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Hello, everyone!
I present to you all my submission to the "Flowering Love" one-shot event. I hope you like it; I'd love to hear your thoughts on it!
About the Fic
Title: Dream
Author: Audrelite
Rating: Mature
Content Warnings: This fic contains suggestive content—namely, brief depictions of nudity/undressing, as well as non-explicit intimate touching.
Ship: Lucian/Shauntal (BookshelfShipping)
Characters: Lucian and Shauntal
Word Count: 5.4k
Theme: New Life
Also find "Dream" on AO3
(In addition, the work is tagged on-site as follows: One True Pairing, Introspection, Intimacy, Feelings, Touching, Married Couple, Love Poem, Doubt, Comfort, Nighttime, Romance, Tenderness, Love, One Shot, Rare Pair, Purple Prose, My Prose Wears a Cape and Calls Itself Superfluous, Building Sentences Like I'm Compensating for a Short Story, I REGRET NOTHING, Because My Literary Beloveds Deserve EVERYTHING. I mention the AO3 tags here mainly for the hilarity — and slight self-deprecation yet undeniable truth — of the last few listed tags, ahaha!)
"Don't stir us from this champagne slumber—
let us dream a little longer in this infancy of love."
—Atticus, from The Dark Between Stars (Atria Books, 2018)
"Be Total Night, become the Only Night, and let my whole self be lost and forgotten in you, and may my dreams shine like stars in your body full of distance and denial ..."
—Fernando Pessoa, from The Book of Disquiet: The Complete Edition, translated and with an introduction by Margaret Jull Costa, edited by Jerónimo Pizarro (New Directions, 2017)
Oh please Universe, tell me this is all a dream.
Whether the thought flitted unbidden across Shauntal's mind or slipped sibilant from her parted lips, she couldn't rightly say. Reality had gone diaphanous, shot through with oneiric shimmer—how else to explain the sight of Lucian leaning in until his mouth hovered a hair's breadth from her own?
But no, this was no dream, however feverish and florid. His lips (slightly chapped, still dew-damp from the merlot they'd shared not even an hour before) pressed against hers in a kiss that was so decidedly, devastatingly real. One hand snaked around to settle in the small of her back, fingers splaying assertively across the fine silk of her negligée. Beneath that thin barrier, Shauntal's skin flushed, nerve endings igniting like filaments.
They'd done this before, of course—traded kisses and caresses, furtive at first, then bolder as layers, both sartorial and psychological, fell away. But this particular embrace was lent an altogether headier frisson by recent events. Namely, the sheaf of papers, still crisp from the solicitor's office, that decreed Lucian and Shauntal legally wed not three days prior.
Husband and wife. The words robbed her of breath even as Lucian's kisses kindled fresh desire deep in her core. To think that a love forged first through furtive glances and spirited literary debate had blossomed, impossibly yet inevitably, into this: a union consecrated by both the Sinnohan and Unovan authorities, two lives intertwined on levels bureaucratic and beatific. If it was a dream, Shauntal thought dimly—No! This can't be a dream... But wasn't it?
"My darling? Why would you wish this was all a dream?"
A small, undignified squeak of surprise escaped Shauntal as she jerked backwards. Wide, stunned eyes flew up to regard Lucian while a flush bloomed across her cheeks and up to her hairline. Shock and chagrin warred within her expression—the former writ large in her dilated pupils and the slight parting of her lips, the latter etched into the abashed downturn of her mouth and the way her brows knitted together. If she were an illustration in one of her beloved books, her dismay would surely be rendered in exquisite cross-hatching across her features. One hand flew up to press against the thundering pace of her heart while the other unconsciously tightened its grip on the lace of her attire.
"I—what? How did you—" The rest of what she wished she could have said died on her tongue as comprehension dawned. Of course. Lucian was a psychic of no mean ability (he was born with and surrounded by such gifts, after all); it would be child's play for him to pluck stray thoughts from her mind, as easily as one might lift a rare first edition from its shelf without lifting a finger so as to not damage it.
Shauntal ducked her head, fingers now fiddling with the lace hem of her negligée. "I didn't mean—that—I wasn't trying to..." Her voice faltered, again, the sentence tapering off into an awkward silence as her tongue grew leaden, tied into knots by a potent cocktail of emotions—disquiet, longing, uncertainty, timidity. She fidgeted, shoulders hunching inward. It wasn't that she regretted their union—far from it! But everything had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly; she couldn't help but fear that at any moment, cruel reality would reassert itself and she'd wake to find it had all been a beautiful, imagined dream.
The silence continued a few moments longer. Then, Lucian regarded his beloved with an inscrutable half-smile, an impish curve of lips that somehow managed to appear both fond yet faintly mocking all at once. Reaching out unhurriedly, he extended a single finger to alight upon her chin, applying the slightest pressure to tilt her face up towards his own. "Don't worry, my dear. I hadn't read your thoughts just now."
Shauntal blinked. "You didn't?"
"No. You spoke the words aloud, albeit rather quietly." His smile sharpened a fraction, taking on a distinctly roguish cast. "I may be a psychic, but that gives me no right to pry upon others' thoughts. I will always respect my wife's mental privacy, even in more... intimate moments such as now." The way his words took on such a honeyed quality left little doubt as to his meaning: it was a sly callback to the first coitus that had taken place between them in the name of their eternally-binding union. At such a recollection, of the frenzied urgency with which her husband had claimed her again and again amidst the tangled clematis of their marital sheets, Shauntal's body stirred with rapturous remembrance. Sweet, throbbing aches rose in the secret, cloistral places of her femininity, indelible commemorations branded into her most intimate of topographies by the scorching, all-consuming fervor of Lucian's desire. Each murmuring pulse that echoed between her straining thighs existed as a cherished memento, an heirloom to be coveted with transcendent gratitude.
Wife. Heat bloomed under Shauntal's skin, prickling along her nerve endings and settling low in her stomach. The casual reference to their newly minted status, to the fevered couplings that had consumed them since the exchanging of vows, only served to heighten her awareness of her own near-nudity. Suddenly the thin silk of her negligée felt unbearably revealing, the lace edging like cobwebs against her flushed skin. She wrapped her arms around her middle, a meager shield against the weight of Lucian's stare.
But even as she did so, Shauntal knew it was a futile gesture. Modesty was rather beside the point when one's husband had already mapped every inch of one's body with hands and lips and teeth and tongue. When he had coaxed from her sounds she hadn't known she was capable of making, had shattered her again and again only to gather the pieces and reshape her anew. No, there was nothing left to hide from Lucian: not her body, and certainly not her heart.
Lucian's eyes glinted with unabashed delight at her telltale blush, the way she squirmed beneath the weight of his regard. "Come now, my dear. There's no reason for you to be so coy." Here, he leaned in close, his breath ghosting across the shell of her ear. "Not when I find you so enchanting in your current state."
Shauntal's blush deepened at his words. "Lucian!" she hissed, torn between mortification and a traitorous thrill of pleasure at his frank appreciation of her.
He chuckled, low and warm. "My apologies. I forget myself." Deftly he reached out to capture one of Shauntal's hands in his, bringing it to his lips for a courtly kiss. "You are, as ever, a vision of loveliness. Forgive me if I find myself... distracted."
Warmth bubbled up in Shauntal's chest, ethereal and effervescent, blossoming outward until her entire being felt fit to bursting. A small smile curved her mouth as she drank in the sight of her husband—this urbane, articulate man laid bare and boyishly earnest when it came to matters of the heart. It was in moments like these that the oft-vaunted psychic Elite was reduced to an adorably flustered suitor once more. Lucian's usual unflappable poise always faltered so endearingly whenever he was confronted with the depth of his feelings for her. The realization made her want to laugh and weep and pull him fiercely into her, all at once.
Twining her fingers with his, she lifted their joined hands to press a kiss of her own to his knuckles. "There's nothing to forgive. I'm just... overwhelmed, I suppose. By all of this."
"Understandable." Lucian's free hand came up to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing lightly across the skin beneath her eye. "It's been a whirlwind few days. The wedding ceremony, the plane trip, the... ahem. The days and nights leading up to and since... especially since." A tinge of pink colored his own cheeks at those last few words, something almost bashful in his expression.
"Oh yes, it's been quite the emotional whirlwind indeed," Shauntal concurred, a rueful lilt to her words. "It's just... I just... I confess, part of me fears that at any moment, reality will be cruel and lie to me, will come crashing down upon me. That I'll awaken to discover this bliss is nothing more than a figment of my own desperately yearning imagination. A dream. And that's why I..." Here she swept her free hand out in an encompassing arc, indicating the sumptuous hotel room that surrounded them, with its diaphanous curtains undulating in the brisk breeze and the constellation of candles painting their skin in auriferous light and shadow. "That's why I said what I said. If I plead to the universe, and this all turned out to be a dream after all, then it won't hurt as much."
"Ah, I see." Gently Lucian tugged his beloved closer, until they were flush against each other, not an inch of space between them. His body was warm and solid against hers, deliciously real. "Well then. I suppose I shall have to spend the rest of the night convincing you of our new reality, won't I?"
At this, Shauntal let out a small giggle that quickly turned into a breathy gasp as she felt her gown come sliding off her shoulders, slithering down her body to pool at her feet in a puddle of mauve and champagne. A heartbeat later, her undergarments followed suit—camisole and petticoat, stockings and garters, all slipping away until she lay bare before her husband's appreciative gaze, clad only in the argent moonlight streaming through the parted curtains. A shiver rippled through her, fine hairs standing as the cool night air kissed her flesh; whether this reaction stemmed from the sudden chill or the smoldering intensity in Lucian's eyes as they raked over her form, cataloging every dip and curve with an almost academic avidity, Shauntal wasn't quite certain.
What she was certain of, though, was that Lucian's telekinetic intervention in removing her clothing as quickly as he had done just now was his rather blatant way of expressing his eagerness to embark upon a thorough and intimate exploration of her. Shauntal could never bring herself to acknowledge this for what it truly was: impatience, despite recognizing that that term more accurately captured the connotation she always associated with such a bold, abrupt action. And then, as that thought settled itself within her mind, she became certain of this, too: in removing her clothing in the way that he had, it was as if Lucian was answering his own rhetorical question, proclaiming, "No. I will convince you of our new reality."
In the hazy aftermath of her own unveiling, it took Shauntal several heartbeats to register that Lucian, having scooted away from her infinitesimally, remained relatively covered by comparison. His brocade dressing gown still clung to his frame, parting just enough at the chest to afford a maddeningly limited view of the taut skin and musculature beneath. It framed his lean form like a gilded portrait, all tapered shoulders and sleek hips, strength and elegance personified. An errant thought flitted through Shauntal's mind, musing fancifully that her husband would not look out of place amongst the ancient statuary of relic castles—an Adonis hewn from living marble, poised to stride off his pedestal and into her arms. Before she could give voice to this whimsical notion, however, or comment on the rather unfair discrepancy in their current states of undress, Lucian resumed speaking.
"Now then..." Shauntal realized barely a hand's breadth separated their bodies again now. This close, Shauntal could feel the heat radiating off his skin, could catch the sweet notes of his cologne mingling with the underlying musk of his arousal. It made her head swim pleasantly, even as a fresh wave of desire swelled between her legs. "Before we do continue this, would you care to elaborate on the last part of your statement? About the hurt you anticipate feeling?"
An echoing curve shaped Shauntal's mouth despite the vivid bloom rising from her neck to dust her cheekbones with color all over again. Trust Lucian not to let a stray comment pass unremarked, even in the midst of seduction; the man had a scholar's tenacity, forever worrying at any and every idea, especially so when that idea had already been raised and addressed just moments ago. Shauntal had answered him then with a flimsy statement, a vague deflection; she should have known he wouldn't be so easily deterred from sussing out the truth behind her words. Lucian was nothing if not persistent in his pursuit of knowledge, relentless in his quest for understanding, qualities she normally found quite thrilling when applied to philosophical discourse or the unraveling of linguistic conundrums; somewhat less so when she was the puzzle he sought to solve, her deepest insecurities the cipher he longed to crack.
Still, Lucian's query was a fair one, Shauntal had to concede. She owed him more than airy dismissals and dissembling, owed herself more than that. And so, with no small measure of hesitation, she cast about for the words to give shape to the nebulous fears that had plagued her these past few whirlwind days: to explain how something so wonderful, so precariously perfect, couldn't possibly be real. How at any moment she expected to wake and find herself alone, Lucian and their love nothing more than the vivid fantasy of her own starved heart.
But the words wouldn't come. They lay leaden on her tongue, too raw and ungainly to be given voice. Especially when Lucian was looking at her like that—like she was a mystery he would gladly spend a lifetime unraveling, a conundrum more precious than any riddle posed by the ancients. Like she was everything he had ever wanted, and the very fact of her existence left him enamored and enchanted, humbled and amazed.
Oh please Universe, tell me this is all a dream...
All of a sudden, Shauntal felt an unseen force constrict her throat, frigid fingers tightening in a vise-like grip around her windpipe until breathing became a laborious struggle. A telltale prickling burned at the corners of her eyes, the unmistakable harbinger of oncoming tears. Despite blinking rapidly, she could not halt their unavoidable gathering, the hot brine welling up until her vision blurred and wavered. The room around her dissolved into a dreamy, indistinct haze, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain, all its carefully delineated forms melting and bleeding together into smears of pigment.
Even in spite of all of this, nothing escaped Lucian's hawk-like scrutiny, honed as he was by long practice in detecting even the most fleeting of changes in Shauntal's demeanor or expression. His reaction was instantaneous, a look of solicitude inscribing itself onto his features, manifesting in the troubled knitting of his brow and the somber downturn of his lips. Without hesitation, he reached out to cradle her face in his hands, the pads of his fingers slightly rough with calluses born of long hours spent gripping a pen or flipping through the pages of a well-worn text. That familiar touch, so loving, so adoring, nearly undid her.
"Shauntal?" His voice was low, urgent, weighted with worry. "My love, I can tell something is troubling you very much. Will you tell me... Please?"
Glistening beads of fresh tears refracted the low candlelight as Shauntal managed the barest shake of her head in feeble denial, tousled tresses swaying with the tiny motion. A rueful smile etched itself across her lips, that fragile curl both acknowledging and deflecting the profundity of the emotions roiling within her. Even as the damming walls of her composure began their inexorable fracture, she could not—would not—unleash the next deluge gathering behind them, soon to overtake her at any moment. Not yet.
"It's nothing." Her reply emerged thready and unconvincing to her own ears. She hated the watery waver in her voice. "Just me overthinking foolishly, as always. I'm sorry."
Upon hearing this, a noise of undisguised dissent came from the back of Lucian's throat. "This is not nothing," he insisted, his tone brooking no argument. With a touch achingly gentle, he swept the pad of his thumb across the damp trail of her tears, as if he could erase her distress with that simple gesture. "Please, confide in me. It pains me to see you so distraught."
And something in his tone—in the earnest distress that roughened his normally placid voice, the almost desperate way his other hand came up to frame her face, as though she were the most fragile and precious thing to exist in this world—broke Shauntal's resolve. The words came tumbling out of her in a rush, a torrent of pent-up anxiety and longing and disbelief.
"It's just... this, us, everything. It doesn't feel real. you don't feel real. I keep waiting for the illusion to shatter, for reality to come crashing down around me." She sucked in a shuddering breath, the air cold and sharp in her lungs. "How can this possibly be my life, Lucian? How can I possibly deserve you, this love, this impossible dream made flesh? I'm nothing special, just a bookish wallflower with her head in the clouds. And you... you're..."
"Yours," Lucian interjected, quiet and firm. He dipped his head to rest his forehead against hers, noses brushing, their breath mingling sweetly in the scant space between their lips. "I am yours, Shauntal, utterly and completely. Just as you are mine. And that is no dream, no illusion. It is the truest thing I have ever known."
Another tremor ran through her at his words, at the unyielding conviction that resonated in every syllable. When he spoke like that—low and fervent and sure down to his bones—it was almost enough to make her believe. Almost.
"Do you remember the very first love poem I ever wrote for you?"
At the abrupt shift in topic, Shauntal's eyes widened in momentary confusion, her train of thought derailed. She drew back slightly, spine straightening and shoulders squaring as she tried to reorient herself in the conversation. Then, angling her face upwards, she searched Lucian's countenance for some semblance of elucidation, a voiceless inquiry implicit in the arch of her eyebrows and the pensively pursed line of her mouth. "Ah yes, of course I remember. It was the night of the Lyrids meteor shower." The corners of her mouth curved in nostalgic recollection as the scene crystallized within her mind's eye, each detail limned in lambent, almost preternatural clarity. "We had snuck up to the roof of the Canalave Library with a bottle of Bordeaux and a notebook, determined to bear witness to the celestial spectacle unfolding above us. The air was crisp with the first blush of spring, redolent with the scent of apple blossoms and damp earth, and the sky stretched out like an infinite canvas pricked with glittering stars, a beautiful backdrop for the cosmic detritus of Comet Thatcher as it blazed a fiery trail through the atmosphere. You were so excited, pointing out the radiant of the shower in the constellation Lyra. And as the meteors streaked across the heavens, silent and ephemeral as ghosts, you scribbled verses in the margins of that notebook, an ode to the evanescent beauty of the moment, and to the nascent love burning between us, bright and sacred as any falling star. For a moment, it was as if we had switched roles, you and I."
Lucian's eyes crinkled at the corners, a wealth of affection in the gesture. "I'm surprised you remember the details as fondly as you do, love, though I suppose such a special day will never be forgotten, hmm?"
"No, that day will never be forgotten. Besides, you make it so easy to get lost in the romance of it all." Here, Shauntal leaned into the solid warmth of Lucian's chest. "Oh yes, I could never forget that night, or the way your words made me feel. Like I was witnessing the birth of something rare and wondrous, a cosmic convergence that might never come again."
A beat of silence followed, then: "...But it did come again, didn't it? Because that poem, as raw and unpolished as it was, was only the first of many. A promise of all the words I would spend the rest of my life writing for you, and you alone."
Shauntal's breath hitched, the beginnings of joyful tears pricking at the backs of her eyes. Turning her face into Lucian's palm, she pressed a kiss to the center of it, silently marveling at the power this man held over her; how even now, after all their years together, he could still unravel her with a touch, a glance, a perfectly turned phrase. "Recite it for me?" she asked, a slight tremble in her voice. "That first poem? I know it's been ages, but—"
"I remember." Lucian's interruption was gentle. "I will always remember."
With that, Lucian cleared his throat once as Shauntal took a single, inward breath, readying herself to be enamored and enchanted all over again. And indeed, enamored and enchanted she was, as Lucian began a perfect recitation.
"In hematite and jacinth gleams the night,
When Luna's arc doth crest the vaulted sky
Yet 'tis not astral fire that guides my sight,
But th'auroral beacon of thy dreamlit eye.
"Though empires fall and sovereigns yield their throne,
And changeful seasons trace their cosmic lilt
Our troth endures, by Clotho's hand oft sewn,
Upon my heart thy sigil 'ere is built."
A stark silence descended in the wake of Lucian's recitation. It was a silence so complete, so all-encompassing, that for a moment, Shauntal wondered if the world itself had ceased its eternal turning—or was it merely her own heart that had stuttered to a halt, arrested by the sheer force of her husband's words? After all, he had foreseen their betrothal years before it would come to be! She exhaled shakily, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence; then, almost dazedly, she turned her head, noting the billowing curtains, their folds painted in shades of silver and shadow by the night.
It was then when an epiphany struck her suddenly, blindsidedly, akin to being lifted bodily and plunged into the crystal-clear waters of enlightenment. In the dizzying whirlwind of their Kalos honeymoon thus far—an idyllic, kaleidoscopic merry-go-round of art galleries and open-air cafés, of sun-dappled cobblestone lanes gilded in rivulets of buttery golden light and peals of unrestrained laughter ringing out beneath the weather-worn verdigris cupolas of monumental, achingly ancient buildings—she had been so swept up, so deliriously consumed, that she had scarcely given pause to appreciate the temporary sanctuary of their hotel room. This opulent, marble-and-velvet cocoon that had borne witness to their most unguarded moments of intimacy, shielding them from the outside world's prying eyes and leaving them utterly alone to explore their reconfigured reality as newlyweds in the afterglow of consummation. She found herself marveling anew at the riotous beauty of the world; and not just the lively charm and beauty of an ever-active Lumiose City, with its faint melodies of music and conversation alongside the intermittent Furfrou bark, but the more immediate, intimate splendor of this haven. Their haven.
The night pressed close beyond the room's expansive tinted windows, a vault of obsidian silk shot through with diamond-chip stars. At its zenith, a slender sickle of moon dangled, casting its iridescent sheen upon the world below. Its pallid light outlined the distant spires of the technological marvel that was Lumiose'sPrism Tower, transforming sleek chrome to a luminous mercury-silver, while the neon-limned buildings farther out in the metropolis shimmered like a mirage, their own glassy façades awash in a prismatic display of vivid hues: electric blue, Tyrian purple, chrysoprase and heliotrope.
"Shauntal, darling?"
With a slight jerk of her shoulders, Shauntal snapped her head towards her beloved, eyes wide and lips parted on an indrawn breath. In the argent glow of the moonlight, Lucian's bare chest was a study in chiaroscuro: alabaster skin and ebony shadows, the planes of his musculature thrown into sharp relief. Unbidden, her gaze trailed lower, to where his trousers hung precariously from his hips, the top button undone to reveal a tantalizing slice of flesh. The air stalled in her lungs seeing him thus.
"Hmm?" The single syllable emerged breathless.
The corners of Lucian's mouth quirked in a knowing smile, but his eyes remained earnest, intent. "Tell me, do you still wish this was all a dream?"
With a jolt, Shauntal recalled the errant thought that had first set this conversation in motion.Oh please Universe, tell me this is all a dream.
She had whispered it, half to herself and half to the universe at large, a reflexive plea born of sheer incredulity, of the fear that this happiness might shatter if examined too closely. And of course, Lucian had heard it.
When Shauntal had said nothing for a long stretch of time, Lucian placed one hand on her inner thigh and, as his fingers traced sigils against the sensitive flesh there, Shauntal felt her breath leave her lungs in a sharp hiss, the sound echoing strangely in the stillness of their room. It was a touch at once soothing and incendiary, his fingertips igniting sparks of pleasure that danced along her nerve endings before coalescing into a molten ache low in her core, a sweet, exquisite torment that left her torn between the urge to squirm away and the desperate need to arch into his touch, silently begging for more.
But more than just physical desire, Lucian's gesture was a silent affirmation, a wordless promise: This is no dream. In the momentary upward slide of his palm along the arch of her hipbone, in the flex of his fingers against the quivering plane of her stomach, Shauntal felt the weight of his devotion, the unshakable bedrock of his commitment to her, his love for her. It was a vow spelled out not in flowery speech or grandiose declarations at an altar in a field of flowers, but in the language of touch and breath, spoken and heard and understood by the two of them alone.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, Shauntal raised her own hand to cover Lucian's where it rested against her thigh, her fingers sliding into the spaces between his own as if they had been carved to fit there. Palm to palm, pulse to pulse, they remained frozen for a long moment, lost in the synchronicity of their heartbeats, in the perfect reciprocity of their love.
And then, Shauntal was tracing the topography of Lucian's hand with the pad of her index finger, mapping out the valleys of his knuckles, the ridges of his tendons, the faint silvery ghosts of old scars. It was a touch imbued with wonder, with the disbelieving joy of a woman granted unfettered access to her most cherished treasure, to explore every facet and contour at her leisure in a whole new light; for at last, they were wed unto each other. Tonight, this coitus would be unhurried, gentle... They would make it feel different somehow.
As her finger followed the roadmap of veins that meandered beneath the skin of Lucian's wrist, Shauntal felt her lips curve into a smile: small and secret, meant for herself alone. Because this—this impossible, incandescent thing between them—wasn't just real; it was the only real thing, the fixed point around which the entire cosmos revolved. It was the North Star of their shared existence, the compass rose by which they would navigate all the days and years ahead.
And oh, what an odyssey it would be, their journey towards the horizon of tomorrows. Not an epic voyage measured in leagues or latitudes, but rather the spaces between—between one shared breath and the next, the infinitesimal distance separating one heated press of lips from the glide of tongue against tongue. An odyssey quantified in the tiny ecstasies mortals trade privately behind closed doors: the gasps swallowed down with sacramental greed, the peals of laughter dispersed in husky tones throughout the blissful hush of night. They would map this brave new world together, Lucian and she: her lover, her soulmate, her husband; her anodyne and her anchor, her haven and her home.
Husband. The word resonated through her like a plucked harp string—musically, unabashedly—setting every atom of her body quivering. Her spouse, her partner, her consort, her beloved, her dearest darling. Shauntal spoke each endearment in her mind, savoring the taste of them all, the weight and feel of them against her mental palate.
And to think, mere moments ago, she had begged and pleaded with the universe three times to tell her that this was all just a dream! In hindsight, the very notion seemed absurd, almost blasphemous. To relegate this soul-deep communion, this meeting of minds and bodies and hearts, to the realm of fantasy—how dare she even thinkto utter such nonsense! No ephemeral wisp of slumbering imagination, no dream, could ever hope to compare to the vivid, tangible glory of their shared reality.
Humbled by the enormity of her own obtuseness, Shauntal bowed her head, inadvertently bringing her brow into contact with the strong column of Lucian's throat. At once, she felt his other hand lift to cup her nape, then massage the base of her skull. The hand on her thigh stilled briefly,the digits splaying possessively as Lucian focused all of his attention on his other hand. Slim fingers carded through her glistening locks in a hypnotic pattern, nails lightly scoring her scalp as they did. She savored, too, his intermittent soft sighs of irrepressible gladness and gratitude, each exhalation ruffling the fine veil of her bangs with each heated puff of breath. The tenderness in his touches, more than anything else, made Shauntal's heart seize behind her ribs, not for the first time tonight, swelling with an emotion too vast and fathomless to be contained within the fragile calculus of her mortal body. Her lashes fluttered rapidly as she blinked back yet another sting of unshed tears, refusing to let them mar this perfect moment. She turned her face inwards, burrowing deeper into the hollow of Lucian's throat until her nose brushed against the thrumming pulse point below his jaw. There she breathed deep, greedy lungfuls of his singular essence: a heady, ambrosial blend of warm vanilla and old bookbindings, redolent of the immemorial, venerable sanctums of knowledge they both adored so much; a scent so intrinsically, unutterably Lucian that a euphoric vertigo immediately set Shauntal's senses spinning, her head swimming in delirious rapture.
Forgive me, oh Universe.
Then, she breathed out, drunk on the nearness of him, on the dizzying reality of him. And in the midst of her next breath, the hand on her thigh resumed its stroking, moving ever lower as it did...
Meanwhile, framed by the lancet arch of their window, the waxing crescent moon continued its resolute rising in the sky. Its lustrous eye, heavy-lidded and all-seeing, all knowing, appeared to wink down at the entwined figures of the newlyweds, a sidereal blessing bestowed by the ancient arbiter of lovers' fates. Lost as she was in the rhapsody of Lucian's touches—in the anapestic rhythm of his fingers upon her body and the trochaic stirrings of his breath in her ear—Shauntal was sure of it now: she could feel the perpetual kinetic thrum of Lumiose City still and hush for the space of a single, fractured heartbeat, as if the very city were genuflecting before the altar of their devotion, bearing witness to and affirming their true consecration. It wasn't just her own heart which had stopped this time, it seemed. In that liminal interstice, caught between the exhalation of one moment and the inhalation of the next, Shauntal sensed the warp and weft of the universe itself shift and resettle, the pattern of its grand design reconfiguring to accommodate the magnitude of their boundless and perennial love. It was an instant of shining, staggering stasis, a fragment of eternity preserved in amber—and then, just as swiftly, with a sigh and a shudder, the world lurched back into motion, its ceaseless revolutions restored.
And to think, she had begged and pleaded with the universe to tell her that this was all a dream.
"...No, I don't. Not anymore."
I present to you all my submission to the "Flowering Love" one-shot event. I hope you like it; I'd love to hear your thoughts on it!
About the Fic
Title: Dream
Author: Audrelite
Rating: Mature
Content Warnings: This fic contains suggestive content—namely, brief depictions of nudity/undressing, as well as non-explicit intimate touching.
Ship: Lucian/Shauntal (BookshelfShipping)
Characters: Lucian and Shauntal
Word Count: 5.4k
Theme: New Life
Also find "Dream" on AO3
(In addition, the work is tagged on-site as follows: One True Pairing, Introspection, Intimacy, Feelings, Touching, Married Couple, Love Poem, Doubt, Comfort, Nighttime, Romance, Tenderness, Love, One Shot, Rare Pair, Purple Prose, My Prose Wears a Cape and Calls Itself Superfluous, Building Sentences Like I'm Compensating for a Short Story, I REGRET NOTHING, Because My Literary Beloveds Deserve EVERYTHING. I mention the AO3 tags here mainly for the hilarity — and slight self-deprecation yet undeniable truth — of the last few listed tags, ahaha!)
"Don't stir us from this champagne slumber—
let us dream a little longer in this infancy of love."
—Atticus, from The Dark Between Stars (Atria Books, 2018)
"Be Total Night, become the Only Night, and let my whole self be lost and forgotten in you, and may my dreams shine like stars in your body full of distance and denial ..."
—Fernando Pessoa, from The Book of Disquiet: The Complete Edition, translated and with an introduction by Margaret Jull Costa, edited by Jerónimo Pizarro (New Directions, 2017)
Oh please Universe, tell me this is all a dream.
Whether the thought flitted unbidden across Shauntal's mind or slipped sibilant from her parted lips, she couldn't rightly say. Reality had gone diaphanous, shot through with oneiric shimmer—how else to explain the sight of Lucian leaning in until his mouth hovered a hair's breadth from her own?
But no, this was no dream, however feverish and florid. His lips (slightly chapped, still dew-damp from the merlot they'd shared not even an hour before) pressed against hers in a kiss that was so decidedly, devastatingly real. One hand snaked around to settle in the small of her back, fingers splaying assertively across the fine silk of her negligée. Beneath that thin barrier, Shauntal's skin flushed, nerve endings igniting like filaments.
They'd done this before, of course—traded kisses and caresses, furtive at first, then bolder as layers, both sartorial and psychological, fell away. But this particular embrace was lent an altogether headier frisson by recent events. Namely, the sheaf of papers, still crisp from the solicitor's office, that decreed Lucian and Shauntal legally wed not three days prior.
Husband and wife. The words robbed her of breath even as Lucian's kisses kindled fresh desire deep in her core. To think that a love forged first through furtive glances and spirited literary debate had blossomed, impossibly yet inevitably, into this: a union consecrated by both the Sinnohan and Unovan authorities, two lives intertwined on levels bureaucratic and beatific. If it was a dream, Shauntal thought dimly—No! This can't be a dream... But wasn't it?
"My darling? Why would you wish this was all a dream?"
A small, undignified squeak of surprise escaped Shauntal as she jerked backwards. Wide, stunned eyes flew up to regard Lucian while a flush bloomed across her cheeks and up to her hairline. Shock and chagrin warred within her expression—the former writ large in her dilated pupils and the slight parting of her lips, the latter etched into the abashed downturn of her mouth and the way her brows knitted together. If she were an illustration in one of her beloved books, her dismay would surely be rendered in exquisite cross-hatching across her features. One hand flew up to press against the thundering pace of her heart while the other unconsciously tightened its grip on the lace of her attire.
"I—what? How did you—" The rest of what she wished she could have said died on her tongue as comprehension dawned. Of course. Lucian was a psychic of no mean ability (he was born with and surrounded by such gifts, after all); it would be child's play for him to pluck stray thoughts from her mind, as easily as one might lift a rare first edition from its shelf without lifting a finger so as to not damage it.
Shauntal ducked her head, fingers now fiddling with the lace hem of her negligée. "I didn't mean—that—I wasn't trying to..." Her voice faltered, again, the sentence tapering off into an awkward silence as her tongue grew leaden, tied into knots by a potent cocktail of emotions—disquiet, longing, uncertainty, timidity. She fidgeted, shoulders hunching inward. It wasn't that she regretted their union—far from it! But everything had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly; she couldn't help but fear that at any moment, cruel reality would reassert itself and she'd wake to find it had all been a beautiful, imagined dream.
The silence continued a few moments longer. Then, Lucian regarded his beloved with an inscrutable half-smile, an impish curve of lips that somehow managed to appear both fond yet faintly mocking all at once. Reaching out unhurriedly, he extended a single finger to alight upon her chin, applying the slightest pressure to tilt her face up towards his own. "Don't worry, my dear. I hadn't read your thoughts just now."
Shauntal blinked. "You didn't?"
"No. You spoke the words aloud, albeit rather quietly." His smile sharpened a fraction, taking on a distinctly roguish cast. "I may be a psychic, but that gives me no right to pry upon others' thoughts. I will always respect my wife's mental privacy, even in more... intimate moments such as now." The way his words took on such a honeyed quality left little doubt as to his meaning: it was a sly callback to the first coitus that had taken place between them in the name of their eternally-binding union. At such a recollection, of the frenzied urgency with which her husband had claimed her again and again amidst the tangled clematis of their marital sheets, Shauntal's body stirred with rapturous remembrance. Sweet, throbbing aches rose in the secret, cloistral places of her femininity, indelible commemorations branded into her most intimate of topographies by the scorching, all-consuming fervor of Lucian's desire. Each murmuring pulse that echoed between her straining thighs existed as a cherished memento, an heirloom to be coveted with transcendent gratitude.
Wife. Heat bloomed under Shauntal's skin, prickling along her nerve endings and settling low in her stomach. The casual reference to their newly minted status, to the fevered couplings that had consumed them since the exchanging of vows, only served to heighten her awareness of her own near-nudity. Suddenly the thin silk of her negligée felt unbearably revealing, the lace edging like cobwebs against her flushed skin. She wrapped her arms around her middle, a meager shield against the weight of Lucian's stare.
But even as she did so, Shauntal knew it was a futile gesture. Modesty was rather beside the point when one's husband had already mapped every inch of one's body with hands and lips and teeth and tongue. When he had coaxed from her sounds she hadn't known she was capable of making, had shattered her again and again only to gather the pieces and reshape her anew. No, there was nothing left to hide from Lucian: not her body, and certainly not her heart.
Lucian's eyes glinted with unabashed delight at her telltale blush, the way she squirmed beneath the weight of his regard. "Come now, my dear. There's no reason for you to be so coy." Here, he leaned in close, his breath ghosting across the shell of her ear. "Not when I find you so enchanting in your current state."
Shauntal's blush deepened at his words. "Lucian!" she hissed, torn between mortification and a traitorous thrill of pleasure at his frank appreciation of her.
He chuckled, low and warm. "My apologies. I forget myself." Deftly he reached out to capture one of Shauntal's hands in his, bringing it to his lips for a courtly kiss. "You are, as ever, a vision of loveliness. Forgive me if I find myself... distracted."
Warmth bubbled up in Shauntal's chest, ethereal and effervescent, blossoming outward until her entire being felt fit to bursting. A small smile curved her mouth as she drank in the sight of her husband—this urbane, articulate man laid bare and boyishly earnest when it came to matters of the heart. It was in moments like these that the oft-vaunted psychic Elite was reduced to an adorably flustered suitor once more. Lucian's usual unflappable poise always faltered so endearingly whenever he was confronted with the depth of his feelings for her. The realization made her want to laugh and weep and pull him fiercely into her, all at once.
Twining her fingers with his, she lifted their joined hands to press a kiss of her own to his knuckles. "There's nothing to forgive. I'm just... overwhelmed, I suppose. By all of this."
"Understandable." Lucian's free hand came up to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing lightly across the skin beneath her eye. "It's been a whirlwind few days. The wedding ceremony, the plane trip, the... ahem. The days and nights leading up to and since... especially since." A tinge of pink colored his own cheeks at those last few words, something almost bashful in his expression.
"Oh yes, it's been quite the emotional whirlwind indeed," Shauntal concurred, a rueful lilt to her words. "It's just... I just... I confess, part of me fears that at any moment, reality will be cruel and lie to me, will come crashing down upon me. That I'll awaken to discover this bliss is nothing more than a figment of my own desperately yearning imagination. A dream. And that's why I..." Here she swept her free hand out in an encompassing arc, indicating the sumptuous hotel room that surrounded them, with its diaphanous curtains undulating in the brisk breeze and the constellation of candles painting their skin in auriferous light and shadow. "That's why I said what I said. If I plead to the universe, and this all turned out to be a dream after all, then it won't hurt as much."
"Ah, I see." Gently Lucian tugged his beloved closer, until they were flush against each other, not an inch of space between them. His body was warm and solid against hers, deliciously real. "Well then. I suppose I shall have to spend the rest of the night convincing you of our new reality, won't I?"
At this, Shauntal let out a small giggle that quickly turned into a breathy gasp as she felt her gown come sliding off her shoulders, slithering down her body to pool at her feet in a puddle of mauve and champagne. A heartbeat later, her undergarments followed suit—camisole and petticoat, stockings and garters, all slipping away until she lay bare before her husband's appreciative gaze, clad only in the argent moonlight streaming through the parted curtains. A shiver rippled through her, fine hairs standing as the cool night air kissed her flesh; whether this reaction stemmed from the sudden chill or the smoldering intensity in Lucian's eyes as they raked over her form, cataloging every dip and curve with an almost academic avidity, Shauntal wasn't quite certain.
What she was certain of, though, was that Lucian's telekinetic intervention in removing her clothing as quickly as he had done just now was his rather blatant way of expressing his eagerness to embark upon a thorough and intimate exploration of her. Shauntal could never bring herself to acknowledge this for what it truly was: impatience, despite recognizing that that term more accurately captured the connotation she always associated with such a bold, abrupt action. And then, as that thought settled itself within her mind, she became certain of this, too: in removing her clothing in the way that he had, it was as if Lucian was answering his own rhetorical question, proclaiming, "No. I will convince you of our new reality."
In the hazy aftermath of her own unveiling, it took Shauntal several heartbeats to register that Lucian, having scooted away from her infinitesimally, remained relatively covered by comparison. His brocade dressing gown still clung to his frame, parting just enough at the chest to afford a maddeningly limited view of the taut skin and musculature beneath. It framed his lean form like a gilded portrait, all tapered shoulders and sleek hips, strength and elegance personified. An errant thought flitted through Shauntal's mind, musing fancifully that her husband would not look out of place amongst the ancient statuary of relic castles—an Adonis hewn from living marble, poised to stride off his pedestal and into her arms. Before she could give voice to this whimsical notion, however, or comment on the rather unfair discrepancy in their current states of undress, Lucian resumed speaking.
"Now then..." Shauntal realized barely a hand's breadth separated their bodies again now. This close, Shauntal could feel the heat radiating off his skin, could catch the sweet notes of his cologne mingling with the underlying musk of his arousal. It made her head swim pleasantly, even as a fresh wave of desire swelled between her legs. "Before we do continue this, would you care to elaborate on the last part of your statement? About the hurt you anticipate feeling?"
An echoing curve shaped Shauntal's mouth despite the vivid bloom rising from her neck to dust her cheekbones with color all over again. Trust Lucian not to let a stray comment pass unremarked, even in the midst of seduction; the man had a scholar's tenacity, forever worrying at any and every idea, especially so when that idea had already been raised and addressed just moments ago. Shauntal had answered him then with a flimsy statement, a vague deflection; she should have known he wouldn't be so easily deterred from sussing out the truth behind her words. Lucian was nothing if not persistent in his pursuit of knowledge, relentless in his quest for understanding, qualities she normally found quite thrilling when applied to philosophical discourse or the unraveling of linguistic conundrums; somewhat less so when she was the puzzle he sought to solve, her deepest insecurities the cipher he longed to crack.
Still, Lucian's query was a fair one, Shauntal had to concede. She owed him more than airy dismissals and dissembling, owed herself more than that. And so, with no small measure of hesitation, she cast about for the words to give shape to the nebulous fears that had plagued her these past few whirlwind days: to explain how something so wonderful, so precariously perfect, couldn't possibly be real. How at any moment she expected to wake and find herself alone, Lucian and their love nothing more than the vivid fantasy of her own starved heart.
But the words wouldn't come. They lay leaden on her tongue, too raw and ungainly to be given voice. Especially when Lucian was looking at her like that—like she was a mystery he would gladly spend a lifetime unraveling, a conundrum more precious than any riddle posed by the ancients. Like she was everything he had ever wanted, and the very fact of her existence left him enamored and enchanted, humbled and amazed.
Oh please Universe, tell me this is all a dream...
All of a sudden, Shauntal felt an unseen force constrict her throat, frigid fingers tightening in a vise-like grip around her windpipe until breathing became a laborious struggle. A telltale prickling burned at the corners of her eyes, the unmistakable harbinger of oncoming tears. Despite blinking rapidly, she could not halt their unavoidable gathering, the hot brine welling up until her vision blurred and wavered. The room around her dissolved into a dreamy, indistinct haze, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain, all its carefully delineated forms melting and bleeding together into smears of pigment.
Even in spite of all of this, nothing escaped Lucian's hawk-like scrutiny, honed as he was by long practice in detecting even the most fleeting of changes in Shauntal's demeanor or expression. His reaction was instantaneous, a look of solicitude inscribing itself onto his features, manifesting in the troubled knitting of his brow and the somber downturn of his lips. Without hesitation, he reached out to cradle her face in his hands, the pads of his fingers slightly rough with calluses born of long hours spent gripping a pen or flipping through the pages of a well-worn text. That familiar touch, so loving, so adoring, nearly undid her.
"Shauntal?" His voice was low, urgent, weighted with worry. "My love, I can tell something is troubling you very much. Will you tell me... Please?"
Glistening beads of fresh tears refracted the low candlelight as Shauntal managed the barest shake of her head in feeble denial, tousled tresses swaying with the tiny motion. A rueful smile etched itself across her lips, that fragile curl both acknowledging and deflecting the profundity of the emotions roiling within her. Even as the damming walls of her composure began their inexorable fracture, she could not—would not—unleash the next deluge gathering behind them, soon to overtake her at any moment. Not yet.
"It's nothing." Her reply emerged thready and unconvincing to her own ears. She hated the watery waver in her voice. "Just me overthinking foolishly, as always. I'm sorry."
Upon hearing this, a noise of undisguised dissent came from the back of Lucian's throat. "This is not nothing," he insisted, his tone brooking no argument. With a touch achingly gentle, he swept the pad of his thumb across the damp trail of her tears, as if he could erase her distress with that simple gesture. "Please, confide in me. It pains me to see you so distraught."
And something in his tone—in the earnest distress that roughened his normally placid voice, the almost desperate way his other hand came up to frame her face, as though she were the most fragile and precious thing to exist in this world—broke Shauntal's resolve. The words came tumbling out of her in a rush, a torrent of pent-up anxiety and longing and disbelief.
"It's just... this, us, everything. It doesn't feel real. you don't feel real. I keep waiting for the illusion to shatter, for reality to come crashing down around me." She sucked in a shuddering breath, the air cold and sharp in her lungs. "How can this possibly be my life, Lucian? How can I possibly deserve you, this love, this impossible dream made flesh? I'm nothing special, just a bookish wallflower with her head in the clouds. And you... you're..."
"Yours," Lucian interjected, quiet and firm. He dipped his head to rest his forehead against hers, noses brushing, their breath mingling sweetly in the scant space between their lips. "I am yours, Shauntal, utterly and completely. Just as you are mine. And that is no dream, no illusion. It is the truest thing I have ever known."
Another tremor ran through her at his words, at the unyielding conviction that resonated in every syllable. When he spoke like that—low and fervent and sure down to his bones—it was almost enough to make her believe. Almost.
"Do you remember the very first love poem I ever wrote for you?"
At the abrupt shift in topic, Shauntal's eyes widened in momentary confusion, her train of thought derailed. She drew back slightly, spine straightening and shoulders squaring as she tried to reorient herself in the conversation. Then, angling her face upwards, she searched Lucian's countenance for some semblance of elucidation, a voiceless inquiry implicit in the arch of her eyebrows and the pensively pursed line of her mouth. "Ah yes, of course I remember. It was the night of the Lyrids meteor shower." The corners of her mouth curved in nostalgic recollection as the scene crystallized within her mind's eye, each detail limned in lambent, almost preternatural clarity. "We had snuck up to the roof of the Canalave Library with a bottle of Bordeaux and a notebook, determined to bear witness to the celestial spectacle unfolding above us. The air was crisp with the first blush of spring, redolent with the scent of apple blossoms and damp earth, and the sky stretched out like an infinite canvas pricked with glittering stars, a beautiful backdrop for the cosmic detritus of Comet Thatcher as it blazed a fiery trail through the atmosphere. You were so excited, pointing out the radiant of the shower in the constellation Lyra. And as the meteors streaked across the heavens, silent and ephemeral as ghosts, you scribbled verses in the margins of that notebook, an ode to the evanescent beauty of the moment, and to the nascent love burning between us, bright and sacred as any falling star. For a moment, it was as if we had switched roles, you and I."
Lucian's eyes crinkled at the corners, a wealth of affection in the gesture. "I'm surprised you remember the details as fondly as you do, love, though I suppose such a special day will never be forgotten, hmm?"
"No, that day will never be forgotten. Besides, you make it so easy to get lost in the romance of it all." Here, Shauntal leaned into the solid warmth of Lucian's chest. "Oh yes, I could never forget that night, or the way your words made me feel. Like I was witnessing the birth of something rare and wondrous, a cosmic convergence that might never come again."
A beat of silence followed, then: "...But it did come again, didn't it? Because that poem, as raw and unpolished as it was, was only the first of many. A promise of all the words I would spend the rest of my life writing for you, and you alone."
Shauntal's breath hitched, the beginnings of joyful tears pricking at the backs of her eyes. Turning her face into Lucian's palm, she pressed a kiss to the center of it, silently marveling at the power this man held over her; how even now, after all their years together, he could still unravel her with a touch, a glance, a perfectly turned phrase. "Recite it for me?" she asked, a slight tremble in her voice. "That first poem? I know it's been ages, but—"
"I remember." Lucian's interruption was gentle. "I will always remember."
With that, Lucian cleared his throat once as Shauntal took a single, inward breath, readying herself to be enamored and enchanted all over again. And indeed, enamored and enchanted she was, as Lucian began a perfect recitation.
"In hematite and jacinth gleams the night,
When Luna's arc doth crest the vaulted sky
Yet 'tis not astral fire that guides my sight,
But th'auroral beacon of thy dreamlit eye.
"Though empires fall and sovereigns yield their throne,
And changeful seasons trace their cosmic lilt
Our troth endures, by Clotho's hand oft sewn,
Upon my heart thy sigil 'ere is built."
A stark silence descended in the wake of Lucian's recitation. It was a silence so complete, so all-encompassing, that for a moment, Shauntal wondered if the world itself had ceased its eternal turning—or was it merely her own heart that had stuttered to a halt, arrested by the sheer force of her husband's words? After all, he had foreseen their betrothal years before it would come to be! She exhaled shakily, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence; then, almost dazedly, she turned her head, noting the billowing curtains, their folds painted in shades of silver and shadow by the night.
It was then when an epiphany struck her suddenly, blindsidedly, akin to being lifted bodily and plunged into the crystal-clear waters of enlightenment. In the dizzying whirlwind of their Kalos honeymoon thus far—an idyllic, kaleidoscopic merry-go-round of art galleries and open-air cafés, of sun-dappled cobblestone lanes gilded in rivulets of buttery golden light and peals of unrestrained laughter ringing out beneath the weather-worn verdigris cupolas of monumental, achingly ancient buildings—she had been so swept up, so deliriously consumed, that she had scarcely given pause to appreciate the temporary sanctuary of their hotel room. This opulent, marble-and-velvet cocoon that had borne witness to their most unguarded moments of intimacy, shielding them from the outside world's prying eyes and leaving them utterly alone to explore their reconfigured reality as newlyweds in the afterglow of consummation. She found herself marveling anew at the riotous beauty of the world; and not just the lively charm and beauty of an ever-active Lumiose City, with its faint melodies of music and conversation alongside the intermittent Furfrou bark, but the more immediate, intimate splendor of this haven. Their haven.
The night pressed close beyond the room's expansive tinted windows, a vault of obsidian silk shot through with diamond-chip stars. At its zenith, a slender sickle of moon dangled, casting its iridescent sheen upon the world below. Its pallid light outlined the distant spires of the technological marvel that was Lumiose'sPrism Tower, transforming sleek chrome to a luminous mercury-silver, while the neon-limned buildings farther out in the metropolis shimmered like a mirage, their own glassy façades awash in a prismatic display of vivid hues: electric blue, Tyrian purple, chrysoprase and heliotrope.
"Shauntal, darling?"
With a slight jerk of her shoulders, Shauntal snapped her head towards her beloved, eyes wide and lips parted on an indrawn breath. In the argent glow of the moonlight, Lucian's bare chest was a study in chiaroscuro: alabaster skin and ebony shadows, the planes of his musculature thrown into sharp relief. Unbidden, her gaze trailed lower, to where his trousers hung precariously from his hips, the top button undone to reveal a tantalizing slice of flesh. The air stalled in her lungs seeing him thus.
"Hmm?" The single syllable emerged breathless.
The corners of Lucian's mouth quirked in a knowing smile, but his eyes remained earnest, intent. "Tell me, do you still wish this was all a dream?"
With a jolt, Shauntal recalled the errant thought that had first set this conversation in motion.Oh please Universe, tell me this is all a dream.
She had whispered it, half to herself and half to the universe at large, a reflexive plea born of sheer incredulity, of the fear that this happiness might shatter if examined too closely. And of course, Lucian had heard it.
When Shauntal had said nothing for a long stretch of time, Lucian placed one hand on her inner thigh and, as his fingers traced sigils against the sensitive flesh there, Shauntal felt her breath leave her lungs in a sharp hiss, the sound echoing strangely in the stillness of their room. It was a touch at once soothing and incendiary, his fingertips igniting sparks of pleasure that danced along her nerve endings before coalescing into a molten ache low in her core, a sweet, exquisite torment that left her torn between the urge to squirm away and the desperate need to arch into his touch, silently begging for more.
But more than just physical desire, Lucian's gesture was a silent affirmation, a wordless promise: This is no dream. In the momentary upward slide of his palm along the arch of her hipbone, in the flex of his fingers against the quivering plane of her stomach, Shauntal felt the weight of his devotion, the unshakable bedrock of his commitment to her, his love for her. It was a vow spelled out not in flowery speech or grandiose declarations at an altar in a field of flowers, but in the language of touch and breath, spoken and heard and understood by the two of them alone.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, Shauntal raised her own hand to cover Lucian's where it rested against her thigh, her fingers sliding into the spaces between his own as if they had been carved to fit there. Palm to palm, pulse to pulse, they remained frozen for a long moment, lost in the synchronicity of their heartbeats, in the perfect reciprocity of their love.
And then, Shauntal was tracing the topography of Lucian's hand with the pad of her index finger, mapping out the valleys of his knuckles, the ridges of his tendons, the faint silvery ghosts of old scars. It was a touch imbued with wonder, with the disbelieving joy of a woman granted unfettered access to her most cherished treasure, to explore every facet and contour at her leisure in a whole new light; for at last, they were wed unto each other. Tonight, this coitus would be unhurried, gentle... They would make it feel different somehow.
As her finger followed the roadmap of veins that meandered beneath the skin of Lucian's wrist, Shauntal felt her lips curve into a smile: small and secret, meant for herself alone. Because this—this impossible, incandescent thing between them—wasn't just real; it was the only real thing, the fixed point around which the entire cosmos revolved. It was the North Star of their shared existence, the compass rose by which they would navigate all the days and years ahead.
And oh, what an odyssey it would be, their journey towards the horizon of tomorrows. Not an epic voyage measured in leagues or latitudes, but rather the spaces between—between one shared breath and the next, the infinitesimal distance separating one heated press of lips from the glide of tongue against tongue. An odyssey quantified in the tiny ecstasies mortals trade privately behind closed doors: the gasps swallowed down with sacramental greed, the peals of laughter dispersed in husky tones throughout the blissful hush of night. They would map this brave new world together, Lucian and she: her lover, her soulmate, her husband; her anodyne and her anchor, her haven and her home.
Husband. The word resonated through her like a plucked harp string—musically, unabashedly—setting every atom of her body quivering. Her spouse, her partner, her consort, her beloved, her dearest darling. Shauntal spoke each endearment in her mind, savoring the taste of them all, the weight and feel of them against her mental palate.
And to think, mere moments ago, she had begged and pleaded with the universe three times to tell her that this was all just a dream! In hindsight, the very notion seemed absurd, almost blasphemous. To relegate this soul-deep communion, this meeting of minds and bodies and hearts, to the realm of fantasy—how dare she even thinkto utter such nonsense! No ephemeral wisp of slumbering imagination, no dream, could ever hope to compare to the vivid, tangible glory of their shared reality.
Humbled by the enormity of her own obtuseness, Shauntal bowed her head, inadvertently bringing her brow into contact with the strong column of Lucian's throat. At once, she felt his other hand lift to cup her nape, then massage the base of her skull. The hand on her thigh stilled briefly,the digits splaying possessively as Lucian focused all of his attention on his other hand. Slim fingers carded through her glistening locks in a hypnotic pattern, nails lightly scoring her scalp as they did. She savored, too, his intermittent soft sighs of irrepressible gladness and gratitude, each exhalation ruffling the fine veil of her bangs with each heated puff of breath. The tenderness in his touches, more than anything else, made Shauntal's heart seize behind her ribs, not for the first time tonight, swelling with an emotion too vast and fathomless to be contained within the fragile calculus of her mortal body. Her lashes fluttered rapidly as she blinked back yet another sting of unshed tears, refusing to let them mar this perfect moment. She turned her face inwards, burrowing deeper into the hollow of Lucian's throat until her nose brushed against the thrumming pulse point below his jaw. There she breathed deep, greedy lungfuls of his singular essence: a heady, ambrosial blend of warm vanilla and old bookbindings, redolent of the immemorial, venerable sanctums of knowledge they both adored so much; a scent so intrinsically, unutterably Lucian that a euphoric vertigo immediately set Shauntal's senses spinning, her head swimming in delirious rapture.
Forgive me, oh Universe.
Then, she breathed out, drunk on the nearness of him, on the dizzying reality of him. And in the midst of her next breath, the hand on her thigh resumed its stroking, moving ever lower as it did...
Meanwhile, framed by the lancet arch of their window, the waxing crescent moon continued its resolute rising in the sky. Its lustrous eye, heavy-lidded and all-seeing, all knowing, appeared to wink down at the entwined figures of the newlyweds, a sidereal blessing bestowed by the ancient arbiter of lovers' fates. Lost as she was in the rhapsody of Lucian's touches—in the anapestic rhythm of his fingers upon her body and the trochaic stirrings of his breath in her ear—Shauntal was sure of it now: she could feel the perpetual kinetic thrum of Lumiose City still and hush for the space of a single, fractured heartbeat, as if the very city were genuflecting before the altar of their devotion, bearing witness to and affirming their true consecration. It wasn't just her own heart which had stopped this time, it seemed. In that liminal interstice, caught between the exhalation of one moment and the inhalation of the next, Shauntal sensed the warp and weft of the universe itself shift and resettle, the pattern of its grand design reconfiguring to accommodate the magnitude of their boundless and perennial love. It was an instant of shining, staggering stasis, a fragment of eternity preserved in amber—and then, just as swiftly, with a sigh and a shudder, the world lurched back into motion, its ceaseless revolutions restored.
And to think, she had begged and pleaded with the universe to tell her that this was all a dream.
"...No, I don't. Not anymore."
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