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m-a-salter · 2 months

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Why is Peter Capaldi so hot?

The other day a friend of mine sent me some GIFs of this scene from Before the Flood:

and asked the seemingly simple question, "Why is this man so hot?"

The short answer, in this case, is because he's biting his lip and doing that thing with his eyes. But of course there is a broader question and, conveniently, I am very happy to provide a broader answer—a wholly subjective, over-analyzed answer, that I will present in four parts, addressing the eight categories of Peter Capaldi's hotness, in no particular order.

1. Physical Features

Most people think of hotness as a physical characteristic, and so let us first examine the physical features that make Mr. Capaldi so hot.

1.1 General Physique: tall, long-limbed.

1.2 Voice: I will refrain from audio clips, but you know what I'm talking about. The timbre, the pitch, the accent! Go find an audiobook and don't expect it to put you to sleep.

1.3 Hands: I have been unrestrained on this point elsewhere, but suffice to say, he has elegant and wonderfully expressive hands.

1.4 Eyes: Are they green? Greyish-blue? The color of the Firth of Clyde when the wind is out of the west? Does it matter? They're beautiful.

1.5 Hair: Many people have strong preferences about the length; my own tastes are totally inclusive, from the short crop of Daniel Hegarty to the flopping curls of Twice Upon a Time.

1.6 Honorable Mentions

Look at this perfect little tummy:

And somehow his skull is an impossibly lovely shape:

He is, quite simply, a beautiful specimen of a human being. But, as we all know, there is a lot more to hotness than mere physical beauty. In the next part, we will consider behavior: mannerisms, skills, etc.

[part 2] [part 3] [part 4]

#peter capaldi #twelfth doctor #doctor who #malcolm tucker #the thick of it #my edit

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space-glasgow · 5 months

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jamiemalcolm save me… save me jamiemalcolm

#the thick of it #malcolm tucker #peter capaldi #jamie macdonald #paul higgins #ttoi #my edit

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afieldinengland · 4 months

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#this happened to malcolm tucker #my edit

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fastdrawfarmboy · 10 months

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Someone tell me what the hell we're supposed to infer from these parallels other than Reed being attracted to Trip because I genuinely don't know.

#don't ask me why the image quality is so bad the footage was fine while I was editing #star trek #star trek enterprise #star trek gifs #tucker/reed #Malcolm/Trip #I don't know what the more common tag is so I'm tagging both #edit: found another tag #tuckerreed #id in alt text

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rumfrogx · 9 months

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♡ malcolm tucker bbg.mp4 ♡

#malcolm tucker #the thick of it #edit #peter capaldi #ttoi

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gingerteaonthetardis · 7 months

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Ok! So! Prompt time: emotional hurt/comfort + Malcolm x Hannah (or twelve x rose but it’s more fun to see Malcolm in this situation) BUT it’s Hannah (or Rose) who needs some serious comfort.

oh, i love this prompt!! so much!! i went with rose & tucker for this one because i had an idea come to me right away for them, hope you don't mind. also, please be advised that this fic involves grief over a canon character death.

enjoy!

to read on ao3, click here!

The morning of November 7th dawns cold and pale, with his mobile buzzing angrily toward the edge of his nightstand and no Rose beside him.

Now, Malcolm Tucker is not a romantic by even the most vigorous stretch of the imagination, but only one of those two things feels like an emergency.

He silences his mobile.

Sliding out of bed, he reaches for a jumper—a deep, rich shade of green he never would have picked for himself—and pads across the bedroom toward the hissing sound of the shower running.

One thing he's learned about Rose in the course of their… entanglement—is that she is not a morning person. Her aversion to alarm clocks is on par with his reaction to phone calls from Number 10 these days. As in, there's usually a lot of swearing involved, maybe some hives.

But if Rose being awake at this hour is unusual, her being conscious enough to shower is unheard of. Which makes it either a miracle on par with loaves and fishes, or a catastrophe.

"Rose?"

She gives no answer, or at least, not one that he can make out over the spray of water. But the door is cracked, and he pushes it open further to get a better look. It takes him several seconds to recognise why the air feels wrong: it's cold.

There's no steam billowing out from behind the curtain, and the unexpected draft indicates that the little porthole window behind her is open. An icy feeling slices through him, unrelated to the chill autumn air.

"Rose," he says again, a little more sharply. "Are you in there? Is this some kind of horror film set-up we're doing? You should know I've never seen Psycho."

There's confirmation of life in the sound of a sniffle, which could be a laugh but—his chest tightens—probably isn't.

"Don't come in," she mumbles.

"Why, have you got a knife?"

"That's not what h-happens in Psycho."

Mouth falling into a grim line at the unsteadiness of her voice, he reaches for the curtain.

"Okay, what the fuck is going—"

Shit. His heart does something his cardiologist probably would not like, and his hand falls limp at his side. Shit, and also fuck.

Because Rose is sitting in the very corner of the tub, down to her knickers and the ringer shirt he'd lent her to sleep in. She's curled up there, like she's trying to be a tiny ball instead of a person.

"Jesus Christ, have you lost your mind?" he snaps. "It's fucking freezing in here." When he reaches through the shower spray to touch her, he hisses at the temperature and withdraws. The water's cold, too. Frigid.

She bundles tighter into herself. "Just go, Malcolm, please."

His jaw locks.

Yeah, there's no way in hell he's going to just turn around and prance off to make his morning coffee while his… whatever-she-is has some kind of meltdown in his fucking shower that apparently requires subarctic temperatures.

"It's my bathroom, actually, so I think I'll stay, thanks," he shoots back, not bothering to regulate his tone.

For someone who has spent approximately twenty-three hours of every day in a state of unhinged stress for the last two decades, he is aware he should probably be hardened to the feeling by now. The two years he's been out of the business isn't nearly enough time for the conditioning to fade. But for some reason, seeing Rose in this condition has him reeling like it's his first press tour. His mouth takes off without his permission.

"I mean, talk about psycho. Is this some kind of new beauty routine I don't know about, like kiwi fucking facials and sperm hair treatments? 'Cause I have to say, I don't care for this particular trend. You'll freeze your perfectly lovely tits off, for one thing. And for another, you—Rose?"

He stops short, watching a tremble travel through her. It's like the ground during an earthquake, moments before a fissure opens—before damage becomes destruction. Unsalvageable.

She's trying not to cry. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Okay, you're actually scaring me now," he says, voice going flat. "What's happening here? Do I need to call a doctor? A psychic?" Her chin jerks up, and she stares at him with reddened eyes. "A priest?"

"No." The word is harsh, but he doesn't give a shit, because she comes a little back to life as she says it. Her eyes flare up at him beneath clotted, dark lashes. "I'm n-not possessed. God. You're so—I just… need a minute, all right?"

"Well, I'm sorry, darling, I don't think you have a minute before hypothermia sets in. You're turning fucking blue."

She seems intent on ignoring him—or perhaps she's just ignoring reality in general—because she promptly buries her face in her arms again, where they're crossed over her bare knees.

He's not lying; there is a strange lavender cast to her toes, her kneecaps, the tips of her fingers. She looks like a wax doll version of herself. But if she won't do anything about it, it's apparently fucking up to him.

Sighing, he braves the frigid shower spray again to reach for the knob, turning it towards the heated side. A new rush of warmer water soaks his sleeve.

So much for his nice, cosy morning plans.

"Look, just tell me what's going on," he tells her slowly, reaching over her head to tug the window closed, "and then if you really want me to leave you to it, I will."

It takes her about a full minute under the spray to stop shivering—longer for some colour to return to her skin, and even longer than that to answer him.

He knows she's working on it by the flexing of her fingers and toes, the gentle rocking motion she makes as she attempts to build her courage. He knows all the signs. The words are just sitting in there like stones; she's just struggling to pick them up and actually say them. And hell if he hasn't been there before.

Finally, she lifts her head again. Her cheeks are ruddy, and he realises she's been crying for a long time.

"My dad's dead."

Totally lacking in emphasis, her words still hit him like a ton of bricks. A one-two-three punch of deadpan delivery.

"Shit." No, that's not right. His brain is full of fucking smoke alarms. "I'm sorry." Better.

"Yeah." The silence dangles for a second. "It's nothing to do with you."

That takes him out at the kneecaps, and suddenly he's sitting on the lip of the tub, catching his breath. What the hell? "I… didn't think it was." He hesitates before asking, "When?"

Her eyes close. "He died 27 years ago today."

"Jesus. Rose, why didn't you tell me?"

"When exactly was I s-supposed to slip it into conversation, Malcolm?" Her lids bat back open in a second, and she turns her most challenging glare on him. "When you made that stupid joke about daddy issues, was I supposed to go, 'Surprise! My dad did actually die when I was six months old, but please have sex with me anyway'? And then," she barrels on, "we decided we weren't, you know, serious or whatever, and I kept assuming it would… end eventually? But we just kept seeing each other and the date kept creeping up, and I ignored it, because it's not like you're my fucking boyfriend."

The whiplash of her cursing would probably make him laugh if he wasn't feeling so desperately miserable.

"And then I came over last night and you—and then I… decided to stay…" She shakes her head, damp strands of hair whipping against her cheek. There are blueish shadows under her eyes, violently contrasting with the red. "And I thought I could handle it and it would be fine, but then I woke up and I just—I couldn't… I just kept thinking—" and that's the last word that makes it out of her before her air supply seems to shut off. Her chest shudders and her eyes close, and he wants to peck out his own fucking liver for letting this entire awful situation come to be.

"You have to take a breath every now and then," he scolds instead. "Fuck's sake."

To his intense concern, that doesn't even earn him a withering look. Just a continuation of the weird hitching rhythm of her chest. Her hands clench tighter around her knees, dimpling the skin with pale half-moons. Looking at her is borderline unendurable.

He groans. "Fuck this." And then he swings around over the ledge of the tub, kicking his limbs inside, where they are immediately soaked.

It's a big enough tub—compared to the size of his flat, the shower stall is almost impractically decadent—but it's not really meant for two. A fact he is keenly aware of as he goes to his knees beside Rose's shivering, twitching body.

Careful, he takes her by the shoulders and turns her around, then he spreads his knees as far as he's able—thanking hell he didn't decide to change into denims before this—so she can sort of sit in between them. He pulls her in until her curved back touches his chest.

The cotton clinging to her is still too cool, and he is grateful for the hot spray that continues to fall around them. At least, if they're going to be wet through, they can still share some goddamned body heat.

It's with this goal in mind that he wraps his arms around her—his whole body, hunching in over the snarled knot of her form. Letting their breathing fall into a shared, slower rhythm. "That's it," he feels himself say, like he's down some tunnel, far away from himself. "Just breathe with me, there's a girl."

He doesn't know how long they sit there like that: long enough for his knees to begin aching, and for the air to go humid against his nose, soft with the smell of her hair.

Her shampoo is sunny, somehow. Citrus, with something fresh and green.

"This is fucking ridiculous," he mumbles eventually. "You should have told me."

"I—" she starts, but he squeezes.

"Yes, yes. I should have made it easier for you to tell me, I know," he grinds out. "I'm an arsehole. And I shouldn't have said that shite about our ages either, because it only called attention to what's basically obvious to anyone with one or more eyes in their head. Which is that you can do far, far fucking better than me."

The worst part, which he does not mention, is that he hadn't even fucking meant anything by that whole 'daddy issues' bit. It had just felt expected, somehow—after the zoo that was his trial and with the zombie horde dogging his steps post-acquittal, he'd felt like an acknowledgement had to be made in case some hack wearing a wire was sitting nearby, just waiting to turn her relative youth and incredible beauty into a new headline in a smear piece.

The disgraced former spin doctor desperately pawing at a woman half his age would undoubtedly make a good photo op. So instead, he'd been snotty and perverse. And now he's paying for it.

Worse, she's paying for it.

"You should, by the way," he adds, feeling her hand squeeze back, curled somewhere around his wrist. "I'm serious. Anyone would be better. A fucking dogcatcher with a furs shop. A monk. I could set you up with fucking Ollie Reeder, so long as you don't mind that he's gay."

To his relief, she actually snorts. It's a laugh, liquified and wobbly, but real. "Oh, shut up."

"And I… I'm sorry about your dad." He swallows, having to force down a new wave of panic—not to do with her, this time. It's all him.

He braids their fingers together, feeling like a fucking pansy and trying to focus on the drumming water against his back. He so rarely fears inadequacy, but this is one area in which he's failed again and again and again.

He's been reliably informed that he is not a comforting presence.

"I really am, darling," he adds weakly.

"It was a long time ago," she says. "I barely even remember him."

"That doesn't make it easier, does it?"

Half of him waits for her to stiffen or recoil, while the logical part of his brain is forced to admit that Rose would never. She's far too kind.

That's always been his issue, really. She's just so goddamn kind, and he could kick himself in the head for taxing that. Keeping her at arm's length when she obviously doesn't want to be, making her feel like the showerhead would be a better listener. Christ.

She breathes deep instead, and her body unfolds itself until her head is resting on his chest.

"No," she admits. A long exhale. "It really doesn't."

The air is properly foggy now. Her skin is pink where he can see it. But he doesn't let go of her, and she gives no indication of wanting him to. He can feel the grief subsiding in the air, sucked down the drain.

That's the way of it: it comes in waves. And when it's gone, you might not resemble who you were before it.

"Ollie Reeder," she says, some indefinable time later. "God. I would literally rather donate my vagina to the National Trust. That's repulsive."

He kisses her shoulder, wishing fleetingly that it was bare. "Accept my apology."

"You know you didn't actually apologise for anything," she scoffs, sounding more and more like herself. "Except for my dad which, according to a near-thirty-year-old police report, you had nothing to do with."

But he kisses her again, and again, and she sighs. He likes to think she does so at least a little bit because it feels nice.

"Of course I forgive you, dickhead." He puffs a laugh against her, tightening his grip, and she settles into it like a cat in a sunray. Fucking unbelievable. "I know we haven't… really talked about it properly, Malcolm, but I—I mean, I get it, you know?" Two of her fingers fiddle with his damp sleeve. "Neither of us is particularly trusting."

"Understatement of the millennium."

"But I want to," she goes on, words seizing his heart in his chest. Seriously, Dr. Jones is going to kill him at their next appointment. "Trust you, I mean. Is that stupid?"

Her bones under his hands feel strong and sturdy, and her flesh is as forgiving as the rest of her, and he finally allows himself to feel all the fear he's been keeping at bay since the moment they met on that street corner, two in the morning. It had felt like a colossal fuck-up waiting to happen, or like an undeserved stay of execution.

"Yes," he answers shortly. "Probably so." He clears his throat, the sound feeling too loud in the close space. "But at least we're on equal idiot footing."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the motion of her cheeks, and when she tilts her head up to look at him, she's smiling. Blotchy and sweet.

Malcolm Tucker is not a romantic man. He's just fucking not. But he'd swear up and down in a court of law that he could get lost in Rose Tyler's gaze and be perfectly happy for it.

His fear fades into a background hum, suddenly fucking unimportant. He feels himself soften in ways he's still figuring out how to allow.

After a moment, her tongue slides between her teeth. "You've really never seen Psycho?"

He rolls his eyes with a groan. "What is with this generation and your relentless nostalgia?" he complains. "There are about five hundred brand new superhero movies to choose from and you want to watch some old—"

With her hands on his for balance, Rose pushes up a little, stretches her spine, and shuts him up with a kiss.

#hope you like! apologies for the wait! and also for any failures in grammar/editing due to my Extreme Brain Fog lmao <3 hugs #fic and chips #tuckerrose #malcolm tucker x rose tyler #ttoi x dw #dw fic #prompt fic #hurt/comfort #abbey writes #malcolm tucker #rose tyler #the thick of it #doctor who #i love them they're my fav rarepair ever ever ever

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sarnie-for-varney · 6 months

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Holmes: *calls children varmints*

Also Holmes: *employs a bunch of children to help him on his cases and even reads them classical literature*

(I love how he goes pSST like they're cats 🤣)

Edit: @malcolm-f-tucker informed me that he said 'varmints' instead of 'vermin', so I changed it

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m-a-salter · 2 months

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Why is Peter Capaldi so hot? Part Three.

[part 1] [part 2] [part 4]

In Part One and Part Two we considered (1) Mr. Capaldi's physical characteristics and (2-3) behaviors. In this part, we will consider his acting roles in relation to his hotness. This is essentially the sub-question, "Is Peter Capaldi hot, or am I just in love with several of his characters?" My contention is that, as long as your relationship with him remains parasocial, it is not an important distinction.

And for those of us who have not been brainwashed by moral purity cultures within fandom, this holds for (4) his good, appealing characters and (5) his potentially evil characters. They are hot in different ways, but all are hot.

4. Highly lovable characters

Call me old-fashioned, but nothing is hotter than goodness.

4.1 Danny Oldsen, Local Hero (1983): I am aware that some people don't think there is any relationship between a character being an adorable precious cinnamon roll and the actor playing the character being hot. Those people are entitled to their opinions.

4.2 Randall Brown, The Hour (2012): Principled, highly competent, dapper, and with a tragic backstory, in my mind, the hotness of Randall Brown infuses everything Peter Capaldi does.

4.3 The Doctor, Doctor Who (2014-17): Has anyone read this far who doesn't think the twelfth Doctor is hot? I personally have a particular soft spot for the soft smile.

5. Slightly or majorly evil characters, but in a sexy way

5.1 Malcolm Tucker, The Thick of It (2005-2012) and In the Loop (2009).

5.2 Cardinal Richelieu, The Musketeers (2014): He didn't get to have as much sex as the other characters in this show, but he still wore a lot of leather.

5.3 Daniel Hegarty, Criminal Record (2024): All cops are bastards, some are sexy bastards in well-tailored suits.

[part 1] [part 2] [part 4]

#peter capaldi #local hero #danny oldsen #the hour #randall brown #doctor who #twelfth doctor #the thick of it #malcolm tucker #the musketeers #cardinal richelieu #criminal record #daniel hegarty #my edit

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space-glasgow · 4 months

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scottish james bond

#the thick of it #malcolm tucker #peter capaldi #ttoi #my edit

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crow-in-snow · 1 year

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THE THICK OF IT | series 3 ep. 8

TERRI: Oh, that's a nice, snuggly fleece.

MALCOLM: Oh, this is lovely and warm. 40 tog.

Malcolm Tucker: Domestic Edition

#the thick of it #peter capaldi #peter capaldi's hands #malcolm tucker #fleece!malcolm #snuggly malc

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ozzie-starfur · 3 months

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Tucker and Malcolm strolling through the autumn leaves. Drawn at the request of my ENT fam 💕

Edit: why does tumblr always destroy the quality of my art :(

#star trek ent #star trek enterprise #trip tucker #star trek #malcolm reed #star trek fanart

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weerd1 · 2 months

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ENT Rewatch Starlog, 25 February, 2024: Episode 3.15 “Harbinger”

Trip is taking what he’s learned from T’Pol’s neuropressure sessions and having his OWN sessions with Corporal Cole of the MACOs. She expresses interest in taking it further, but has also gone to Phlox to mention she’s been having headaches afterward. Phlox informs T’Pol and suggests she try to undo Trip’s missteps with the Corporal. T’Pol gives her very unhappy stoic face.

Meanwhile, Major Hayes of the MACOs has approached Archer about providing combat training to senior Starfleet officers, which Malcolm takes to be an attempt on Hayes’ part to take over ship security. He grudgingly goes along with it, but the sessions prove to be escalating one-upmanship between the Starfleet Lieutenant and the MACO Major.

While all THAT interpersonal drama is going on, Enterprise discovers an enormous cluster of spatial anomalies equidistant between five spheres.

They pick up a life sign in a small pod just inside the anomaly, and with some dangerous moves manage to retrieve an unknown alien. He claims to have been a prisoner from a different dimension of space who was forced into the pod. Archer begins to think some of those myths about the Sphere Builders returning D’Jamat and his people from “Chosen Realm” discussed might be somewhat true, and this alien may be like a canary in a coal mine to see of the spheres are changing local space to be what those builders need.

After various shenanigans and awkward discussions between T’Pol, Trip, and Cole, Trip and T’Pol are conducting a neuropressure session where she reveals that Sim—the Trip clone from a few episodes back—told T’Pol that Tucker has feelings for her. After some repartee, T’Pol kisses Trip, and disrobes, and the two have sex.

Meanwhile, Hayes and Reed are in the gym sparing and the testosterone takes over, and it becomes a brawl that spills into the corridor. About that time though, the alien reveals himself able to phase through matter and walks to engineering where he proceeds to reach in and damage the warp core. Fresh from their fight, Malcolm and Hayes manage to tweak the engine to zap him and stop him.

The Alien reveals he was there to stop the NX-01, and when the Xindi destroy Earth, his “people will prevail,” before phasing completely out.

Trip and T’Pol have an awkward coffee together where she says their encounter was basically her just exploring her curiosity about human sexuality, but Trip does think they should continue neuropressure. Archer dresses down Malcolm and Hayes, who seem to have resolved their differences after their own physical session.

Rare to see a Trek episode that has an A, B, AND C story going on all at once. The parallels between the Trip/T’Pol and Reed/Hayes stories do not however seem coincidental. Yeah, I’m a T&T shipper, though some of T’Pol’s very human jealousy here seems more than a bit forced, I’m not sure the eroticism between those characters was any more dramatic than between Reed and Hayes when they were fighting. Jesus, guys, just kiss already. Archer leaving them in his quarters after his lecture without dismissing them, and neither wanting to leave drives the point that these two are really pretty similar home.

But T&T DOES finally consummate here including a scene that shows about the top third of T’Pol’s bare “bum,” that as I recall was actually edited in some parts of the country; how quaint. Some of how this all plays out I think does weaken T’Pol’s character a bit, but I guiltily accept it as these two are on my OTP list, so what can I say?

Meanwhile, there is an age-old Trek foible here that I will never quite understand. What keeps an alien (or flashing back to TNG in the episode “The Next Phase” Geordi and Ro) who is phasing—seemingly uncontrolled as he can’t control his disappearance at the end—from falling through the floor? Or staying in one point in space while the ship moves around them, since surely gravity and inertia won’t work on them too? How can he use hands to climb the ladder to get on top of the warp core, but put his hands through the top to reach in a reach havoc? OK- MAYBE in this case he has more control over the process than they indicate so he’s just CHOOSING to have the bottom of his feet only phase for walls and not floors, but…it always makes me shrug.

Finally, my THANKS to this episode for my all-time favorite Enterprise GIF: