independent MILLICENT CLYDE from 🧸 paddington the musical !! 🐾 adored by maya (they/them, 21+, south africa).
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@millicentclyde
independent MILLICENT CLYDE from 🧸 paddington the musical !! 🐾 adored by maya (they/them, 21+, south africa).
i can think of a substance that will calm millie down 🧃
ah yes a juice box thank you rabbit 🫶🏽🥰🖤
i love writing with muses that have really dark backstories and have been through the actual horrors and have the most haunted looks in their eyes from experiencing woe after woe because millie is like i totally understand… i too have been through it… you see daddy never loved me so now im beefing with a bear half my size who doesn’t know i exist…
Positive affirmations:
I shall cut down all who stand in my way
I shall cut down all who stand in my way
I shall cut down all who stand in my way
I shall cut down all who stand in my way
I shall cut down all who stand in my way
sighs and gets on my soap box. “millicent hates animals” is a bizarre take. of course she loves animals. her main song in the show is about how much she loves animals. someone who hates animals would simply not go into her field. there are certain animals she dislikes (such as pigeons and chinchillas) but as a whole millie is truly and wholly an animal lover. she refused to stuff the pigeon she shot (i know this sentence is not helping my case) because she doesn't like pigeons but look at her collections. they're full of animals she DID deem worthy of stuffing. girlypop loves her job.
now. you can say millie likes animals in a disturbing way. or an uncomfortable way. these are very valid points, because she likes her animals dead. but ‘pretty little dead things’ is literally a song about how much she likes animals. in the 'encyclopaedia' portion of the song she's proudly listing all the animals she's stuffed.
millie's actress did an ig q&a about a month ago where she said that the reason millie is a taxidermist is so that she can keep her animals forever and they won't ever leave her (unlike her father). now does that sound like someone who hates animals ‼️ it sounds like someone with unresolved issues and deep insecurities, maybe, but it doesn't sound like an #animalhater. stop this propaganda ‼️
honestly getting cozy in bed is one of the top experiences one can have on this green earth
OH. you just keep full poems…. lying around in your head. just in case you might need them. millicent keeps her lips pressed tightly together, because she's still not certain she won't start screeching about who knows what if she allows herself the freedom, but she finds this bit of information about larissa weems oddly charming. some of the words and meanings are lost on millicent, and that's okay. with every passing stanza, she finds herself wishing she were in front of larissa and could watch her lips recite a poem that is clearly dear to her (dear enough to keep in that big head, at least). she makes a mental note of a couple of lines and the name shelley — she'll google the poem later and study it at length. perhaps grant can help her.
❛ did you know, ❜ millicent says, ❛ that i was in remedial literature? i was that bad. ❜
and yet some of the lines of the poem could come from larissa herself if millicent didn't know any better, because larissa weems is poetic and wickedly intelligent and well-read and she has a natural command over language. for larissa, language isn’t a tool. she speaks and language bends to her will. she is an artist. meanwhile, millicent and the rest of the world stumble over simple sentences.
she finishes unpinning all of larissa's curls for the second time that day. her fingers run through those strands of heavy, pale hair. she reaches for the hairbrush she'd already set aside and runs it through larissa's hair. very little needs untangling, but the motion feels nice. she focuses on that curtain of long, silky hair (starbeams among twilight trees or something), and not on their physical proximity.
larissa still smells like flowers, but the glory of the moon is dead. or something.
❛ how many degrees do you have? ❜ a pause, then, ❛ it's a beautiful poem. it's very... you. you must've taught it at your school. ❜ the one that you miss.
my credit card info got stolen and was used to buy hundreds of dollars in things in south america and now it’s cancelled and getting a replacement will take over a month 🤧🤧🤧🤧🤧🤧
Principal Weems is sitting in her office with a brilliant, socially-troubled student; one who senses something is wrong, but can't figure out what it is. The student is looking at her with all the desperation of a child who fears the withdrawal of attention and affection as certain death. The student is saying, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
What would Principal Weems do?
She takes off her gloves, then her earrings and cuff bracelet, and steps out of her shoes. She tries not to feel Millicent's fear and concern. She tries to push it down to wherever the feelings go, but it keeps bobbing up to the surface, insistently buoyant. Because she isn't Principal Weems, of course, still. She is still just Larissa, and this is Millicent, and nothing can be easy.
She puts her jewelry away in its cream-coloured leather traveling case. The pearls on her earrings, the hammered texture of the bracelet: comforting details, things that remind her of the world's reality outside of Castle Dracula. She takes a breath and readies herself and sits next to Millicent on the bed. The immediacy of her dark, alert eyes is extremely affecting, which Larissa tries not to show; she tries not to appreciate the intimacy of her bare face and braided hair, either.
"I'll take off my makeup," she says, "then if you'd like to help me with my hair, of course--I'd enjoy that." She reaches for Millicent's wringing hands. They're blindingly warm against her own; tingles travel up her arms at once, which is very inconvenient when one is trying to focus. "You apologised for quite a lot of things. Thank you. It was unnecessary--" her eyelids lower a degree--"except for what you said about Orkney, and afterward." Her expression settles again. "Thank you," she repeats.
"It's very difficult for me to discuss my emotions." She closes her eyes briefly, and soldiers on. "Especially when I understand that they are unwelcome." Here in this house, here with her family, here between her and Millicent. Larissa reminds herself that she's already taken her time to be bitter, and that there's no point in sulking. She'll be as clear as she can, without reverting to Principal Weems, and it will be awful, but what else is there to do? Leave Millicent to foment in confusion and suffering? (As Millicent was happy to do to her? Five other people? We're done with bitterness just now.)
"Please, just..." Hold me. Touch me. I've been waiting. She swallows and lets go of Millicent's hands. The scents of coconut, cinnamon, and sugar are so insistent that she feels a little tipsy. If she stays here, she'll ask for it--to be touched. Comforted. Held, and kissed, and treated as worthwhile. Differently from before, when Millicent was desiring and open and yielding to her; Larissa wants to be the one reached-for, which she doesn't think is likely to happen. Why wait in hope? Why invite disappointment? "Thank you for your patience. I'm going to go wash my face."
forced to say “it’s okay!” Instead of throwing a fucking chair at their head
Why does your post have lingerie on
God forbid a bitch be feeling herself while mentally ill in this economy 😢
hmm. yes. millicent does like this response. the implications — devotion — flay her, but at least there is some illogic to make into logic. larissa has admitted that millicent is inconvenient to her life. millicent is an unintelligent passion. she relaxes significantly after that. yes, larissa weems acknowledges there were plenty of beautiful actresses she could have picked from a catalogue, but she unintelligently chose millicent instead.
millicent accepts this. and now, a cruel little voice in the back of her head: make things worse. remind her you're going back to orkney. and though the idea of dissolving into another argument has a certain appeal, a certain comfort, a familairity, it would only suit millicent, who is not the one whose suffering is on display for her mother's amusement, and is shredded for existing, shattered of fragile, bleeding heart, and pleading. all millicent needs to do is shut up and be nice for five days (nearly four now). she releases larissa's hand, troubled by the strange, impersonal tone and afraid that, between millicent and her parents, they've torn larissa apart beyond repair. the tears in her large eyes threatened them both at the table, in the washroom. so millicent takes a few steps away and turns her back towards larissa, hoping to grant her a moment to cry, if she needs to, or to let a secret emotion shine in her face or…
❛ i will hold your hand again, ❜ she says, because this gesture could easily be interpreted as millicent storming away, punishing larissa for an undefined transgression, ❛ but my hand has begun cramping. i need a moment. ❜ and she makes a show and opening and closing a fist, and wiggling her fingers. above, the night sky — millicent's eyes, not larissa's. the stars are clearer here than in london. but millicent is not the polished, sophisticated type. she doesn't know (or care) what a dipper, big or small, is. the only constellation she knows it the bear and she can't even spot it now. were she romantic, she'd spot the bear and point at it and wrap an arm around larissa and say something about how the stars can't compare to her. (because they do compare. her hair is just like starlight.)
❛ uh… there's a bear up there somewhere, ❜ she says, wagging a cramped finger at the sky. ❛ i can't see it right now, but… i suppose we can take comfort in knowing a bear is shining for us. ❜ she turns back to larissa, avoiding her gaze in case she is crying or sulking or… ❛ anyway. my hand is… no longer cramping…? ❜ she extends it out, doesn't want to force hand-holding again if larissa isn't ready. ❛ unless it is still cramping. or unless you think i would benefit from bible verses and a spice bag to give you some time to recover from your headache. ❜ in our one room with our one bed.
✶ ⁺ ☽ ₊ ◑ · @millicentclyde .✦ ݁˖ / &. / keep following that heart of yours.
the museum curator makes a fair point. a good one, at that. as reckless and impulsive it may often be, jeanne-marie’s heart has never failed to be genuine and true, its beats rapid and alive even in the face of death, punishment, and worse. she may not always find comfort in the depths of her mind, but it is not so empty, haunting, or disorienting in her ribcage, where hope and courage still stand to bloom even in the worst.
as articulate as she may be, aurora finds it difficult to put all of that in words, especially when there’s a plethora of long stories to accompany each syllable. so instead, smiling at millicent, the researcher signs, her memory of british sign language fresh from her recent NASA assignment in leicester:
‘thank you for your kind words, doctor clyde. you are absolutely right.’
millicent's advice is very rarely to follow your heart, but something about jeanne-marie tugged the reassurance out. millicent's followed her own heart to a mixture of disastrous and delightful situations; it should go no different for jeanne-marie, who, in the grand scheme of things, will fall into a larger statistic. just like millicent. and yet. and yet.
❛ that is not to say our hearts can't lead us to do foolish things on occasion. ❜ sometimes. regularly. every day of the week. every hour of the day. this isn't unique to either or both of them. ❛ but i do, jeanne-marie, tend to think we have such acute emotions for a reason. ❜ we, as in humanity. her gaze linger on jeanne-marie's suspended hands, a thought in place. do not come to me for advice. haven't you hurt enough? instead, she fidgets with her own hands for a moment. ❛ i think your heart might be brighter than most. and this isn't my way of putting everybody else down. ❜
3 hours of sleep = i hate people who laugh
0 ours of sleep = waouw 🌼🌼🌼🌼🐎
hmm. yes. millicent does like this response. the implications — devotion — flay her, but at least there is some illogic to make into logic. larissa has admitted that millicent is inconvenient to her life. millicent is an unintelligent passion. she relaxes significantly after that. yes, larissa weems acknowledges there were plenty of beautiful actresses she could have picked from a catalogue, but she unintelligently chose millicent instead.
millicent accepts this. and now, a cruel little voice in the back of her head: make things worse. remind her you're going back to orkney. and though the idea of dissolving into another argument has a certain appeal, a certain comfort, a familairity, it would only suit millicent, who is not the one whose suffering is on display for her mother's amusement, and is shredded for existing, shattered of fragile, bleeding heart, and pleading. all millicent needs to do is shut up and be nice for five days (nearly four now). she releases larissa's hand, troubled by the strange, impersonal tone and afraid that, between millicent and her parents, they've torn larissa apart beyond repair. the tears in her large eyes threatened them both at the table, in the washroom. so millicent takes a few steps away and turns her back towards larissa, hoping to grant her a moment to cry, if she needs to, or to let a secret emotion shine in her face or…
❛ i will hold your hand again, ❜ she says, because this gesture could easily be interpreted as millicent storming away, punishing larissa for an undefined transgression, ❛ but my hand has begun cramping. i need a moment. ❜ and she makes a show and opening and closing a fist, and wiggling her fingers. above, the night sky — millicent's eyes, not larissa's. the stars are clearer here than in london. but millicent is not the polished, sophisticated type. she doesn't know (or care) what a dipper, big or small, is. the only constellation she knows it the bear and she can't even spot it now. were she romantic, she'd spot the bear and point at it and wrap an arm around larissa and say something about how the stars can't compare to her. (because they do compare. her hair is just like starlight.)
❛ uh… there's a bear up there somewhere, ❜ she says, wagging a cramped finger at the sky. ❛ i can't see it right now, but… i suppose we can take comfort in knowing a bear is shining for us. ❜ she turns back to larissa, avoiding her gaze in case she is crying or sulking or… ❛ anyway. my hand is… no longer cramping…? ❜ she extends it out, doesn't want to force hand-holding again if larissa isn't ready. ❛ unless it is still cramping. or unless you think i would benefit from bible verses and a spice bag to give you some time to recover from your headache. ❜ in our one room with our one bed.
Larissa squeezes Millicent's hand back. "Thank you for the compliment."
For a few more paces down the brick-lined path, she lets herself imagine that this is how things will be with them, from now on. Holding hands. Walking together, Larissa tempering her stride to match Millicent's. Solicitous exchanges and heartfelt compliments. Millicent wanting to hide, because she'll always be that way--she'll always want to duck away from another person's tenderness, just like Larissa herself does--but staying put instead of running away, because...
She shouldn't. It would be so easy, but she shouldn't. No dreams, no hopes, and no contingency plans. Live in the moment, as she was once told by the therapist she saw for three sessions in the winter of 1999.
"My foot is quite alright. My head--I believe it's clearing up. With some distance." From my family is implied. "It's beautiful out here. Quite restorative." You're beautiful. You're restorative. Also implied, because if she spoke them aloud, Millicent would laugh, or snap, or bark, or do something else to make sure she knows not to get too comfortable. It's important to demonstrate that she won't--get too comfortable, that is. No one keeps me on my toes quite like you, Millicent. How I enjoy the strain. Like walking a tightrope over a pit of crocodiles.
There's a bit of statuary around the path, classical imitations. The wind pulls around them and darts off into the treeline, rustling leaves and flower petals. "Ah," Larissa says, and can't resist a bit of Shelley. "There are spirits of the air, / and genii of the evening breeze, / and gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair / as star-beams among twilight trees..." Of course, the poem goes on to talk at great length about pining--bitterly apropos, but Larissa reminds herself that she's living in the moment.
"You handled them all very well for your first time. Thank you. I can see they like you already--well, my parents are a lost cause, I'm afraid. But everyone else. I was very..." Careful: she has to use just the right word to get her point across, without sending Millicent running across the lawn in a panic. "... Glad to hear you talking with my uncle." Proud would be more accurate, but it implies too much about the depth of her feelings.
"I'll ask him whether the two of you can go hunt something this week. That will be fun for you, I'm sure. And you can get away from..." Castle Dracula, Hill House, Wuthering Heights, Thornfield, Udolpho. There aren't enough names for the edifice behind them. "All of this. You can come up for air a bit."
Larissa squeezes Millicent's hand back. "Thank you for the compliment."
For a few more paces down the brick-lined path, she lets herself imagine that this is how things will be with them, from now on. Holding hands. Walking together, Larissa tempering her stride to match Millicent's. Solicitous exchanges and heartfelt compliments. Millicent wanting to hide, because she'll always be that way--she'll always want to duck away from another person's tenderness, just like Larissa herself does--but staying put instead of running away, because...
She shouldn't. It would be so easy, but she shouldn't. No dreams, no hopes, and no contingency plans. Live in the moment, as she was once told by the therapist she saw for three sessions in the winter of 1999.
"My foot is quite alright. My head--I believe it's clearing up. With some distance." From my family is implied. "It's beautiful out here. Quite restorative." You're beautiful. You're restorative. Also implied, because if she spoke them aloud, Millicent would laugh, or snap, or bark, or do something else to make sure she knows not to get too comfortable. It's important to demonstrate that she won't--get too comfortable, that is. No one keeps me on my toes quite like you, Millicent. How I enjoy the strain. Like walking a tightrope over a pit of crocodiles.
There's a bit of statuary around the path, classical imitations. The wind pulls around them and darts off into the treeline, rustling leaves and flower petals. "Ah," Larissa says, and can't resist a bit of Shelley. "There are spirits of the air, / and genii of the evening breeze, / and gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair / as star-beams among twilight trees..." Of course, the poem goes on to talk at great length about pining--bitterly apropos, but Larissa reminds herself that she's living in the moment.
"You handled them all very well for your first time. Thank you. I can see they like you already--well, my parents are a lost cause, I'm afraid. But everyone else. I was very..." Careful: she has to use just the right word to get her point across, without sending Millicent running across the lawn in a panic. "... Glad to hear you talking with my uncle." Proud would be more accurate, but it implies too much about the depth of her feelings.
"I'll ask him whether the two of you can go hunt something this week. That will be fun for you, I'm sure. And you can get away from..." Castle Dracula, Hill House, Wuthering Heights, Thornfield, Udolpho. There aren't enough names for the edifice behind them. "All of this. You can come up for air a bit."