[millicentclyde]

independent MILLICENT CLYDE from 🧸 paddington the musical !! 🐾 adored by maya (they/them, 21+, south africa).

[millicentclyde]

i can think of a substance that will calm millie down 🧃

ah yes a juice box thank you rabbit 🫶🏽🥰🖤

[millicentclyde]

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…

[orochislayer]

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

[millicentclyde]

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 ‼️

[theriverbeyond]

honestly getting cozy in bed is one of the top experiences one can have on this green earth

[scyftan]

"Ah," Larissa says, "hm," totally distracted by the kiss at her cheek and the sensation of Millicent's hands in her hair. This same series of gestures initiated their--but Millicent certainly won't have any designs on her now. The whole display at dinner, not to mention the tears and confession in the garden, were all, Larissa knows, quite unappetizing.

She catches back up to Millicent's words, blushing. "I taught literature, yes," she says, clearing her throat. "And one very unpopular freshman composition class. But you really do have to drill students on these things." No teacher likes to be disliked, but Larissa felt quite satisfied at the time. Incoming students needed structure and discipline in a brand-new environment, and what better way to enforce it than sentence diagrams? The troublemakers despised her, but by graduation most students were glad of the experience. Many of them even took her elective classes in their upper years, to stay with her.

She wishes all over again for Nevermore. For her principalship, or even her classroom. For her students. A world that made sense to her despite its manic, organic chaos. She thinks about the year before the final year, how she'd finally brought Donovan Galpin to heel through Noble Walker, how her outreach programs were so successful--no. Be honest with yourself, Larissa. Think about how Tyler Galpin and his friends beat Xavier Thorpe and there were no legal repercussions, no matter how you twisted Noble's arm, because his own son was involved, and went on to ruin your final Rave'n, and that whole final year, you were certain that...

"I miss it," she confesses, surprising herself, then clears her throat again. "I'm sorry. You asked me a question. The poem was by Percy Bysshe Shelley. He was a Romantic--I wrote one of my master's theses on... I won't lecture you. Let me see if I have the rest of it." She closes her eyes to recite the rest, beginning again from the first verse.

[millicentclyde]

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.

[millicentclyde]

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 🤧🤧🤧🤧🤧🤧

[millicentclyde]

their hands fit together nicely. millicent rubs circles on the back of larissa’s, but she doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t look at her. instead she leads the way, walking in front and pulling larissa along in case any unexpected hermiones spring on them from the shadows and millicent must defend. she is on guard.

and she begins awkwardly making her way through an impromptu list of apologies in hopes that larissa will react to one in particular and millicent will know how, exactly, she’s upset her tonight. she begins: i apologise for falling asleep earlier. she waits around ten seconds. i apologise for comparing you to poison. same thing. i apologise for drinking this evening. i apologise for kicking you. i apologise for being dismissive of your mother. i apologise for failing to defend you at the table. i apologise for snapping at you in our room. i apologise for complaining so much. now she goes further back. i apologise for my behaviour at the restaurant. i especially apologise for my behaviour in orkney. i apologise for putting you in harm’s way before the storm horse. i apologise for allowing you to leave when we discussed orkney afterwards. and then she gives up. and the bad thing is she’s not really sorry for everything. she is not apologetic for the way in which she treated hermione weems at the table. she’ll do it again.

and there it is. a dark stair, tucked into the side of the stupid castle. millicent finds the light and scowls at the sudden brightness but guides them both back to their room, too aware of larissa following her, their hands linked. millicent still won’t look her way. once safely inside, she wordlessly removes her makeup, braids her hair back, brushes her teeth, takes off her boots, then sits at the edge of the bed and agonises over the idea of changing into her nightgown. and larissa will be in a nightgown too, won’t she? she recalls orkney. will it… will it be pink? she shudders.

“do you need me to…” she looks down at her lap, wrings her hands. “do you need help with taking your hair down?” maybe that’s a stupid question. she took her hair down earlier. before they — well, yes. “or brushing it?” and she’ll have to take off the collar too.

[scyftan]

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."

[millicentclyde]

larissa goes and millicent watches. she almost asks her darling larissa to stop, tells her she’ll wash her face herself, but that’s weird and everything is already painfully awkward and millicent, who was supposed to make this trip easier, seems to find innovative and creative ways to make every second worse. while larissa washes her face, millicent changes into her nightgown. yes, it’s extremely uncomfortable and she wants to cower into herself, nauseous at the very idea of showing her arms, shoulders, legs to larissa, but she’s simply going to swallow it back and exist and remind herself that part of being an adult is learning to sit in discomfort. it isn’t any easier for larissa, all this proximity to millicent. so neither of them are going to be comfortable and millicent needs to… not make it worse. anyone else would improve upon the situation, but millicent knows herself, and best she can order herself is to not make it any worse for larissa, who deserves to shed every tear and every bit of comfort.

the air feels cool on her arms and legs. millicent wraps her arms around herself, but she’ll have to relax. she prepares the bed for sleep and tries to forget what they were doing earlier that day. in an afterthought, millicent adds her little bear to her side of the bed, places it right on top of the pillow, and figures that she’s already uncomfortable enough with so much of her skin on display. what’s wrong with adding a little more vulnerability, a touch of discomfort more?

millicent averts her eyes as larissa re-enters. now they’re both showing too much skin and millicent is ready to begin screeching like an animal caught in a trap, like she always does, but she clamps her teeth together. she gestures for larissa to sit on the bed and she sits behind her, readying herself to remove all the pins and then carefully release each painstaking twist. she considers following-up on her apologies and she considers saying nothing at all, but both, she thinks, will make things even worse. so she works on unpinning larissa’s hair quietly, then figures a more lighthearted topic may be in order. (it’s good they can’t see each others faces.)

“you taught literature,” millicent says. it’s not a question. it’s not an accusation either. it’s simply obvious. “that poem you were reciting outside, is it one of yours? it’s beautiful.”

and as she continues unpinning the curls that seem to defy gravity, millicent carefully leans in from behind and presses her lips very softly to larissa’s cheek. then she keeps working on that starlight hair, knowing she holds a precious, precious creature in her hands, too fragile for the pressurised zone she’s been thrust into (and grew up in), and millicent (a killer and never a saviour) can’t keep her from imploding. but she can kiss her darling larissa’s cheek and honour her as she implodes.

[memento-meliora]

forced to say “it’s okay!” Instead of throwing a fucking chair at their head

[wateredwizard]

Why does your post have lingerie on

[memento-meliora]

God forbid a bitch be feeling herself while mentally ill in this economy 😢

[scyftan]

What would Principal Weems do?

She's sitting in her office with a brilliant student who struggles with social interaction and emotional intelligence. It was a very common experience in her day. Nevermore students were more likely to be neurodivergent than otherwise, whether by nature, in the particular brain chemistry produced by their species, or by nurture, in the experiences of neglect and isolation so often suffered by outcast children.

She's sitting in her office with one such student: a young woman with a ravenous intellect, an admirable lack of regard for social norms, and a keen sense of injustice, one always on the alert for a slight, real or perceived. That student has asked her a difficult and deeply personal question, and Principal Weems needs to answer it as fully as she can, with respect and consideration, balancing her tone and language so as not to give offence, while also maintaining her distance.

"My experience has been," she says, "that the people who inspire our strongest emotions--even our devotion--are rarely the people most convenient to our lives. Or the ones we might consider the most intelligent choice. In fact, I would call it quite uncommon--having a convenient or intelligent passion."

There--a flawlessly executed response. Except that she isn't Principal Weems at all anymore. She's Larissa. And this is no student, held aloof from her across the expanse of her desk. This is Millicent, who is still holding her hand.

"I hope I've explained to your liking, Millicent," she says, clinging on to her Principal's voice, for lack of anything else to keep her afloat. She's afraid that if Millicent keeps pushing, she might lash out, herself; there's already an itch of frustration at the back of her skull. (Hasn't she demonstrated thoroughly that she wants Millicent near her? That she will do what is necessary to make that happen? That she will do all of it on Millicent's own terms, in a way that will make her comfortable, with a collar around her neck?)

[millicentclyde]

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.

[scyftan]

Larissa, who's only just swallowed back tears as Millicent said something about stars and bears, wells up again at the offbeat sweetness of Millicent's offer (unless it is still cramping--unless you think I would benefit from Bible verses and a spice bag). The immense bizarre impossibility of finding grace here, with Millicent Clyde, of all people, makes her want to collapse.

Which is not an option, and never has been. (She feels herself thudding to the floor, head cracking, with Marilyn's needle in her neck; she feels herself shaking with pain as she puts the car into drive on the cliffside in Orkney.) Instead, she swallows her tears for the third or fourth or fifth time tonight, and slides her hand back into Millicent's. She doesn't temper the look of gratitude and affection on her face at first, only schooling it when she speaks again.

"I think I'd like to go up to our room now. I'd--if you came with me, I would enjoy that. It's your choice."

She does note that there was no reciprocal confession from Millicent--no admission of passion, convenient or otherwise. Why would there be? If she feels anything toward Larissa, it would be poor strategy to share it now; she would make herself vulnerable in a scenario where she holds all the cards. Larissa allows herself a few moments to be bitter. To think about the pattern of her life, and what it means, and who she is, and why she's like this. Then, with a little effort of will, she pushes it down, and it's gone to wherever her feelings go when they're no longer convenient, submerged far, far below the surface.

Millicent didn't hurt her--that's something. Larissa told the truth. No thunder or lightning ensued. It has to mean something. She'll think about it later.

As they approach the chateau again, Larissa sets her shoulders. "We ought to investigate if there's a back stair." They shouldn't have to pass the door to the dining room or any of the parlors on the way to their room, but she has a sense of reentering the beast's den. "So that if we decide to run away, no one will see," she adds dryly.

[millicentclyde]

their hands fit together nicely. millicent rubs circles on the back of larissa’s, but she doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t look at her. instead she leads the way, walking in front and pulling larissa along in case any unexpected hermiones spring on them from the shadows and millicent must defend. she is on guard.

and she begins awkwardly making her way through an impromptu list of apologies in hopes that larissa will react to one in particular and millicent will know how, exactly, she’s upset her tonight. she begins: i apologise for falling asleep earlier. she waits around ten seconds. i apologise for comparing you to poison. same thing. i apologise for drinking this evening. i apologise for kicking you. i apologise for being dismissive of your mother. i apologise for failing to defend you at the table. i apologise for snapping at you in our room. i apologise for complaining so much. now she goes further back. i apologise for my behaviour at the restaurant. i especially apologise for my behaviour in orkney. i apologise for putting you in harm’s way before the storm horse. i apologise for allowing you to leave when we discussed orkney afterwards. and then she gives up. and the bad thing is she’s not really sorry for everything. she is not apologetic for the way in which she treated hermione weems at the table. she’ll do it again.

and there it is. a dark stair, tucked into the side of the stupid castle. millicent finds the light and scowls at the sudden brightness but guides them both back to their room, too aware of larissa following her, their hands linked. millicent still won’t look her way. once safely inside, she wordlessly removes her makeup, braids her hair back, brushes her teeth, takes off her boots, then sits at the edge of the bed and agonises over the idea of changing into her nightgown. and larissa will be in a nightgown too, won’t she? she recalls orkney. will it… will it be pink? she shudders.

“do you need me to…” she looks down at her lap, wrings her hands. “do you need help with taking your hair down?” maybe that’s a stupid question. she took her hair down earlier. before they — well, yes. “or brushing it?” and she’ll have to take off the collar too.

[alphabright]

✶ ⁺ ☽ ₊ ◑ ‎ ·‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ @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.’

[millicentclyde]

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. ❜

[molabuddy]

3 hours of sleep = i hate people who laugh

0 ours of sleep = waouw 🌼🌼🌼🌼🐎

[scyftan]

What would Principal Weems do?

She's sitting in her office with a brilliant student who struggles with social interaction and emotional intelligence. It was a very common experience in her day. Nevermore students were more likely to be neurodivergent than otherwise, whether by nature, in the particular brain chemistry produced by their species, or by nurture, in the experiences of neglect and isolation so often suffered by outcast children.

She's sitting in her office with one such student: a young woman with a ravenous intellect, an admirable lack of regard for social norms, and a keen sense of injustice, one always on the alert for a slight, real or perceived. That student has asked her a difficult and deeply personal question, and Principal Weems needs to answer it as fully as she can, with respect and consideration, balancing her tone and language so as not to give offence, while also maintaining her distance.

"My experience has been," she says, "that the people who inspire our strongest emotions--even our devotion--are rarely the people most convenient to our lives. Or the ones we might consider the most intelligent choice. In fact, I would call it quite uncommon--having a convenient or intelligent passion."

There--a flawlessly executed response. Except that she isn't Principal Weems at all anymore. She's Larissa. And this is no student, held aloof from her across the expanse of her desk. This is Millicent, who is still holding her hand.

"I hope I've explained to your liking, Millicent," she says, clinging on to her Principal's voice, for lack of anything else to keep her afloat. She's afraid that if Millicent keeps pushing, she might lash out, herself; there's already an itch of frustration at the back of her skull. (Hasn't she demonstrated thoroughly that she wants Millicent near her? That she will do what is necessary to make that happen? That she will do all of it on Millicent's own terms, in a way that will make her comfortable, with a collar around her neck?)

[millicentclyde]

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]

“no. i told you i’ve had much worse.”

she’s relieved larissa pulled them outside (she really didn’t fancy the idea of reading bible verses or eating a spice bag). here, it smells like flowers and dew drops and maybe france really is as romantic as the movies say. she reaches for her significant other larissa’s hand — as instinctive of an action as it was to kick her foot — and settles into a gentle pace. millicent is so accustomed to running and stomping and leaping and storming. larissa weems walks effortlessly, but maybe millicent isn’t imagining that there’s less tension in her ridiculously graceful, perfect stride. she walks to walk beside her and not to prove something millicent will never understand to the world.

“did i get your foot too badly?” millicent, after all, splits her days between her laboratory and the halls of the museum where stupid children and pathetically uncoordinated visitors and stupid colleagues dash about, seemingly on personal journeys to mow her down. closed-toed shoes are the standard. larissa weems spends her days existing as a beautiful, polished, wealthy, well-dressed woman. why would she expect anybody to kick her?

“and your head. will you need a painkiller?” now she looks at larissa and nearly stops walking, because she does not expect larissa weems to be looking down at her with an expression of utter… millicent cowers, takes a step away, reaches for the hat she is not wearing to pull down over her face. but she doesn’t run away and she doesn’t tell larissa to take a picture on her trillions-euro camera, it’ll last longer. she rubs little circles on the back of larissa’s gloved hand with her thumb. this is her way of silently communicating that she’s not leaving, no matter how afraid she is.

two comments come to mind. the first: bee tee double-you, i’m still going back to orkney in a few weeks. the second: did you know your hair shines under the moonlight? millicent pushes her glasses up her nose with her free hand, looks down at the bricked trail they’re following. larissa’s perfume mingles with the flowers’. larissa herself could blend in.

what millicent ends up saying abruptly is, “did you know you remind me of a moonflower?” they bloom only at night, only in the dark, only in private. they glow white. they’re beautiful. they smell so sweet. their vines can grow so very long. “they’re very poisonous.”

hmm. out of all of the attributes shared between moonflowers and larissa weems, that’s the one that made it out of her mouth. millicent puts her hand over her face, closes her eyes, asks herself why she’s so spectacularly talented at saying the worst possible things and why larissa weems contacted her after a month. “i mean… i like poison,” she mutters a moment later and she reaches again for her hat that is simply not there.

and she squeezes larissa’s hand another time to show that, no matter how awkward she makes things, she’s still not leaving. sorry.

[scyftan]

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."

[millicentclyde]

“i would like to go hunting,” she admits. uncle arthur has told her stories. she’d like to see him in action. “but how will you get a bit of air?”

then it occurs to her that by coming to france, larissa was accepting she’d get no air, no downtime, no minute to catch her breath. she was committing to baseline discomfort with stretches of legitimate torture. and that must’ve been why she decided against coming alone. and still she’s trying to find moments for millicent to escape.

her poet engages in poet behaviour. millicent doesn’t recognise this one, but she listens vaguely and thinks of herself and uncle arthur, hunting, and larissa… surely she’ll join. but thoughts of mud covering those pastel-coloured heels, dirt dusting larissa’s pale legs, getting on her delicate, beautiful skirts... she finally understands why fictional men feel compelled to remove their coats and lay them down for their ladies to step on. she doesn’t say that, of course.

“two things.” this is what she does say. she remembers waking up that afternoon as the sun was sinking, sprawled out on the bed in a very un-millicent-like manner, drool trailing from the corner of her mouth and streaking down her cheek, hair in disarray. and… she wishes she could pour bleach inside her brain. “i regret falling asleep earlier today. please do not take that as a lack of interest or enjoyment. i very much wanted…”

what? what did she want? to stay awake the whole time? long enough to keep going? to reciprocate? she doesn’t know. she just knows it felt good — so, so, so very good.

and after all… “there are women who do this professionally.” she keeps a steady hold on larissa’s hand, thankful for the night disguising their walk. “women who are far more charming and beautiful.” it’s a fact. “women who are wonderful conversationalists. actresses, i think.” like you. “you could afford the best.” women who don’t glare and scowl and rage and kick. fine women with the sweetest manners and tiniest waists and gentlest voices and smooth hair and perfect smiles. women who could leave her parents thinking, well, if larissa must prefer women, at least it’s this one.

she thinks of morticia. she grips larissa’s hand then, tightly, afraid. grant is right. her psychiatrist does need to increase the dosages of her medications.

“why didn’t you…? there were women who would have made this experience much easier for you.” not salvaged the situation, but lightened it. women who are acceptable, women who are everything millicent is not. larissa could have…

[scyftan]

Larissa tries to be comforted by the hand gripping hers, but all she feels is dread: small as a pebble at first, at the very bottom of her, then growing somehow, larger and larger, heavier and heavier, until a boulder is sitting in her belly, crushing her organs, taking up all the space in her body with its immovable weight.

Because I'm in love with you.

The words are right there. They're red in the night like the blossoms swaying along the garden path. They glow like moonflowers.

She has never been the person to express such a sentiment first. And certainly not under such irregular circumstances, having only just that day initiated any sort of intimacy that Millicent was willing to reciprocate. (Even if she did fall asleep before she could. Larissa would have told her it was extremely charming, if she hadn't followed her apology with a hammer blow to Larissa's temple, or if it weren't certain, as all affectionate words are with Millicent, to be extremely poorly received.)

At least she has the scant comfort that it isn't a fresh revelation. She conceded the truth to herself after the disastrous confrontation at 9 Birdcage Walk. Like Gomez said, the course of true love never did run smooth, did it? But it was one thing to be in love with Millicent Clyde from far away, working on forgetting her. It's another thing to be in love with Millicent Clyde while holding her hand in a garden in France, wearing a silver collar (of her own procuring--what is wrong with her?), anticipating their shared bed and Millicent's warm body curled into hers.

Whatever she says or does, it will hurt. Whether she lies or not, it will hurt. There is no end to this conversation that does not result in rejection for Larissa. It's the sort of trap a teenage Morticia used to lay. As punishment for some crime or other, she'd talk Larissa into a corner until she was babbling with humiliation, then pull out a secret that Morticia would promise to keep forever as her best friend--only for it to surface at the next girls' night, or out with their friends...

Perhaps it isn't sadism--the first time Larissa has been able to think that about Millicent, who really seems... Not ignorant in the willful sense, but somehow oblivious to the effect she has. It's as though she sees all its peripheral symptoms, but the central cause is in the middle of some blind spot. No wonder she's infuriated all the time. It's like a horse in bad harness, taut and afraid, shying at a leaf in the wind because it can't turn its head to see that that's all it is--a leaf. (That that's all it is--love.)

She's aware she's gone silent; has been silent past the threshold of rudeness. She has to say or do something to make sure Millicent doesn't retreat or explode. At least their hands are still joined.

At last, she settles for the truth, or some version of it. Not looking at Millicent, she says, "I didn't want an actress. I wanted you."

[millicentclyde]

i didn’t want an actress. i wanted you.

“well, that was very stupid of you,” millicent bluntly says. she respects larissa weems enough to tell the truth. but larissa already knows that. she knew millicent clyde as a plus one was a stupid selection and she chose her anyway. millicent doesn’t need to lecture: some would consider my personality challenging, i do not have a polite smile, i have been known to be unkind, i am not the type of person any parents wish to meet, i am making things more difficult for you when my presence should lift a burden from your shoulders…

but larissa already knows all that. what good will a lecture do now?

“though i appreciate you bringing me here.” it’s too late for larissa to change her mind about her plus one. and millicent might change it for her if she voices all her points. she can make an excellent argument against herself. “it’s very nice. the, er…”

truth be told, it’s not very nice at all. oh, yes, all of it is dripping in lavish extravagance but it doesn’t appeal to millicent. she misses her animals. she searches for something, anything, that is nice and comes up short. “the bed is comfortable,” she says finally. as if it weren’t obvious. (and maybe it was too comfortable.)

but the silence that hangs is no longer the comfortable, sweet silence from before. they aren’t larissa and millicent, hand-in-hand, strolling in celebration of fulfilling their dining duties. millicent has done something wrong, shot larissa with her crossbow. which she has done. many times. for the record. but what was it this time? was it the comment about the moonflowers’ poison? is larissa really very upset that millicent fell asleep earlier? is her foot badly hurt? is it because millicent has now called her and her actions stupid at least twice today? was it millicent’s behaviour at dinner, was it a comment her parents made?

she considers apologising. but she recently watched several youtube videos on how to apologise and she learned that apologies are useless if the party issuing the apology doesn’t know what they’re apologising for. and millicent really doesn’t. there are too many things to name.

well, if she can’t apologise, maybe she can dig herself into a deeper hole. like a mole. seems promising.

“i thought,” millicent says a moment later, “that someone would have talked you out of trusting me again. i didn’t ask outright at the restaurant why you wished to bring me. i feared you’d revoke your offer and the collar if i inquired.” and now she can’t. millicent is here with her in france and the collar is secure on larissa’s neck and morticia is… not here. “but now it’s too late to change your mind. you’re stuck with me,” she points out, perhaps unhelpfully.

[millicentclyde]

“no. i told you i’ve had much worse.”

she’s relieved larissa pulled them outside (she really didn’t fancy the idea of reading bible verses or eating a spice bag). here, it smells like flowers and dew drops and maybe france really is as romantic as the movies say. she reaches for her significant other larissa’s hand — as instinctive of an action as it was to kick her foot — and settles into a gentle pace. millicent is so accustomed to running and stomping and leaping and storming. larissa weems walks effortlessly, but maybe millicent isn’t imagining that there’s less tension in her ridiculously graceful, perfect stride. she walks to walk beside her and not to prove something millicent will never understand to the world.

“did i get your foot too badly?” millicent, after all, splits her days between her laboratory and the halls of the museum where stupid children and pathetically uncoordinated visitors and stupid colleagues dash about, seemingly on personal journeys to mow her down. closed-toed shoes are the standard. larissa weems spends her days existing as a beautiful, polished, wealthy, well-dressed woman. why would she expect anybody to kick her?

“and your head. will you need a painkiller?” now she looks at larissa and nearly stops walking, because she does not expect larissa weems to be looking down at her with an expression of utter… millicent cowers, takes a step away, reaches for the hat she is not wearing to pull down over her face. but she doesn’t run away and she doesn’t tell larissa to take a picture on her trillions-euro camera, it’ll last longer. she rubs little circles on the back of larissa’s gloved hand with her thumb. this is her way of silently communicating that she’s not leaving, no matter how afraid she is.

two comments come to mind. the first: bee tee double-you, i’m still going back to orkney in a few weeks. the second: did you know your hair shines under the moonlight? millicent pushes her glasses up her nose with her free hand, looks down at the bricked trail they’re following. larissa’s perfume mingles with the flowers’. larissa herself could blend in.

what millicent ends up saying abruptly is, “did you know you remind me of a moonflower?” they bloom only at night, only in the dark, only in private. they glow white. they’re beautiful. they smell so sweet. their vines can grow so very long. “they’re very poisonous.”

hmm. out of all of the attributes shared between moonflowers and larissa weems, that’s the one that made it out of her mouth. millicent puts her hand over her face, closes her eyes, asks herself why she’s so spectacularly talented at saying the worst possible things and why larissa weems contacted her after a month. “i mean… i like poison,” she mutters a moment later and she reaches again for her hat that is simply not there.

and she squeezes larissa’s hand another time to show that, no matter how awkward she makes things, she’s still not leaving. sorry.

[scyftan]

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."

[millicentclyde]

“i would like to go hunting,” she admits. uncle arthur has told her stories. she’d like to see him in action. “but how will you get a bit of air?”

then it occurs to her that by coming to france, larissa was accepting she’d get no air, no downtime, no minute to catch her breath. she was committing to baseline discomfort with stretches of legitimate torture. and that must’ve been why she decided against coming alone. and still she’s trying to find moments for millicent to escape.

her poet engages in poet behaviour. millicent doesn’t recognise this one, but she listens vaguely and thinks of herself and uncle arthur, hunting, and larissa… surely she’ll join. but thoughts of mud covering those pastel-coloured heels, dirt dusting larissa’s pale legs, getting on her delicate, beautiful skirts... she finally understands why fictional men feel compelled to remove their coats and lay them down for their ladies to step on. she doesn’t say that, of course.

“two things.” this is what she does say. she remembers waking up that afternoon as the sun was sinking, sprawled out on the bed in a very un-millicent-like manner, drool trailing from the corner of her mouth and streaking down her cheek, hair in disarray. and… she wishes she could pour bleach inside her brain. “i regret falling asleep earlier today. please do not take that as a lack of interest or enjoyment. i very much wanted…”

what? what did she want? to stay awake the whole time? long enough to keep going? to reciprocate? she doesn’t know. she just knows it felt good — so, so, so very good.

and after all… “there are women who do this professionally.” she keeps a steady hold on larissa’s hand, thankful for the night disguising their walk. “women who are far more charming and beautiful.” it’s a fact. “women who are wonderful conversationalists. actresses, i think.” like you. “you could afford the best.” women who don’t glare and scowl and rage and kick. fine women with the sweetest manners and tiniest waists and gentlest voices and smooth hair and perfect smiles. women who could leave her parents thinking, well, if larissa must prefer women, at least it’s this one.

she thinks of morticia. she grips larissa’s hand then, tightly, afraid. grant is right. her psychiatrist does need to increase the dosages of her medications.

“why didn’t you…? there were women who would have made this experience much easier for you.” not salvaged the situation, but lightened it. women who are acceptable, women who are everything millicent is not. larissa could have…

[clubcope]