Labyrinth, Jareth/Sarah, dreams
She dreams fitfully.
It never happens right there, in the moment, deep in REM with her eyes flicking back and forth. It's always right on the cusp of sleep, before her alarm clock drills into her brain, as she rises up toward consciousness like ocean mist on a whale's breath.
Somewhere in between his hands catch her and he smiles down at her, teeth pale and sharp like bone. His pupils uneven and swallowing-dark, the smell of winter in his hair, at the base of his throat where she leans her head. Awake, Sarah wouldn't do this. But here between dreams, he is dark and enveloping, and his cloak spreads around them like wings, melting into the darkness. She likes the way it feels, spread out over her skin. Her hands smell like rosemary, and she holds on to him; her body shifting beneath him, twisting in the soft cotton sheets, her shirt riding up over her belly. He cups her thigh, long cold fingers hard against delicate skin, she only wears a nightshirt to bed--what a guy, she thinks fuzzily, and yet not, because a guy would have grabbed her ass by now--and she remembers the clock, the ornate 13, the way he grinned, sure of his victory.
His fingers are under the hem of her shirt, and warming fast.
"This isn't real," she whispers, and her breath curls from her mouth in steam, like it should be outlining the escaping words. He kisses the skin beneath her ear, brushing back her dark hair, and then her throat, lingering at her pulse. It makes her heart race, an ice-spike of fear.
He's smiling against her skin. "It's as real as you like, Sarah," he says, too softly, drawing out her name.
Definitely safer to not be real at all. He kisses her before she can say anything along those lines, and it's strange--exhilarating, frightening, and it feels real. His skin is warmed now, like he soaked up her heat, and he traces the line of her pelvis, slides his fingers down.
His mouth burns at her skin. He catches her lower lip between his sharp, sharp teeth and she gasps; her heart is drumming, and it is not fear. She rocks her hips into his hand.
"Sarah," he breathes against her skin, like a dry chill wind, and his fingers are warm and long inside her, and her hands are tangled in his hair, wrists against his throat. She thinks she can feel patterns beneath or against his skin, like the downy feathers of a bird.
"Please--" she hitches out, and her alarm clock blares into life, jolting her awake. She lurches upright; puts the back of her wrist to her tender, flushed mouth.
She lets the dream shred and pale, fading like morning mist and dewdrops under the burn of the sun.