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i can’t… starters edit as you see fit!

i can’t see eye to eye with you

i can’t give up like this

i can’t just leave

i can’t ever forgive you

i can’t just move on and forget

i can’t change my mind after all

i can’t go this way

i can’t pretend nothing happened

i can’t turn my back on you

i can’t go back to the way we were

i can’t see the future from here

i can’t climb that high

i can’t sink that low

i can’t cross a river like that

i can’t just sing my sorrows out

i can’t love the way you do

i can’t see the good in people

i can’t believe you’d say something like that

i can’t just think everyone i meet is evil

i can’t ignore true intentions

i can’t not consider the past in my actions

i can’t ever go back to a place like that

i can’t ask you to come

i can’t ask you to stay nor to leave

i can’t get them to back away

i can’t beg you to forgive me

i can’t keep going like this

i can’t take you seriously when you act that way

i can’t listen to you speak like this

i can’t do something like that that easily

i can’t just run in there and announce my presence

i can’t have people thinking i’d do something like this

i can’t be seen with you

i can’t stay away from you

i can’t take something like this from you

i can’t believe we’d ever even make it this far

i can’t see the sky from here

i can’t swim that far out

i can’t hold my own in a situation like this

i can’t talk to people who act like that

i can’t sustain one more second of this

i can’t hold out much longer

i can’t even begin to describe just how fucked up that is

i can’t fix this anymore

i can’t pretend i did this for noble reasons

i can’t claim i believe in humanity or you

i can’t lie about something as big as this

i can’t forgive myself for even the smallest mistake

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Reblog if you have a muse from The Umbrella Academy

This seems to be an easier way of passing the message about this masterlist. Reblog this post to be added!

Note: When you reblog, please state the name/s of the muse/s; if the character is canon compliant/divergent/AU/OC; and if from the comics or Netflix adaptation in the tags.

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there will be blood? like. you promise?

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If things work out for you here, you could potentially make a fine successor, Five.

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The Handler blinks, momentarily surprised at the sudden, drastic shift in topic and tone from Number Four — honestly, after the way he'd puffed himself up just a moment or two earlier, she had assumed he would grow angry over the possibility of negotiation and lash out at her, perhaps even attack her in her own office, but she supposes she should have known better (Number Five did call Klaus his least combative brother, once) and she's never been happier to be wrong. The most harebrained Hargreeves sibling is proving to be a very promising variable in his own right, a regular wildcard, and it would be disappointing if she had to say goodbye too soon.

Speaking of disappointing, his manipulation tactics would have a lesser woman rolling her eyes right about now. For God's sake, hasn't anyone ever taught him the power of subtlety? The way he tries to tug at her heartstrings one moment, only to provoke her in the next, is positively amateurish. There's no finesse to his efforts at all — just a poor, desperate man, throwing everything at the wall, and hoping something sticks.

Perhaps, if she was younger, less familiar with the inner workings of the Commission, less experienced in the clever complexity of power and control, less calloused to the suffering of the masses, his attempts could have paid off. Perhaps then, the vulnerability in his voice would have been too much for her, compassion and empathy blinding her to the bigger picture, and she would have willingly bent the rules for him. Or perhaps she would have been overcome with fury instead, enraged at his accusations, and she would have played too much of her hand, said something in the heat of the moment she could never take back.

(Because she has been in love before. Of course she has been in love before — no matter how powerful she is now, no matter how powerful she has managed to make herself, she was a young girl once upon a time. Fourteen years old and absolutely smitten, swept off her feet in a magical romance, stubbornly believing the best of a boy who only wanted to break her.

But he taught her a very valuable lesson in the breaking: it's not love if it doesn't hurt like hell.)

Anyway, she's far too intimately acquainted with the delicate art of good old-fashioned psychological fuckery, so she doesn't feel even the faintest flicker of sympathy or anger. She simply waits until he's talked himself out, and then says, her tone perfectly calm and even, "If I were you, sweetheart, I would leave the mind games to the professionals."

And then she moves onto the heart of the matter, as quickly and easily as if his little tirade had never happened at all. "Look, even if I handed you a briefcase right now and told you to go have fun in Vietnam, the higher-ups would never allow it. They'd have a pack of agents after you faster than you could give that boy of yours a smack on the lips. Sending you back to the past is out of the question. But," she adds, before he can start up another ill-conceived diatribe about his perception of her romantic affairs just because he didn't immediately get what he wanted with no strings attached, "here's what I can do for you instead — there is an alternate timeline where Dave Katz survived his wounds, and returned home on honorary discharge. Now, I can give you a briefcase that will bring you to the year 1968 in that universe, and it won't affect the other timelines at all."

She generously allows him a long minute to consider the offer before she adds her stipulation, the one sticking point where everything might just come undone if she doesn't play her cards precisely right. "But, in return, you'll need to give me a little something, too. I've been trying to get in touch with that brother of yours — the cute one, I mean," she adds, when she remembers he has five brothers (it's so easy to forget that, so easy to forget everyone except the one who matters most to her). "In the tight little schoolboy shorts. Number Five." She holds the name in her mouth for a long, delicious moment, letting it melt on her tongue like candy, and the corners of her crimson mouth curve up in a smile all on their own. "Lately, he's taken to avoiding me. One of his little rebellious phases — well, I'm sure I don't need to explain that to you." She huffs out a soft laugh, waving it off with a flick of her hand. "Just bring him to me, I'll take care of the rest, and then we can call it even. That sounds fair, doesn't it?"

"Oh, sweetheart, don't be so modest!" The Handler waves off his denials with an airy flick of the hand, red nails glinting in the blue-white fluorescent lights buzzing overhead — truth be told, she can come up with quite a few ways that Klaus Hargreeves could potentially prove useful to her, and the Commission as a whole, just off the top of her head, but she knows better than to bring up any of that too soon. Better to pull him in slowly than scare him off completely. "You've got plenty to offer, Klaus — far more than you think, I'd wager — so why don't you sit down, make yourself comfortable, and we'll hammer out the details together, hm? I just want a fair deal for the both of us."

And then Number Four apparently decides to turn this perfectly civil meeting into an entirely unnecessary standoff, with all his puffed-up threats and paper-thin swagger, and her own mood sours a bit. Perhaps she should have known better — nothing is ever simple when it comes to the Hargreeves siblings — but the disappointment still tastes terribly bitter in her mouth.

"Raise the dead?" she repeats, raising her eyebrows and sitting back in her seat to look around the whole room like she thinks she might see a ghost drifting around the place right this second — which, of course, she knows very well she won't. The gift of necromancy is one that she herself does not possess. "Well, then, if you can do all of that, what do you even need a briefcase for? I mean, why can't you just call up the ghost of that boy of yours — Dave, wasn't it? — instead of risking irreparable damage to the timelines like this? Why go to all this trouble if you can speak to him whenever you want?" she props her chin on her knuckles and gives him that poison-in-honey smile that usually leaves lesser men trembling where they stand. She's got the feeling it won't work on the one in front of her, which would be rather refreshing if only it wasn't so frustrating — the only other man who's ever had the nerve to challenge her outright, in her own office no less, was—

Wait.

Suddenly, an entirely new strategy solidifies itself in her mind, and a very different sort of smile tugs at the corners of her lips. Ever since she laid eyes on Klaus Hargreeves, she's been thinking solely about the betterment of the Commission, but this is a far better prize — a prize she would do nearly anything to secure.

"But you do have something you can give me," she says, very quietly, almost to herself, as the full gravity of the possibility hits her. "Something just as valuable as one of our briefcases. And I doubt you'd even miss it." She leans toward him over the desk, feels the hard wooden edge pressing lightly into her abdomen, but she doesn't back down. "Have a seat, Klaus. Let's talk."

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@immortalled said: “You expect me to act like a normal human being? I’m wearing a turtleneck.” As if to prove his point, Nathan tugs at his collar and theatrically mimes strangulation.

"Oh, but you look so handsome!" The Handler gushes, practically cooing at him as soon as he steps out of the dressing room. The dark grey of the sweater is positively striking against his paper-pale porcelain-doll skin, while the high collar accentuates his long neck and sharp jawline in a way she just knows the women will go absolutely wild for.

Unfortunately, she cannot count herself among those women, at least not with any degree of honesty. No doubt about it, Nathan Young is certainly an extremely pretty boy, with those big green eyes, that wild brown hair, and the devilish smirk on his lips, but the complete and total lack of any sort of brain-to-mouth filter is simply too much of a turn-off for her. Call her old-fashioned, but she prefers a man who knows how to keep his mouth shut when the moment calls for it.

Even so, he has the potential to be quite the heartbreaker in his own right, if only he'd apply himself a bit.

Luckily, that's what the Handler is here for.

"Go on, take a look at yourself," she gestures in the direction of the large silver mirror — and then, because he looks like he needs some encouragement, she puts her hands on his shoulders and gives him a light little push toward it. "See? You're a regular lady-killer, Mr. Young."

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TEXT POST STARTERS III

a collection of quotes and quips from popular internet posts. change & alter as needed.

“So, apparently, the ‘bad vibes’ I’ve been feeling are actually ‘severe psychological distress’.”

“So… like… everything is real, and we just have to deal with it, huh?”

“So what if I’m in love with you? Mind your own business.”

“Some of you guys are fucked up. Not me, though, because I’m cool and hot.”

“Some of you act like murder is such a big deal.”

“Sorry about my huge cool muscles, everyone. Apologies for my large, powerful form.”

“Sorry for acting so strange and irregular. It will happen again.”

“Sorry I was willing to be vulnerable with you. Do you still think I’m hot?”

“The best love language is being irritating. I will annoy you because I love you.”

“These manmade horrors are beyond your comprehension. I get it, though.”

“Watch your fucking vibes when you speak to me.”

“What’s a little homoerotic telepathy between friends?”

“Why do people insist on surviving the apocalypse when you can just die?”

“Yeah, I’m a false prophet, but you believed me, so whose fault is it that we’re in this mess, really?”

“You call it a near-death experience, I call it a vibe check from God.”

“You expect me to act like a normal human being? I’m wearing a turtleneck.”

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corporate in a nutshell

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The Handler momentarily rears back at the accusation, the biting sting of venom in the young girl's voice, but she's not affronted or outraged, or even vaguely irritated. Quite the opposite, actually — she could tell this conversation was going to be delicious from the moment Miss April dropped Number Five's name, but she hadn't realized the stubborn old bastard had stooped so low as to lie to his new acquaintance about her. It had never occurred to her that Five would lie to anyone about anything, really, blunt and brutally honest as he is.

But, whatever he told April, it couldn't have been the truth, or this girl would be thanking her on bended knee right now. Then again, who on earth could possibly do a better job of setting this poor child straight than the Handler herself? She knows Number Five inside and out, after all.

She takes a moment to collect herself, simply gathering her thoughts and arranging them carefully in the quiet of her own mind, before she speaks, her voice low yet authoritative. "Have you ever met a stray dog, Miss April? I don't mean just any stray dog," she corrects herself at once, catching her mistake. "No, I'm talking about one of those stray dogs that's been alone their whole life. You look at them, and you just know, that poor mutt has had it hard. They've been kicked around, and muzzled, and dumped on the side of the road, and the moment they see you, they expect you to hurt them, too. So they growl, and flash their teeth, and do all they can to scare you off. But..."

The Handler takes one last pull on her cigarette, and takes a step forward — not quite far enough to crowd the girl, of course, but certainly far enough to show her exactly who is in charge here. "But all you have to do is wait them out. And they'll let you get a little closer. And a little closer the day after that. And then, finally, they let you pet them. And then they're yours forever. They'll eat right out of the palm of your hand. They'll come whenever you call. They'll obey your every command. They'll adore you for the rest of their lives." She smiles, a touch bittersweet, flooded with a sense of nostalgia so sharp it stings, as she thinks back to those early days. "Five was like that by the time I found him. A stray mutt flashing his teeth. But all I had to do was pet him. And then he was mine."

This conversation appears to be going nowhere fast — this April girl doesn't want a cigarette, doesn't want any consolations about her cheating boyfriend, doesn't seem particularly thrilled over the notion that the Handler has found her pleasure wherever she likes regardless of pesky details like age, and doesn't seem particularly thrilled over the Handler's existence in general — so she has just snatched her stinging hand away, bestowed a burning glare upon the foolish little girl for the sheer audacity of smacking her, and opened her mouth to excuse herself, tucking her cigarettes back in her purse, when the name reaches her ears, and she goes very, very still.

Just like that, all her previous annoyance cools down to nothing, and an absolute, unbridled, knife-sharp delight slides into the empty space it left.

"Five?" she echoes, hardly daring to believe the sudden stroke of good fortune landing so squarely in her lap. "Number Five?" She supposes it makes a sort of sense in its own way — this seething little spitfire of a child, all snapping teeth and snarling mouth and white-hot rage, must think she's found herself a kindred spirit in Five's destructive fury — but Number Five, classic lone wolf I would like to submit a formal request to be assigned individual missions, without a partner / I work better when I'm on my own / other people just get in my way Number Five, has never had so much as a single friend in his life, and there is absolutely no way a teenage girl from god only knows where (she has a distinctly New York City edge to her accent, which the Handler would likely appreciate under any other circumstances — a fellow native from the Big Apple) — could possibly change that. "I'm sorry, dear, but are we talking about the same Number Five here? You know, dark hair, knee socks, tight shorts? Ridiculously cute even when he's trying to rip your throat out with his teeth? That Number Five?"

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This conversation appears to be going nowhere fast — this April girl doesn't want a cigarette, doesn't want any consolations about her cheating boyfriend, doesn't seem particularly thrilled over the notion that the Handler has found her pleasure wherever she likes regardless of pesky details like age, and doesn't seem particularly thrilled over the Handler's existence in general — so she has just snatched her stinging hand away, bestowed a burning glare upon the foolish little girl for the sheer audacity of smacking her, and opened her mouth to excuse herself, tucking her cigarettes back in her purse, when the name reaches her ears, and she goes very, very still.

Just like that, all her previous annoyance cools down to nothing, and an absolute, unbridled, knife-sharp delight slides into the empty space it left.

"Five?" she echoes, hardly daring to believe the sudden stroke of good fortune landing so squarely in her lap. "Number Five?" She supposes it makes a sort of sense in its own way — this seething little spitfire of a child, all snapping teeth and snarling mouth and white-hot rage, must think she's found herself a kindred spirit in Five's destructive fury — but Number Five, classic lone wolf I would like to submit a formal request to be assigned individual missions, without a partner / I work better when I'm on my own / other people just get in my way Number Five, has never had so much as a single friend in his life, and there is absolutely no way a teenage girl from god only knows where (she has a distinctly New York City edge to her accent, which the Handler would likely appreciate under any other circumstances — a fellow native from the Big Apple) — could possibly change that. "I'm sorry, dear, but are we talking about the same Number Five here? You know, dark hair, knee socks, tight shorts? Ridiculously cute even when he's trying to rip your throat out with his teeth? That Number Five?"

The Handler can already tell the girl isn't going to take her up on her generous offer — that furious glower on her young face says it all — but the reason behind the rejection is so very unexpected (I'm underage) that it startles a laugh out of her, loud and real, and she throws her head back, a manicured hand pressed to her chest as the mirth spills from her scarlet lips and makes her bare shoulders shake. It's been a long time since she's heard that particular excuse, that's for damn sure.

"Well, then, aren't you an honest one?" she huffs out one last breathless chuckle, patting the girl lightly on the head with her open palm as she does, before she regains control of herself, her wide smile dwindling down to a tiny, amused curve hovering at the corner of her red mouth. Now that she thinks about it, the girl in front of her might just have a point — age hasn't been anything more than a number to her in centuries — and she might also have a personal reason for tracking the Handler down simply to call her out on that. "What, did I sleep with your boyfriend, or something? Is that what this is about? I'm sorry, dear, but high school romances really don't last forever, no matter what the movies tell you. Don't get too hung up on him."

Except then the girl — April, she said, my name is April, and it's common enough that the Handler sees no reason to doubt her veracity — comes right out and says I want you to leave my friend alone, with absolutely no double meaning hidden in the term whatsoever. And the phrasing of it implies far more than that quickie in Barcelona, or something similar.

The Handler frowns, momentarily nonplussed, and takes a drag off her cigarette to buy herself a moment to think. "And... who would this friend of yours be, exactly? Can I get their name, perhaps?"

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I’m so sick of being thwarted. I swear to you, my next plot shall not go comically awry.

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“The moral of the story is, I will gut you if I need to. I will carve my way out with only my teeth.”

— Brenna Twohy, from “Little Red Riding Hood Addresses the Next Wolf,” Forgive Me My Salt (via nssrnv)

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@equationsoff said: "where did you find that?"

"What are you talking about? This old thing?" The Handler knows very well that her new dress is absolutely not what Number Five is currently referring to, but she certainly won't deny herself a bit of harmless fun. She rises from her seat, giving a slow, graceful, seductive twirl, much like a supermodel on the runway, so he can see her outfit from every possible angle — it would be a shame if he failed to notice just how deliciously short and slinky and sexy it is, hugging her curves in all the right ways. She designed it specifically for him, after all. This little number is for his eyes only. "Do you like it? It's new."

(Of course, she knows he's not going to give her the satisfaction of an outward reaction. He never does. He's so boring like that.)

All the same, it appears as though she's wrung every last ounce of entertainment out of that particular response, so she gives up the game with nothing more than a disappointed little sigh, and twists at the waist to look pointedly at the object perched on her desk instead — the banged-up, smoke-stained, hairless, one-armed plastic mannequin, its red lipstick chipping off and its blue eyes dull and glazed and lifeless. Exactly the way Five left her in the apocalypse when he joined the Commission.

"Oh, you mean her?" The Handler lets out a light, airy little laugh, and puts a hand on the doll's single intact shoulder, grip tight and possessive. The mannequin technically belongs to Five, but Five belongs to her, so — in an admittedly rather roundabout way — this old thing does, too. "We were just having a little girl-to-girl chat, weren't we, Dolores?"

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The Handler's smile widens just a bit at the question, softening from the sharp, predatory curve of a bloodred mouth to genuine respect and appreciation for the girl in front of her instead — she doesn't often get the chance to talk business with other people who are just as direct and focused as herself, but it seems Miss Udyati Rao is already proving an exception to that particular rule. The Handler sincerely hopes, as she launches into her usual spiel, that this recruitment mission will be successful.

"I work an organization called the Commission," she fixes her eyes firmly on Ms. Rao's face as she drops the name, though she truthfully doesn't expect much more recognition than she herself received when she made her introductions — if dear Number Five hasn't told the girl much about her, then it's even likelier he hasn't told her much about the Commission, either. It's entirely possible she doesn't even know the true nature of the company. Tsk, tsk, Number Five. Haven't you heard keeping secrets is bad for your health? "We are tasked with the maintenance and preservation of the time continuum through manipulation and removals. You see, there are occasions where individuals make choices that... alter time. Free will. Don't get me started." She rolls her eyes. "Though, I'm sure you know all about that, don't you? Those abilities of yours... you're very familiar with the butterfly effect, I presume."

To tell the truth, the Handler would probably be astonished if Udyati Rao recognized her at a glance — the girl has apparently become a rather trusted companion of Number Five over the last few... however long it's been (weeks? months? years? Living on the outside of the timeline can certainly do some strange things to your personal perception of the temporal flow), but he's always been somewhat... lacking, to put it lightly, in communication skills, and it's probably safe to presume that they've experienced even more deterioration since he fled the Commission in his little fit of rebellion. Honestly, the stubborn old bastard could stand to be a bit more grateful toward her after everything she's done for him — it's not just any field agent who gets private, one-on-one lessons with her about such elementary concepts as eye contact, and facial expressions, and social cues, and physical touch.

Really, it's a wonder Ms. Rao even knows his name.

So, the Handler must be a complete and total stranger to the girl in front of her, and she forges ahead with this knowledge in mind, plastering on a smile and putting out a hand for a quick shake. "Sorry to drop in on you like this out of the blue, Ms. Rao—oh, would you prefer Ms. Rao, or Udyati?—but there's something I'd like to discuss with you, and I'm afraid this was the only empty slot in my schedule. You can call me the Handler, if you like," she breezes on, coolly confident as she always is. "I doubt he's told you much about me, but I'm... an old friend of Number Five's. A very good friend."

It would be exceedingly poor manners for her to come right out and say it — a lady doesn't fuck and tell, after all — but she's fairly certain Ms. Rao is more than sharp enough to read between the lines, catch the double meaning in the subtle, sensual curve of her scarlet smile.

"And I've got a marvelous proposal for you, dear."

@dvarapala l plotted starter

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