions and refusal to address or deal with her past.

the scene where thirteen builds her sonic screwdriver might be one of my favourite sequences in nuwho. i love that it’s a hybrid of alien tech and sheffield steel. i also love that they highlight the ‘mad inventor’ side of the doctor here (her teleportation circuit is based around a microwave?) and wish that they had carried it forward more. it would have been the perfect basis for her to bond with ryan over. jodie also pulls off the humour of the episode well, considering the significant shift from moffat dialogue.

i enjoy thirteen's outfit: the vibrancy of it as mirroring her childish excitability, but also as another part of the mask - if i dress all colourful then maybe i can ignore/outrun/masquerade my great capacity for darkness! etc etc. the shopping trip with yaz and ryan is a bit shoe-horned in at the end but it's cute that she finds it in a charity shop. (back in 2018 i bought a t-shirt with a couple of stripes across the chest solely because it remotely resembled the one she wore lol. nerd from a young age, me.) jodie also looks soo hot in capaldi's outfit though so a spin on the traditional suit would also have been appreciated.

some miscellaneous points: i like that she tells Karl off (“you had no right to do that”) right after saving him. i like that she gets it wrong at first and makes it clear that she’s working on the fly. she’s following her instinct, and that instinct is to help people. doctor who has been beautiful before but the cinematography takes such a huge step this era. “it’s been a long time since i bought women’s clothes” i am choosing to believe this is about river thank you and good night.