#misscorday

[brideoffunkenstein]

Thank you ^-^

[amillionmillionvoices]

River & Twelve, height differences

He doesn’t notice much about appearance this go around.  He doesn’t notice much about anything, if he’s perfectly honest.  He can never tell when someone’s hair is blonde or brown, if they’re wearing makeup, if they’re dressed for the occasion.  He’s getting better about emotions—recognizing anger from fear, hesitation from resistance, contentment from joy—but he hasn’t mastered it, still too abrupt or callous or ignorant of others’.  

He doesn’t have that problem with his wife.  

No fumbling around trying to read her expressions.  No confusing her favorite army green dress for the fancier ones she wears on their nights out.  He can tell instantly whether her smile meets her eyes, whether she’s tired, whether she’s hiding.  He knows the curve of her hips and her small waist and strong, muscled arms and the bump in her nose; he knows the way her toes curl when she stretches and the twitch of her lips when she’s trying terribly hard not to be amused. He’s still learning things about her, things he’d never realized without living together for an extended period of time, but he knows her, body and, he thinks, hearts as well, though it terrifies him to admit it.

So he’s a bit stunned, but terribly pleased when he rounds the corner into the kitchen and discovers something new.

“You’re short.”

River looks over her shoulder, wet hair clinging haphazardly to her neck, and his grin only widens at her glare.

“I am not short.”

“You can’t even reach the top shelf,” he points out, gesturing to the wall of cabinets she’s been trying - in vain, apparently - to retrieve a mug from.

“You’re the one who installed the cabinets,” she retorts, stretching up on her toes.  It’s only a few inches away, but she’s already stretching, lower body pressed to the counter top, and he should stop being an ass and just grab the damn thing, but her frustration is so adorable he leans against the counter and watches.

“It’s not my fault they don’t come in homunculus.”

River shoots him a look that would make most men cower, but the Doctor just grins, the pull at his cheeks odd but welcome.  He smiles often now, every day, multiple times a day and it’s taken some getting used to.  It still feels strange, like it’s not his face or his mouth, like he can’t control it at all.  His smiles are involuntary, reactionary—a kiss to his jaw, the slide of her hand over his, her feet in socks, the pockets in her robe where she keeps chapstick and a small hand lotion.  He smiles at her grumpy morning routine, at her disgust with certain foods, her own sleepy smile when she curls up on the sofa while he plays.

She softens a bit, as she always does when he looks at her like this, but still, he knows better than to push his luck.  Sliding an arm around her waist for no other reason than because he can and he wants to, the Doctor easily plucks the cup from the top shelf.

And then moves to set it on the floor with a giddy, “Want to make sure you can reach—”

River snatches the dish out of his hand, eyes narrowed and lips pursed but he can tell there’s laughter behind her eyes, hard as she’s trying to hide it.

“We’ve been married over a hundred years,” she snaps, bumping him out of the way to move toward the kettle. “You’re just now noticing how tall I am?”

“Short,” he corrects, earning a glower, “and it’s a bit hard to tell when you’re usually horizontal.”

He waggles his eyebrows, delighted when she breaks just slightly with an amused huff.  “I won’t be horizontal for quite some time unless you shut up and hand me the milk,” she warns.

The Doctor shrugs. “Standing works too,” he says, but dutifully plucks the milk out of the fridge and passes it to her.  

She lets her fingers skim over his knuckles, a sign she isn’t actually upset, and he leans back against the counter to watch her, the way she holds the kettle, how long she steeps her tea.  He stares at her hands, fascinated by the curve of them around a sugar spoon, and he has to drag his eyes away to keep from nearly mooning over a simple hand gesture.  

But it’s new and exciting—things he’d never known before, little things, he either never noticed before or had forgotten.  Every day is a new day to learn something new about his wife, even if it’s as small as the way she brushes her wet hair back behind her ear, and the way it never stays there.

“I like it,” he says, and it takes him a moment, takes him her furrowed brow and attention, to realize he’d spoken out loud.

“Like what?”

He swallows, heart ahead of his brain ahead of his mouth, and he isn’t sure what he’s going to say when he says, “That you’re vertically challenged. Makes me feel—”

He cuts himself off, swallowing the words. She huffs, and he can tell she’s about to retort and then doesn’t, and he waits, and his curiosity gets the better of him and he wishes it hadn’t, because she’s staring at him with an unreadable expression on her face, somehow fond and exasperated and amused and annoyed and horribly, horribly in love all at once. He doesn’t know what to call it or what to say to it so he glowers down at the water and tries to make it boil faster with his mind, to no avail, and River just keeps on watching him, expectant, and he wishes he were better at this. Wishes he had his last self’s turn of phrase, pretty words for pretty moments. Instead he has a gruff voice and no tact and he feels his stomach drop when after a few silent moments, she turns and looks away. Her eyes drop to the mug in front of her, one hand coming up to tuck an errant curl behind her ear, a nervous gesture, and he hates himself for the sharp intake of breath she takes and the too wide smile and the teasing, Well maybe you’re just abnormally tall that falls flat and isn’t nearly clever enough, but he lets it slide because it’s his fault anyway. His fault, that she slides past him without catching his gaze. His fault she doesn’t trail her fingers over his like she usually does in the exchange of mugs. His fault she leans back against the wall, away from him, fingers curled around her tea. It’s his fault she changes the subject, and his fault that he lets her.

They’re halfway into a pseudo-argument about the merits of a Berra plant when he can’t take it anymore, can’t handle the ease with which she seems to have forgotten and moved on, the fact that he knows she hasn’t, that the lie is so utterly believable it makes him second guess himself. He doesn’t want to have one of these emotionally heavy conversations—he’s rubbish and she never takes it the right way—but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop, interrupting her mid sentence,

“Like I can protect you.”

River blinks, then frowns. “What?”

“It makes me feel like I can protect you.”

She’s about to ask what does, he thinks, but instead her eyes widen just fractionally, lips parted just enough that he wants to kiss them right now. He doesn’t, barely, even though her tongue darts out to wet her lips and he’s forced to bite back a groan.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” says says slowly, not upset, not unkindly. She’s studying him, eyes narrowed just slightly, fingers lax against her mug.

He nods. “I know. S’why I like it.”

She looks startled, unsure, the atmosphere shifted too quick for her to process, for her walls to go up so he figures it’s now or never and sets down his mug, closing the space between them. He likes the way she has to look up at him, likes the line it gives her jaw and the shape of her nose.

He takes the cup out of her hands and sets it aside, hands returning to fall at her waist as he crowds her back against the wall. Her hands settle instinctively on his chest, and he likes that, too.

Her eyes flutter closed when he presses his lips to the top of her head, to her temples. He kisses the tip of her nose and smiles when she wrinkles it adorably. He kisses her forehead, and likes the way she shivers, fingers gripping the lapels of his shirt.

He likes the way she looks up at him through her lashes, eyes bright.

But he loves, with a hand sliding through her hair, how she fits against him, head tucked under his chin, and he can feel her everywhere—his nose in her hair and the smell of her, her curves, his angles, the push of her breasts against his chest, her arms around his neck or around his waist or even pinned between them, fingers at the hollow of his throat.  The way his mind and hearts slow down, their perpetual panic soothed by the weight of her, wrapping himself up in her.  He loves how easily he envelops her.  How she lets him.  

His eyes sting and he presses closer, breathing in the smell of her shampoo, hands fisting in the fluffy material of her robe, and he thinks about how much he hates hugs, how they feel like invasions, like obligations, how this feels like neither, like more, like home.

She exhales, tension sliding off her shoulders and she burrows closer, impossibly, and he can feel her smile through his shirt.

“I hate you sometimes,” she says, but it sounds so much like I love you that his chest aches, and he tightens his arms around her.

“No, you don’t,” he murmurs, lips pressed into her hair, her forehead, her lips, warm and soft and she takes a bit like tea, a bit like toothpaste.  He doesn’t really care, even though the tea’s too sweet and he hates mint because she’s warm and soft and tucked into him like she was made especially for him.  His hearts twitch at that, a truth a little too close to home, but she chooses that moment to open her mouth and slide her tongue against his and he does his best to stop thinking about anything except her lips and her nose bumping his and her hand cradling his cheek.

She sighs against his mouth, his name a question, and he hums in response, pulling back just enough for her to tip her chin up, to meet his gaze.

“Don’t ever call me short again,” she says, the warning in her tone betrayed by the quirk of her lips and flushed cheeks and breathlessness.

Grin so wide it stings, he pats the top of her head like a dog.

“Whatever you say, stumpy.”

He figures he probably deserves the punch in the arm, but when he snags her wrist and hauls her back against him she doesn’t protest, just arches up on her toes to kiss his smile.

[seekingthespheres]

misscorday replied to your post “I was thinking of calling my state reps, but it would be me screaming...”

Do it. Reduce yourself to bullet points on issues you KNOW they're dealing with soon and leave the message. (I was just like "I know DeVos contributed to your campaign & you may share some of her views on education, but PLEASE say "no" to DeVos & give the job to someone qualified for the position.")

My problem is that there is so much time-sensitive stuff to press them on I am losing track & losing my mind. I think it’s just my mentality of I have to fix ALL the things, when that’s not possible. It’s just really hard to see all of this stuff and have to ignore it for my sanity & efficacy. 

[brideoffunkenstein]

Okay, so while I was too late to see the post and now can’t find it, @misscorday floated an idea for an Alex Kingston Appreciation Week - 7 days of celebrating Alex and her characters in forms of fics, arts, edits, posts, gifs, etc., leading up to her birthday on March 11th.

I’d say I’m in. No excuses needed to celebrate Alex. Anyone else interested? :D

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

codenamesailordarillium replied to your post “tbh one of the best things about writing on Renaissance art is...”

Dem fingers are having a party up in the air.

misscorday replied to your post “tbh one of the best things about writing on Renaissance art is...”

The tension, though. That's how I feel my hands look when I've had a panic attack & hyperventilated, and is certainly one of the more torture depictions. The so-called "son of God" has seldom looked less divine.

no yeah I think Jesus is the best part!! He’s very intense and the depiction of Him as emaciated and covered in wounds is really interesting to see after all the idealized muscly prime-condition Christs with little to no blood that you get in a lot of other Renaissance portrayals of the crucifixion - I was looking more like at the guy holding fainted Mary whose hand looks vaguely upside down because his thumb is nearly the same length as his other fingers and the webbing is completely hidden which makes it harder to tell that is the thumb on top; the cylinder of the sleeve disguises the shape of the wrist connecting to the palm too which doesn’t help since you can’t see the shape of the fleshy part of the thumb very clearly either

and the pointing guy on the other side whose forearm is bent oddly; his hand is a little too big and idk what his thumb is doing... aesthetically it’s a nice curvature!! but anatomically it’s ?? like trying to picture this hand in any other position looks very unnatural because thumbs generally aren’t so skinny below the first knuckle

(and this is just a personal artistic thing it’s not like wrong in any way but Mary Magdalene being shown in the process of clasping her hands instead of already having clasped them feels distracting; it’s still emotive, but the jumble of fingers doesn’t sit well with me)

[wouldntyoulichentoknow]

misscorday replied to your photo “this is not the time to break down”

Y U DOIN THIS 2 ME 2 DAY?!?!?!

I WAS HAVING FEELINGS AND YOU KNOW I CAN NEVER HAVE FEELINGS ALONE I GOTTA FLING THEM AT EVERYBODY

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

misscorday replied to your post “I ACCIDENTALLY STEPPED ON A COCKROACH AND IT MADE A HORRIBLE POPPING...”

No, no, you're supposed to step on them INTENTIONALLY & *really* squish them around bc those assholes will just seal over & move on their merry way.

notmumrn replied to your post “I ACCIDENTALLY STEPPED ON A COCKROACH AND IT MADE A HORRIBLE POPPING...”

OH MY GOD CALL 911 OR JESUS OR SANTA THIS IS NOT OK

APPARENTLY I DIDN’T GET NOTIFIED ABOUT THESE REPLIES AND SO AM LATE RESPONDING BUT HERE I AM NOW

1. I THOUGHT IT WAS ALREADY DEAD IT HADN’T MOVED THE WHOLE CLASS PERIOD BUT THEN I FORGOT TO LOOK WHERE I WAS GOING AFTER THROWING SOMETHING AWAY AND IT WAS RIGHT BY THE TRASHCAN SO IT WAS AN ACCIDENT I WOULD NOT HAVE INTENTIONALLY ALREADY STEPPED ON A DEAD COCKROACH (EXCEPT SINCE IT WAVED AT ME I’M NOT CONVINCED IT WAS ACTUALLY DEAD AND DID NOT IN FACT FOLLOW ME TO SEEK REVENGE I’M VERY AFRAID)

2. IS THAT A LIGHTLY SARCASTIC TONE BECAUSE WHILE I AM CERTAIN JESUS WOULD HELP ME IN MY TIME OF NEED AND 911 WOULD UNDERSTAND THIS IS AN EMERGENCY SITUATION I AM NOT SURE THAT SANTA WOULD BE OF MUCH HELP AGAINST A POPPING COCKROACH EXCEPT TO MAYBE PRODUCE AN ELF-CRAFTED COCKROACH KILLER BUT THAT SEEMS HIGHLY IMPROBABLE

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

7, 13, 15, 18, 33

wheeeeeee thank you!

7. an instrumental: The Tower by Ludovico Einaudi

13. a song made suddenly precious because of a special someone: hmm... I don’t know if this counts but when I was little my mom would always sing You Are My Sunshine and then like last year I found a version by The Civil Wars which basically immediately became a favorite so there’s that?

15. something to BELT SHAMELESSLY/do DIVA HANDS to: HIIIIIIGHWAYYYYYYYYYYYY TOOOOOOO THE DANGER ZONE

18. a song that demands lipsyncing into a makeshift microphone: you mean every song HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO and you better believe Total Eclipse is right up there too

33: a song you have ZERO patience for: anything by a male country singer NO WAIT specifically this one (siiiiiiiidewayyyyyyyyyyyyyys) because it’s like bam let’s do the sex like?? no thank you go away