( unfortunately, this is what you get when you try to organically bring up being in love with both your girlfriend and your sister. toes inevitably get stepped on. )
It was the only good one I had, until I came here, and started dreaming of you. Though, it was still ... foreboding, I guess. Are you ever worried you'll do terrible things, out of your control? Like someone pushed a rock down a hill millennia ago, and you're at the bottom of that hill, enduring their consequences.
There can be cake. You ( ????? ) you punched him??
( HIS angelic couldn't hurt a fly babygirl barefoot pregnant wife alina ?????? )
I've never known a happy ending to be in the cards for anyone. Outside of books, I'm not still not sure they really exist.
( what does a happy ending look like, for alina starkov? hopeless. impossible. a fantasy she refuses to pen when she knows well how her story is meant to come to a close, and still — she dreams of stars in desert skies, the clasp of paul's hands in hers, hallways ringing with ticklish laughter and racing footsteps. a future too full to feel lonely, to feel empty. a future that would hurt too much to lose, like — having to surrender a vital organ, the impossibility of living without a heartbeat, until martyrdom puts her in the ground. )
All the time. But I'm more afraid there's nothing I can do to push it forward. That I'll set everything back, and prove I'm just like them, forced to make all of the same awful choices. I try not to think about it while we're here. I'm too selfish to let myself think about it.
And kicked. And maimed. And threatened to throw out of a moving carriage. Are you scared now? Is that the only reason you're bribing me with cake?
( he wants to say it will exist for us. only — he knows he can't exist for him, and alina is sure it won't exist for her, so who between them really could be happy at the end of the day? they have great ambitions, and greater fates. their happiness is not anyone's priority when the weight of greatness sits on their shoulders — except paul would tear worlds down, enact brutal wars, sees the stars realign in the pattern of alina's waist if it would assure her happiness. pleasing alina is perhaps the greatest joy there is, regardless of how greatly the universe would suffer, if their gilded emperor decided one day to hang up his crown and become the sun saint's bed warmer instead. like mother like son.
he thinks he'd give it up. at least right now, in this moment, in this tiny corner of the world some tens of thousands of years in the past, talking to a girl who makes his heart beat like a harkonnen drum. everything else feels too large to handle, but with alina he is small, insignificant, and — yes, blissfully happy. )
If this place was the end, it would be happy one for me.
You're much more responsible that me. I didn't think about that. I guess there probably is a reason why we are who we are, though. Why the world has been waiting for us. We don't have to talk about it.
Beginning, middle, or end, you make me the happiest I've been. That's real. That exists.
( the happiest i've been in a long time, she writes on her first draft, only — that isn't true. sometimes, she wonders if she came out of the womb unhappy, thrust from the warmth of her mother into the cradle of a world she somehow knew would be cold toward her. if it would have been to stay inside, safe and protected, than to face the rest of her story. chapter one: the blurry memory of her mother's face, fading with each anniversary that marked her parent's deaths. chapter two: stolen moments of innocent joy between children that hadn't known there was worse yet to come. chapter three: the kind of happiness that domestic pets know, before they've realized they're kept, collared things. chapter four, a greater truth: saints don't get to be happy. )
I don't think there is a reason. Not for me, anyway. I'm not special. It feels like fate spun a wheel, and landed on me. Like some awful, cosmic joke.
( we don't have to talk about it. and here she is, talking about it, when it's the last thing she wants to do. she scrubs at her face, pinches her eyes until the moisture stops threatening to swell. )
Actually, I think it's serendipitous timing. You think I'm hot?
( he agrees, because he's not going to say — i love you so much, forever and always for the first time over text like a chump.
in any case, it's a returning centralized issue, how alina talks about herself. there's too many invisible landmines for paul to maneuver through in order to soothe her anxieties away effectively, but at least he's learned they're there, and when to move forward with trepidation. at least he knows there's some sore spot there, and can avoid prodding the tender skin as best he can. still, one thing does need to be cleared up: )
You are special, Muad'dib.
( because it's ridiculous to think otherwise. has she ever met herself? paul knew she was special within a second of knowing her, his pulse rushing like the rapids of caladan until the steel glint of her letter opener. )
I think you're distractingly hot. But I love a good Alina-themed daydream, so it's good fodder for me.
( i hope you always stay happy with me. true as it is, saying so feels like looking down the barrel of a loaded rifle, more ammunition for her self-doubt sitting in the chamber. hastily, she backspaces until her worst fear isn't anxiously blinking back at her on the screen, like — she's counting down the days until paul's happiness runs dry, his well of patience dries up, his fondness for her in drought. like she's desperate to cultivate his happiness, solely responsible for nurturing it, in case he sees greener pastures without alina starkov in his life. a self-fulfilling prophecy, at its worst. )
Hm. I sense favoritism at work. 🐭❤️🐁
( it isn't quite i don't believe you or you're wrong. a softer version of those, maybe, a resignation that says maybe being special to you is enough. )
Oh no. :( You mean to tell me you're distracted away from your poor, abused books? That doesn't sound very scholarly. What do Paul Muad'Dib Atreides' daydreams look like? I didn't know you still had many. Well. Many that feature me, anyway. Not when you already have me.
( what if he loses his "dork" title because he's thinking about fucking his girlfriend too much!! )
They all feature you. But the nightly ones are the prophetical ones. During the day I don't know. I have this memory where you're reading on a chaise, your stockinged feet up on the cushions, your fingers pressed up against your chin to try and stop yourself from smiling at whatever you were reading. You looked so pretty, I completely lost my train of thought. I just stared at you until you felt it, and then you nudged your toes in my chest to snap me out of it. It's a perfect memory. I think about it all the time. Um. I guess there are other ones too. You know.
( that one just happened to be very wholesome, but he's a growing boy, and while his thoughts are generally central to the holy war he enacted, when his brain gives him the grace to think about alina — it's not always so innocent. )
( giggling twirling her hair kicking her feet etc )
I remember. Because I was sneaking looks at you, too. I was reading a ridiculous romance I borrowed from Alia, with all of the terrible dialogue you would expect. And you had that book on old myths tucked in your lap, and you hadn't turned a single page since you opened it. I had to make sure your heart hadn't gone into shock. Paul Atreides, ignoring his books? Unheard of.
I never cared much for being looked at. It never meant anything good for me, back home. But that was before you. I want you to always look at me the way you do now. Like reality is better than anything your books could tell you, because you're with me.
( ok sap. she sniffles, a little walloped by her own strong emotions, reaching for something lighter to undercut it — a little bubble of playfulness. )
Don't tell me about your other dreams. Not yet. I think I can guess. Should I try to read your mind? You can tell me if I'm right.
Edited (wait i left out a whole ass word kill me) 2024-09-03 20:56 (UTC)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
( unfortunately, this is what you get when you try to organically bring up being in love with both your girlfriend and your sister. toes inevitably get stepped on. )
It was the only good one I had, until I came here, and started dreaming of you. Though, it was still ... foreboding, I guess.
Are you ever worried you'll do terrible things, out of your control? Like
someone pushed a rock down a hill millennia ago, and you're at the bottom of that hill, enduring their consequences.
There can be cake.
You ( ????? ) you punched him??
( HIS angelic couldn't hurt a fly babygirl barefoot pregnant wife alina ?????? )
no subject
Outside of books, I'm not still not sure they really exist.
( what does a happy ending look like, for alina starkov? hopeless. impossible. a fantasy she refuses to pen when she knows well how her story is meant to come to a close, and still — she dreams of stars in desert skies, the clasp of paul's hands in hers, hallways ringing with ticklish laughter and racing footsteps. a future too full to feel lonely, to feel empty. a future that would hurt too much to lose, like — having to surrender a vital organ, the impossibility of living without a heartbeat, until martyrdom puts her in the ground. )
All the time. But I'm more afraid there's nothing I can do to push it forward.
That I'll set everything back, and prove I'm just like them, forced to make all of the same awful choices.
I try not to think about it while we're here. I'm too selfish to let myself think about it.
And kicked. And maimed. And threatened to throw out of a moving carriage.
Are you scared now? Is that the only reason you're bribing me with cake?
no subject
he thinks he'd give it up. at least right now, in this moment, in this tiny corner of the world some tens of thousands of years in the past, talking to a girl who makes his heart beat like a harkonnen drum. everything else feels too large to handle, but with alina he is small, insignificant, and — yes, blissfully happy. )
If this place was the end, it would be happy one for me.
You're much more responsible that me. I didn't think about that.
I guess there probably is a reason why we are who we are, though. Why the world has been waiting for us.
We don't have to talk about it.
( ah. hm. well. )
Is this a bad time to tell you how hot you are
no subject
( the happiest i've been in a long time, she writes on her first draft, only — that isn't true. sometimes, she wonders if she came out of the womb unhappy, thrust from the warmth of her mother into the cradle of a world she somehow knew would be cold toward her. if it would have been to stay inside, safe and protected, than to face the rest of her story. chapter one: the blurry memory of her mother's face, fading with each anniversary that marked her parent's deaths. chapter two: stolen moments of innocent joy between children that hadn't known there was worse yet to come. chapter three: the kind of happiness that domestic pets know, before they've realized they're kept, collared things. chapter four, a greater truth: saints don't get to be happy. )
I don't think there is a reason. Not for me, anyway.
I'm not special. It feels like fate spun a wheel, and landed on me.
Like some awful, cosmic joke.
( we don't have to talk about it. and here she is, talking about it, when it's the last thing she wants to do. she scrubs at her face, pinches her eyes until the moisture stops threatening to swell. )
Actually, I think it's serendipitous timing.
You think I'm hot?
no subject
( he agrees, because he's not going to say — i love you so much, forever and always for the first time over text like a chump.
in any case, it's a returning centralized issue, how alina talks about herself. there's too many invisible landmines for paul to maneuver through in order to soothe her anxieties away effectively, but at least he's learned they're there, and when to move forward with trepidation. at least he knows there's some sore spot there, and can avoid prodding the tender skin as best he can. still, one thing does need to be cleared up: )
You are special, Muad'dib.
( because it's ridiculous to think otherwise. has she ever met herself? paul knew she was special within a second of knowing her, his pulse rushing like the rapids of caladan until the steel glint of her letter opener. )
I think you're distractingly hot. But I love a good Alina-themed daydream, so it's good fodder for me.
no subject
Hm. I sense favoritism at work.
🐭❤️🐁
( it isn't quite i don't believe you or you're wrong. a softer version of those, maybe, a resignation that says maybe being special to you is enough. )
Oh no. :( You mean to tell me you're distracted away from your poor, abused books? That doesn't sound very scholarly.
What do Paul Muad'Dib Atreides' daydreams look like? I didn't know you still had many.
Well. Many that feature me, anyway. Not when you already have me.
no subject
🐭❤️🐁
I know, right?
( what if he loses his "dork" title because he's thinking about fucking his girlfriend too much!! )
They all feature you. But the nightly ones are the prophetical ones.
During the day
I don't know. I have this memory where you're reading on a chaise, your stockinged feet up on the cushions, your fingers pressed up against your chin to try and stop yourself from smiling at whatever you were reading. You looked so pretty, I completely lost my train of thought. I just stared at you until you felt it, and then you nudged your toes in my chest to snap me out of it. It's a perfect memory. I think about it all the time.
Um. I guess there are other ones too. You know.
( that one just happened to be very wholesome, but he's a growing boy, and while his thoughts are generally central to the holy war he enacted, when his brain gives him the grace to think about alina — it's not always so innocent. )
no subject
I remember. Because I was sneaking looks at you, too.
I was reading a ridiculous romance I borrowed from Alia, with all of the terrible dialogue you would expect.
And you had that book on old myths tucked in your lap, and you hadn't turned a single page since you opened it.
I had to make sure your heart hadn't gone into shock. Paul Atreides, ignoring his books? Unheard of.
I never cared much for being looked at. It never meant anything good for me, back home.
But that was before you. I want you to always look at me the way you do now.
Like reality is better than anything your books could tell you, because you're with me.
( ok sap. she sniffles, a little walloped by her own strong emotions, reaching for something lighter to undercut it — a little bubble of playfulness. )
Don't tell me about your other dreams. Not yet.
I think I can guess. Should I try to read your mind? You can tell me if I'm right.