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All is calm in the Library of Dream.
Lucienne hums lightly to herself as she pushes her cart of books, expertly weaving around stacks to the precise row where these titles are to be shelved. The song is one that she can't quite place, an irregularity to be sure, what with the near-eidetic memory that being Librarian of the Dreaming grants her, but Lucienne finds she is enjoying the simple wending of the tune too much to be overly concerned about it. The melody circles back around to the beginning, and Lucienne allows the song to drift off as she becomes aware of another presence in the library, lurking among the stacks but clearly working its way towards her.
She reaches for another book, then pauses as she sees her visitor. Lucienne is mildly surprised to recognize a certain nightmare-turned-dream slipping almost sheepishly around the end of the nearest shelf and into Lucienne's view.
"Welcome to the Library of Dream," she says, and then—before she can think better of it—"You look beautiful today, Gault."
Gault ducks her head, almost bashful. "You look...very fine, yourself. Lucienne."
A little thrill goes through Lucienne at the dream's words, and she can feel her face warming slightly. She reaches for another book to shelve but stays half-turned towards her visitor, not wanting Gault to think she's being dismissed.
"What brings you here, Gault? Not that I am not glad of your company," Lucienne hastens to add because it is true, and she would not want the dream to feel unwelcome.
"Are you?" Gault asks, and her tone is enough to cause Lucienne to place her current book back on the pile and look up, giving the dream her full attention.
Gault's beautiful face is set in a surprisingly austere expression, quite at odds with her friendly compliments from earlier, and her question seems sincere. Lucienne can feel her own face falling into a frown in return, unsure what exactly Gault is asking.
"You never seemed to like me much before," Gault explains after a moment, her words slow but deliberate, less uncertain and more like each word is being carefully considered. "I always thought you distrusted me because I was a nightmare. Have I really changed so much?"
The accusation hurts, but it is—perhaps—not entirely incorrect. Lucienne inspects the spine of the book she just picked up for a few moments longer than strictly necessary before placing it on the shelf. She cannot ignore the thread of hurt in Gault's voice or how carefully the other dream presented her allegation.
"It...was not that," Lucienne begins, cautiously. While she has seen more of Gault lately, around the palace and on various forays into the greater world of the Dreaming, it occurs to Lucienne that this is the first time that Gault has visited the library, and perhaps the newly-remade dream has come specifically to ask her this question. Lucienne finds she cannot stomach the idea of Gault thinking that the librarian still distrusts her. Suddenly, it seems imperative that Gault understand just how highly Lucienne regards her, although the reasoning behind this is not something Lucienne is quite ready to examine.
Gault is still watching her expectantly. The swirls of color that usually dance across Gault's skin have largely withdrawn to the edges of her face, leaving every hint of an expression completely exposed.
"I did not distrust you because you were a nightmare," Lucienne clarifies. "It was not so simple as that. I have always performed my function to the fullest of my abilities, even when that function changed. I was proud to be the one the Dreamlord could rely upon, the one he chose to keep the knowledge of his realm and to advise him, as much as any of us can. And if so much of my value was in my loyalty, in performing the jobs that he set for me, then what was I to think of a nightmare who could not be trusted to do her job? Who went around telling others how to do their jobs?"
"It wasn't all the others," Gault interrupts angrily. Her gaze drops, perhaps hearing the defensiveness in her own voice. "It was just the dreams," she says tightly.
"I know that now," Lucienne promises gently, and she hopes it comes across as self-effacing, not condescending. "I could not allow myself to consider that Lord Morpheus might be wrong because what would that make me for following him? But since his return, the Dreamlord has shown himself capable of great growth—of change—and so perhaps his creations can do so as well."
Lucienne hesitates a moment, uncertain if she should share this next detail. "I told him as much," she finally admits. "After he sent you to the darkness."
Gault's eyes widen. "And you are still here?"
"We both are," Lucienne says, for it is true now, even if it was not always so. "And there will be many more changes in the Dreaming now, I think. You have done nothing to deserve my distrust, Gault. Not then, and not now."
"It's not me, it's you?" Gault suggests, with a hint of humor in her voice.
Lucienne smiles and nods. It's fair enough, she thinks, and she doesn't want to spoil Gault's olive branch by quibbling over details.
"And I can be beautiful like this," Gault adds, and suddenly Lucienne feels herself frowning because something in that statement is wrong.
"But you were always beautiful," she says, almost before she thinks of it. "Even as a nightmare, you were stunning."
Gault blinks, and Lucienne realizes suddenly that she may have said a great deal more than she meant to.
"Stunning?" Gault asks shyly, and her expression is sincere, but her tone is sliding ever-so-slightly towards coy.
"Yes, well..." Lucienne can feel her blush returning, but having come this far, she cannot bring herself to deny her own words. "You have always been beautiful, Gault. Like a nebula or a tempest. There was one form of yours that I remember in the nightmares of men at sea which was quite...arresting."
Lucienne is certain her blush extends right past the pointed tips of her ears, if only Gault could see it. The other dream is smiling, the corner of her mouth twitching as though trying to contain the expression, and the riotous colors have returned to her cheeks.
"The sea witch?" Gault suggests, her voice betraying her delight, and Lucienne nods, fidgeting with the book at the top of the stack before withdrawing her hands to clasp them in front of her.
"Well, yes..." she admits, and watches Gault's smile break across her face like a sunrise before fading back into something a bit more subdued.
"I haven't used that form in some time," Gault admits, a hint of regret in her tone. "Not many people actually want to dream of monsters, so there's less call for it these days."
"I would," Lucienne says, then actually slaps a hand over her own mouth. What in the Dreaming was she thinking? That was practically a proposition, and hardly an appropriate thing to say to a casual acquaintance. And surely, that is all Gault is to her?
But Gault's dark eyes are shining, the riotous colors of her skin glowing bright in the dim light of the library. She reaches out and carefully lifts Lucienne's hand from the librarian's mouth, turning it to lace their fingers together.
"Would you show me?" Gault asks softly, and Lucienne pushes the cart of books to one side and leads her from the library, hands still clasped.
They stop in the overgrown back of the palace gardens, where the woods grow close and the neat trellises and carved marble walls melt—quite literally—into twisted laurel shrubs and the gnarled trunks of oak trees. There is a spring here, a small pool of water that has become Lucienne's favorite since the establishment of her current post. She suspects that Lord Morpheus is aware of the fact, if only because the spring, and the quiet beds of rosemary and lavender surrounding it, were one of the first parts of the Dreaming that her lord restored after his absence, the flowers just as fragrant and peaceful as Lucienne remembered them.
Lucienne settles on a bench by the spring, pulling Gault down next to her. She stares down at their joined hands and feels an uncharacteristic bashfulness creeping in.
"I come here alone sometimes, to relax," she admits, fingers tracing over Gault's.
Gault laughs, startling and bright, and when Lucienne looks up, she is again taken by the beauty of Gault's joy, her shining white grin and the tapestry of dancing colors over her skin. "I didn't know you did that," Gault jokes, and she reaches for the buttons on Lucienne's waistcoat.
The water is pleasantly warm, when Lucienne finds herself tumbled into it moments later, her reading glasses folded carefully on the bench and the rest of her clothes haphazardly scattered across the short, green grass around the pool. Gault follows her in, wading up to her waist into the clear water, and then her shape begins to melt.
Lucienne sees it first in Gault's reflection; her form spreads in an iridescent sheen over the surface of the water, like a biofilm or a spilt bottle of ink, if a single bottle could hold all the colors that ever existed and some that didn't. The rest of her sinks further into the spreading mass of dark tendrils until what was once a reflection with no body to reflect breaches the water, a fully formed limb of iridescent black. Fine textured ridges that could not quite be called "suckers" parade along the underside when Gault angles it just right for Lucienne to spot them.
Gault surges out of the pool, her wings melting away amidst the water cascading off her upper body, her lower half a mass of the shining, ink-black limbs. They writhe like snakes, raising her up until she looms over Lucienne in the shallows. Gault reaches down with her still-human arms and gently cups Lucienne's face in hers.
"Was this what you remembered, Lucienne?"
Lucienne traces a finger across Gault's chest, sliding over the swell of her breast, down to her waist, where her dark skin blends seamlessly with the writhing mass of tendrils. The new limbs are smooth and slick in a manner seemingly unrelated to their wetness, which might defy the laws of the waking world but does not seem out of place here in the Dreaming.
"This is better than I remembered," Lucienne whispers, voice quiet against the soft, humming of insects and the sloshing of water. Then she leans forward those final few inches to press her lips to Gault's.
The kiss is soft for a few moments, Gault's mouth opening gently under hers, and then Lucienne feels Gault's grip on her tighten, the other dream's hands sliding down to grasp her shoulders, pinning Lucienne's arms across her own chest as smooth, damp tendrils wrap tight around her legs and torso.
The dark limbs are of varying sizes, and Lucienne can feel the largest of them encircling her hips, wrapping the length of each of her legs, and sliding between Gault's human arms to embrace her upper body.
Lucienne feels Gault's breath in her ear, warm and intimate. "Is this okay?" the former nightmare asks, her lips tickling Lucienne's neck.
"More than okay," Lucienne agrees, and she hopes Gault can hear the smile in her voice.
She leans back, letting Gault take her weight, supported in the clear water with her head and neck just breaking the surface. Below, dark limbs wrap around every inch of Lucienne's body, holding her snugly but not painfully. She floats, legs slightly spread and arms hugging her own chest, pinned just under her breasts by the dark, fleshy bands circling her torso.
If Gault were a cephalopod, the limbs would be arms. This fact—almost a correction—floats to the front of Lucienne's mind unbidden, a glaring, factual piece of information that she tries to ignore because just for this moment, she would quite like to not be the Librarian of the Dreaming, to simply enjoy the sensation of the...limbs, tendrils, whatever-they-are caressing her ankle and sliding between her thighs, and Gault isn't a cephalopod anyway, so why shouldn't Lucienne call them tent—
She snaps back to the present, thoughts scattering like dust motes, as the first of the—sod it all—tentacles breaches her cunt. It has been an age since a partner last touched her there, but Lucienne is quite certain that Gault's tentacle is unlike anything she has ever felt before. Smoother and more solid than fingers, yet more dexterous than any phallus Lucienne has experienced, the tentacle worms its way deeper, filling her until Lucienne can feel the pressure on her cervix, and there it pauses, retreating just a bit until all she can feel is an overwhelming sensation of fullness, with occasional toe-curling spasms of pleasure as the tentacle gently undulates against her walls.
Lucienne tilts her head back, cradling it against Gault's shoulder as she moans her enjoyment. Gault turns to press a kiss high on the librarian's cheek, and all along Lucienne's body, the great limbs enwrapping her tense and then relax in a hug that goes all the way down to her toes.
A couple of the smaller tendrils prod around her entrance, squeezing her labia and teasing over her clit before flitting away. The second time it happens, Lucienne lets out a groan, and Gault chuckles in her ear. Lucienne hisses her frustration, and all down her body, the tentacles shake with laughter, but the tendrils do return after a moment to flick gently at her clit, a rolling sort of almost-vibration that rises and falls in intensity.
It takes very little to drive her to her first peak, the repetitive teasing of tentacles at her clit building to a lovely wave of white and lavender that has all her limbs tensing and tiny stars twinkling in her vision as the tendrils gentle their moments and ease her down from the high.
Gault chuckles in her ear and leans in, mouthing along Lucienne's neck, while the tentacles along her legs—quiet thus far—begin to pulse and slide, gently massaging her tensed muscles. Their movements are a slow background noise that Lucienne takes a few moments to luxuriate in, then tunes out in favor of the renewed activity between her legs.
The tendrils around her clit have been replaced by something larger, a smooth, amorphous shape that engulfs her mound entirely, gently kneading and spreading pressure over the whole region in a way that sends warm waves of pleasure sliding up her spine.
Lucienne tenses in surprise as she feels another, smaller tentacle worming its way between her arsecheeks. All of Gault's limbs freeze instantly at the reaction. Across Lucienne's body, everything stops. Her eyes blink open (when had she closed them?) to see Gault's concerned face hovering over hers.
"No, no," Lucienne tries to reassure, only realizing as she says it what a poor choice of words that might have been. "It's quite alright," she tries again. "I don't mind. Really, Gault, you just surprised me."
Gault's gaze is piercing, and her mouth is set in a slight frown. "You are certain?"
Lucienne summons up a smile. It feels a bit awkward, frozen in space with her partner's worried face inches from hers, but she needs Gault to know how much she was just enjoying herself. "Absolutely. Please continue, Gault," she encourages. And then, just in case it needs to be said, "I promise to tell you immediately if there is something I truly do not enjoy."
Gault blinks slowly, and then her face softens, her smile breaking out as she leans forward to kiss Lucienne softly on the lips. All across her body, Lucienne can feel Gault relaxing, the tentacle in her cunt slowly pulsing back to life, the amorphous mass around her clit oozing back into action, and the smooth rolling glide of the larger limbs sliding over her legs, their grippy backs leaving what Lucienne is sure will be thin welted tracks on her skin tomorrow.
Gault breaks the kiss just as one of the thinner tentacles once again prods gently between Lucienne's cheeks. She tries to relax at the intrusion; it is not something she is wholly inexperienced with, but neither is she accustomed to the sensation. Gault massages gently, carefully around Lucienne's rim, and shortly after, a second tendril joins the first, sliding deeper inside her, only to withdraw, then plunge in again, a repetitive motion that feels—suddenly, unexpectedly—amazing.
Lucienne lets out a startled little gasp, and the tendrils in her arse plunge deeper, just as the tentacle buried in her cunt starts squirming again. The pressure from both sides is immense, and then the mass over her clit starts truly sucking in earnest. Lucienne can feel her spine arching, clutching at her own chest under the grasp of the tentacles enveloping her. Her toes point, legs tensing in Gault's writhing grasp as Lucienne's body winds tight like a lyre string.
Gault leans forward, her lips covering Lucienne's as the tentacles in both of the librarian's holes plunge deep, the pressure on her clit intensifying as she comes, gasping into Gault's open mouth. All across her body, Gault's limbs squeeze tight, tight enough that Lucienne might fear bruising if she had the thoughts left to worry about such things. Then all at once, both dreams relax, floating sated in a pool stained dark with iridescent ink.
Lucienne blinks back to awareness with Gault's many limbs still wrapped loosely around her. The ones inside her body have withdrawn, and she finds that her arms are free, reaching out to idly stroke her fingers down the closest of Gault's broader tentacles. The smaller tendrils that had enwrapped her are floating limply near the surface of the water, like locks of hair or coils of thin rope, surrounded by their own inky discharge.
"That was...lovely," Lucienne manages, rolling to face her lover and wrapping her arms loosely around Gault's neck. "Can I do anything for you?"
Gault smiles, quiet but pleased. "No need." She leans forward to kiss Lucienne, then draws back just far enough to transmit a wink. "I already enjoyed myself quite thoroughly."
Lucienne smiles in return, rolling onto her back again and allowing Gault's arms to embrace her once more. Somewhere in the forest, a turtle-dove calls softly, and the golden light of the Dreaming sends warm, dark shadows from the trees creeping over the small garden.
It is...unwise, perhaps, for the Librarian of the Dreaming and one of its Major Arcana to spend such time away from their posts; there are always dreamers and therefore always work to be done.
Gault hums, and the sound resonates across the surface of the water. Lucienne feels the vibration through every tentacle wrapped around her, right down to the very center of her being.
Perhaps, she thinks, they could take just a few more moments.