#intcthatgoodnight

if her second marriage has taught her anything, it is that it is possible for a husband and wife to be as strangers in some ways to one another. try as she might, daeron remains a mysterious riddle to her and each time she feels she has made progress, the next day always ushers in some sort of backslide until she finds herself right where she started.

'a question to put to the poets.' she demurs with a dry smile as she studies him through narrowed dark brown eyes. 'at this rate, i suspect every tavern-keeper in the realm finds themselves indebted to you for your loyal patronage.' has a day ever passed in recent years when he has not reached for the nearest cup of ale? she is tempted to ask but the question dies on her lips.

'this may seem a novel idea to you, but one of these days, you should try spending an evening here within the keep rather than at the nearest tavern or are we all so truly disagreeable to you?' she is still attempting to decipher what he thinks of her, but she knows it is no stretch of the imagination to assume he might harbor reservations about being wed to his cousin's widow.

“There was absolutely nothing I said that should’ve made you think I approved this.”

His eyes shut for a longer than needed blink before he turned his head to look at her. "You don't know anything about the clowns, do you?" he asks, perhaps a touch more exasperated than inquisitive.

“I didn’t have to kill him. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

“You are treading on some mighty thin ice here.”

[  ....  ]                all  that  plagued  lila's  mind  was  the  thought  of  dexter.  who  he  was,  what  made  him  so  fucking  addicting  ...  all  she  desired  was  to  be  with  him.  whether  that  be  next  to  him  or  on  top  of  him;  she  just  wanted  to  soak  in  everything  he  was.  the  mystery  that  surrounded  him  was  enough  to  keep  her  so  intrigued,  to  forget  about  everything  she  wanted  to  do  before  she  met  him  and  even  enough  to  make  her  forget  parts  of  herself.  she  was  so  obsessed  with  connecting  with  him  in  a  way  he  hasn't  connected  with  anyone  else.  she  wanted  to  be  THE  ONE  for  him  ...  she  just  had  to  find  a  way  in.

she  knew  deep  inside  she  shouldn't  have  shown  up  at  his  apartment  the  way  she  did  but  she  very  well  couldn't  just  show  up  at  rita's  house,  could  she?  they  weren't  there  just  yet.  with  a  smile  that  illuminated  her  face,  she  gains  a  pep  in  her  step  when  dexter  opens  the  door  to  reveal  her  presence.  she  takes  in  a  breath,  the  excitement  of  being  with  him  already  filling  her  up  with  an  unexplainable  sense  of  joy,  ❝  dexta  ...  as  your  sponsor,  i  insist  you  join  me  for  a  little  spree.  perhaps  lunch  by  the  pier  ?  i  also  need  to  acquire  some  new  pieces  for  my  art  project.  and  before  you  answer,  you  can't  say  no.  ❞

Deliverance slackens in his fingertips.

He can because he must.

He can't because he's no force of will-- just the whisperings of it.

Paul can see their father in her eyes. It's in the way she looks at him and through him, unto spectacles that even he can't quite see. Narrow paths have jutting, sharp edges that wound, and certainly Alia knows that. His capillaries expand with her encouragement, though he knows all too well it isn't quite that.

"I will."

Can't, won't, shouldn't; as automatic as breathing. Doesn't do that so well anymore, not unless it's burrowed in Spice. Like a tether that chokes.

A process cannot be understood by stopping it. Understanding must move with the flow of the process, must join it and flow with it.

Sometimes it's easier to meld into Mentat in lieu of Bene Gesserit. Sometimes it's worthy.

Even when it hurts.