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)
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( 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.